STAGE REVIEWS : ‘An Inspector’ Calls on Hackneyed Theme

Early in “An Inspector Calls,” a mystery at the Lamb’s Players Theatre, the patriarch of a well-to-do British family in 1929 dismisses the socially responsible messages of George Bernard Shaw and Leo Tolstoy as so much nonsense.

It’s small mystery, then, when the Birling family learns that what we do to others will ultimately swing full circle and be done to us.

This is ground well trod by the likes of Arthur Miller’s “All My Sons” and, more recently, the movie “Jean de Florette.”

The moral is important and worth a reminder. But, despite a smooth execution under the direction of Robert Smyth, the twists will surprise only those unfamiliar with the genre.

An inspector breaks in on a happy family party to bring news that a girl has committed suicide. All disclaim knowledge of the girl until, one by one, they recall that there was a young woman each of them had injured--either by causing her to lose her job, by refusing her in need or, in the case of the men, by taking advantage of women who were both lonely and poor enough to be desperate for their money.

The ironies drop as heavily as the message. The play is set at a time when the prosperous Birling family, living in the elegant set designed by Mike Buckley, foresees no more wars or hard times--although we know better. The cast, admirably, navigates smoothly around the frequent melodramatic crags.

Some heavy-handedness is scripted and can’t be helped, as when David Cochran Heath, quietly and powerfully authoritative as the inspector, must lecture the family on what will happen to the world if we don’t realize that humanity is one interconnected family.

Tim Tulumello as the lush son Eric, who gets his big revelations near the end, becomes mired in excess, as if determined to milk his postponed catharsis with interest. Veronica Murphy Smith as the mother is locked into a caricature of controlling coldness, and Jim Holcomb as the father not only lacks the requisite assurance, but his enunciation comes off as a loser in an ongoing fight with the very words in his mouth.

But Luther Hanson is always smoothly appropriate as the smug young suitor Gerald Croft, and Christine Nicholson soars as his fiancee, Sheila, the first young Birling in whom the inspector manages to awaken a conscience. Whenever the spotlight is on this pair--both veterans of the Lamb’s Players’ recent fine production of “Amadeus”--they bring a crackle to the old formula that makes the show worth watching.

“An Inspector Calls” runs through May 14 at the Lamb’s Players Theatre, 500 Plaza Blvd., National City. Shows are at 8 p.m. Wednesday-Saturday, 2 p.m. Saturdays, and 2 p.m. May 14.

Could it be that the general fascination with such multiple personalities as those examined in “Sibyl” or “The Three Faces of Eve” stems less from a fascination with the deviant than from a recognition of the multiple voices that can war inside even a healthy person?

In the world premiere of “Strindberg Sonata,” by Anne Bogart and Jeff Halpern at the Mandell Weiss Center for the Performing Arts, a dozen UC San Diego actors play the inner voices in August Strindberg’s mind during a time of crisis that the playwright himself labeled his “Inferno” period.

That the effect is more musical than literary is both to the splendor and detriment of this grand conception.

Like musical instruments, the ensemble--none of whom is connected with any distinct role in the program--take turns repeating certain lines like musical themes, with only the voices, inflections and volumes changing:

“I put no faith in women. But I love them.”

“I’ve been expecting you . . . as one expects an accident.”

“Human beings are to be pitied.”

As in music, the effect is emotional, but in an abstract rather than personal way. Among the male and female characters wearing clothes of various degrees of constriction is a naked woman. And she, remarkably, for all her flaunted flesh, comes across as symbolically as the rest.

Those familiar with Strindberg may recognize references to his plays and themes and pick up on the excerpts from operas (particularly Gounod’s “Faust”) and Swedish folk songs delivered in dance hall style. But without the benefit of a narrator or a guide, a la Virgil in Dante’s “Inferno,” there is no dramatic thread to aid the uninitiated in looking at Strindberg. This is a rarefied vision, one that scholars may appreciate more than lay people.

Still, even those without a map as to what those behind the play envision in Strindberg’s mind can enjoy moments of transcendent beauty akin to poetry being whisked into physical form. The cast, seven of whom are credited for their six-month involvement in the writing, bring the flawless precision of virtuoso instrumentalists to their craft. The voices are lovely, with Philip Larson’s soaring above the rest.

The set, by J. Michael Griggs, is a brilliant evocation of a house with seven distinct rooms in which the actors launch into old battles, switching parts in the manner of those who have not learned from the past and so are condemned to repeat it. The complicated lighting demands of the many, shifting, often simultaneous scenes are served by Brenda Barkley Berry’s lighting design with seemingly effortless perfection.

Journeying through someone’s personal hell--even Strindberg’s--is no picnic. But for those who can last through the uninterrupted 90-minute show, there is a payoff for the repetitively mounting fury.

The house, under the mounting pressure, splits, and a white light and mist draws the actors from the wreckage like lost souls toward a vision of heaven.

When they return, there has been a sea change, but not as great as one might have hoped. They say the same things, but--and this is crucial-- they say them differently--gently and with love. That, too, seems like a brilliantly precise choice.

Strindberg, after all, did continue to struggle after this period, following two failed marriages in his earlier life, with another failed in his later life. But there was a gentler, dreamier, more understanding aspect to his writing in this later period.

The production, which celebrates Strindberg’s questioning mind, touches off questions as to what led the writer to enter or exit his “Inferno” period. But it would be frustrating at best to explore this show for the clues. Like a musical sphinx, it charts the course beautifully, but without explanation.

Performances are at 8 p.m. Thursday-Sunday, except April 16, when it is at 7 p.m. Through April 22. At the Mandell Weiss Center for the Performing Arts, La Jolla.