DEATH AND THE MAIDEN
In his 1991 play Death and the Maiden Dorfman attempts to dramatize the dilemma that faces Chile–or any country that wants to bury a murderous past without forgetting the unforgivable. As he asks, not at all rhetorically, in the play’s afterword, “How can those who tortured and those who were tortured co-exist in the same land?” And Dorfman suggests that an implacable hatred may be as terrible as any pragmatic, guilt-ridden forgiveness.
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Throughout the play Roberto’s guilt remains a tantalizing mystery–which means that it’s the audience, not Paulina, who must convict him. Artfully Dorfman makes us wonder how much of what Roberto confesses is the result of coaching by Gerardo (who heard about the events from Paulina). But in the end his guilt doesn’t matter: the innocence of everyone who lived during the tyranny is conditional. And when Roberto says his worst punishment is his conscience, you have to wonder if that’s enough: the 20th century has been one long saga of moral malleability.
In this dutiful revival of a decent but inert script Steppenwolf once again offers a production that seems far more radical at first sight than it really is.
