Ghosts

Faulkner once said: “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”

Well, I just saw Ibsen’s Ghosts at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, on the recommendation of a friend. It was a fabulous production, utterly heart wrenching, and it pretty much nailed what Faulkner was getting at.

The play starts out so light hearted, almost like a drawing room comedy. But then the clouds begin to circle and swirl, and before you know it you are lost in a dark mirror, reflecting upon the ways our past can come back to haunt us.

In real life, we all tell ourselves a few lies to make peace with the choices we have made. We may even come to believe that these lies are harmless. Ghosts reminds us that a life built upon self-deception is like a house built upon sand.

And it does so with remarkable economy and rigor. Every word and phrase and glance is important — nothing is wasted. This play is an exquisitely cut gem, all bright glistening facets and edges sharp enough to cause damage.

How odd that seeing so much pain on stage can bring so much pleasure to an audience. That might seem wrong, until you realize that we are responding not to the pain itself, but to the telling of truth, and the beautifully clear illumination of the human soul.

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