I remember hearing about the famed Yiddish/Russian play The Dybbuk when I was young, growing up in a neighbourhood with a sizable Jewish population. Later on, I read in a book about a powerful production of the play staged by director John Hirsch. However, the current production at Soulpepper Theatre in Toronto marks the first time I have been able to see the play performed.
The Dybbuk, or Between Two Worlds was originally written, piecemeal, and with much revision, between 1912 and 1919 by S. Ansky. Sources that I have read have differed about whether the play was originally written in Yiddish and then adapted into Russian, or originally in Russian and then adapted into Yiddish (both of these quite different versions were created by Ansky). In either case, it has been widely translated and adapted into other languages and continues to hold the stage. This production uses a new English-language adaptation by Canadian playwright Anton Piatigorsky.
The story takes place in the 1880s at the shtetl of Brinnitz in the Pale of Settlement, the region of Imperial Russia where Jews were permitted to live. Adaptor Piatigorsky describes Brinnitz, in his program note, as "...a complete universe; it lacks for nothing, but then it's also a prison from which there is no escape." A strange but undeniably accurate duality.
But then, this is a play which deals in dualities. Incorporating Ansky's researches into the authentic folklore of the shtetl, it places the Ashkenazim legends of demons and wonder-working rebbes in stark contrast to the rigid Jewish customs of worship and study. Like many works of art in many cultures, it explores the dangers of communing with the dark powers, while also uncannily suggesting the possibility that a demonic possession may be on the side of the good and the right. In exploring the morality of the community's customs, the play finally arrives at a solution which is both unique and disquietingly beautiful.
Part of the genius of this production is the way in which, dramatically and scenically, it captures these strange dualities.
The stage is bare, dark, starkly furnished with a few chairs and tables. Other pieces appear and disappear as needed, but everything is simple and plain. This includes the Ark of the Torah which centres the first (synagogue) act. Dark scrim draperies define spaces while lending an air of misty distance to the scene. Mist and smoke add evocative atmosphere, as does repeated use of high lighting from above to emphasize facial features. On occasion, a brilliant flash of full stage lighting underlines a moment of mystical power.
The first act uses large numbers of actors portraying various members of the community. As the scene progresses, the key characters become clearer. The uncanny, mysterious Messenger is played with subtlety by Diego Matamoros. This man's little insinuations and comments are slipped in almost casually from time to time, but he is an undeniable physical presence, his very stillness drawing the eye at key moments.
Colin Palangio gives a strong performance as the young, inquisitive Channon, a man whose studies in the forbidden lore of the Kabbalah open him to the intrusion of the demonic world. The moment when he dies at the end of Act One, clutching the book of the Kabbalah, was impressively staged, with the black scrim slightly but clearly separating him from the rest of the community.
Alex Poch-Goldin conveyed clearly the mixture of cunning and apparent openness of Sender, the rich merchant. In the later scenes, his collapse at the revelation of his own folly was equally effective.
Hailey Gillis was most expressive in conveying the unease, the sense of dread at her approaching marriage, of his daughter Leah. Throughout the second act, the tension built in her unremittingly to the climactic moment when Leah refused to marry, her voice overlain by the amplified voice of the dybbuk, the spirit of Channon which had invaded and occupied her body.
The third act introduced the last key character, Rabbi Azriel. William Webster gave a beautifully restrained account of this man of God filled with all-too-human doubts, the old scholar saddled with the perhaps-undeserved reputation of being a miracle-worker. For me, one of the most moving moments of the piece was his long reply when the Messenger asked if he was afraid. This speech, focusing on the life-and-death responsibility he carries in the situation, could so easily descend into mere melodrama, but Webster's Azriel kept it at a very human, almost conversational level, and was all the more attractive a character for it. At the same time, he lacked for nothing in vocal power or stage presence when confronting the dybbuk in the climactic rabbinic trial and exorcism.
One of the challenges of the play is the extent to which Channon should be represented onstage during these later scenes of possession. Director Albert Schultz wisely chose to have Channon stand or sit right with Leah, often holding her, which also simplified the speaking of both voices simultaneously.
The rabbinic trial and appearance of the soul of Nisin was for me the most powerful scene of the play, not least because of the stillness of the characters compared with much of what came before and after it. The actual exorcism, by contrast, seemed a degree less powerful. For me, it had much to do with the revelation of the promise Sender and Nisin had exchanged, when young, that their children should marry, and the further revelation that Nisin was Channon's father. This broken promise in retrospect can be seen as the central mainspring of the drama.
The final scene, though, was the true climax of the entire evening, as the spirit of the exorcised Channon spoke once again to Leah. It was plain that this entire exchange happened within Leah's mind. In these last moments, Gillis developed an arc of joy and wonderment in both face and voice that had never been there before throughout the play. The moment when she chose death so she could be with Channon, her beloved, was heartachingly lovely. Here, we suddenly realized, was the only way that the dilemma arising out of Sender's negligence could be remedied so that all would be set right and balance and harmony restored again.
The entire play was staged by director Albert Schultz with an appropriately ritualistic feeling, the division of the stage into concentric spaces in every scene highlighting this concept. Many scenes were arranged with non-speaking characters of one sort or another appearing in the background, behind scrims, engaging in ceremonial activities such as prayers or recitations. The circling motions of the exorcism scene came as a stark contrast to what had, hitherto, been patterns based on squares, and highlighted the complete departure from the world of everyday which this final ritual represented.
In our modern, rationalist world, it would be all to easy to sneer at the religious beliefs and practices of the people of Brinnitz. This would be a grave mistake. In truth, Ansky and Piatigorsky seem to be telling us, we build the world we live in by our words and our actions. In the end, no matter what beliefs we espouse (if any), we can still set our entire personal world spinning wildly out of control by failing to carry out a promise solemnly made and truly meant. In a society like ours, where over half of marriages end in divorce (to give only one example), this is a message that desperately needs to be heard. Perhaps the malicious dybbuk is only a metaphor for whatever dark shadow of selfishness each of us carries within our own self.
At any rate, a huge vote of thanks to Soulpepper and director Albert Schultz for undertaking this challenging and complex play, this multi-layered exploration of the darker sides of our world and of the peoples who inhabit it.
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