Only occasionally can the production of a classic make us see the work differently. Most received ideas about texts are pretty serviceable, so we use them: Hamlet is about indecision, Tartuffe about fraud, and Crime and Punishment about-well, about crime and punishment, about arrogance and atheism run amok, expressed in murder until eradicated by faith. Every bit of this can be found in Marilyn Campbell & Curt Columbus's penetrating adaptation for Writers' Theatre, but they've reached beyond Raskolnikov's conduct and ideas to his condition, and that is loneliness. Though desperate to be "extraordinary," the murderer shares this condition with the rest of humanity-and we with him. As the adapters and director Michael Halberstam show, by accepting isolation we're complicit in his crime and subject to his punishment.
They make the point most powerfully by having three people play all the characters in Fyodor Dostoevsky's crowded book. Scott Parkinson is Raskolnikov-furious and infuriating, yet also tortured and vulnerable-while Susan Bennett plays all the women and John Judd the rest of the men. This they do flawlessly-behind a scrim the strait-laced police inspector becomes the drunken father of Raskolnikov's love Sonia, while Sonia transforms herself into the murdered pawnbroker or the murderer's mother. With so few bodies, the world can't help but seem empty, and the dialogue echoes accordingly. When Sonia's father greets Raskolnikov by saying, "Can you spare a moment for conversation?", the desperation for human contact is all but palpable. Circumstances-especially, though not exclusively, grinding poverty-conspire to keep each person utterly alone, though redemption can only come through connection. Raskolnikov's need to reach another human being, whether by confessing to Sonia or surrendering to the inspector, finally supercedes everything else.
Perhaps this emphasis on connection is what makes the production, not at all polemic, feel so political. The way Raskolnikov's arrogance and crime grow from his isolation suggests how imperialism and war emerge from isolationism. Certainly, there's a familiar ring to Raskolnikov's notion that special rules, or none at all, apply to those who are superior.
The play's intensity is magnified by Halberstam's wise decision to stage its 100 or so minutes without intermission. In Writers' Theatre's tiny space (the back room of a suburban bookstore), the atmosphere is almost unbearably charged. All three performances are so good as to be nearly invisible, with a special nod due Judd's work as the inspector. Resisting the temptation to play either avenging angel or police bully, he invests the character with genuine ordinariness: here's a man who talks to his suspect as much out of desire for conversation as determination to solve the crime. Whether that makes him more or less a figure of moral authority Judd leaves the audience to decide.
And, though technical skills of concentration are only to be expected from an Equity company, Parkinson's composure on opening night shouldn't go unremarked. Relentless coughing competed with his agonized soliloquy about watching a horse being beaten to death, until finally the cougher exited mid-speech by walking across the front of the stage. (To be fair, there's no other way to leave the theater.) Parkinson took one beat, repeated one line and went on, bringing the audience back into the dramatic moment against all odds.
Only two weaknesses mar the production. Raskolnikov's confession to Sonia and her forgiveness are both delivered entirely in screams. It is, of course, a highly emotional scene; but-in keeping with the theme of isolation-there need to be pauses, hesitations, withdrawals. Sonia, particularly, should be seen to be weighing the balance between being alone in her purity and being with Raskolnikov in his nearly unredeemable sin. Unless we see her struggle with the choice (as we do when she explains why she's a prostitute), Sonia fades from three-dimensional human being to icon. Certainly Dostoevsky offers many opportunities to play their relationship as salvation-through-the-love-of-a-good-woman, but the production sidesteps them elsewhere and should do so here.
The other flaw is also one of volume. Josh Schmidt's sound design is unbelievably intrusive. This text and these performances don't require underscoring, and certainly not with organ riffs straight out of a soap opera. The sudden directorial shifts from naturalism to Grand Guignol-the lights turn harsh and the inspector shouts the same question he's just asked in a normal tone-are likewise unnecessary, but fortunately not as frequent. The actors and the words are doing the work. Why lean on crutches when you're walking just fine?
Being urged to see "Crime and Punishment" may feel like being urged to eat your vegetables: good for you, yet a chore. But this adaptation and production remind us how thrilling a classic can be. On opening night you could feel the audience holding its breath throughout the performance. Go: it will leave you breathless, too.