To call Hanya Yanagihara’s novel A Little Life "divisive" is something of an understatement. Published in 2015, the sprawling 814-page book was shortlisted for the Booker Prize, became a word-of-mouth phenomenon and conjured up a veritable army of devoted fans. It was also roundly denigrated as "torture porn" for its lengthy, frequent and excruciatingly graphic scenes of self-harm, child abuse, rape and every other possible iteration of violence and cruelty.
The emotionally gruelling novel follows four classmates — Jude, Willem, JB and Malcolm — from college into fully fledged adulthood. Most prominently, it focuses on the lingering effects of abuse on enigmatic lawyer Jude, who endured unimaginable cruelties as a child and adolescent. It is at times a complex and compelling portrayal of sexual abuse, disability, trauma and addiction. It is also at times, simply grotesque.
Directed by Ivo van Hove, the theatrical adaptation of A Little Life is at the Harold Pinter Theatre until June 18, after which it will move to the Savoy. Featuring an impressive cast, including James Norton, Omari Douglas and Luke Thompson, the performance is an almost-interminable three hours and 40 minutes long.
Like the novel, the play has been an undisputed hit, selling out almost instantly and resonating with countless theatre-goers. At times the strangled sobs of those around me made it difficult to concentrate on what was unfolding onstage. At the stage door, I made small talk with a girl who had already seen the production five times, and had bought tickets for a further nine performances. As we waited for the exhausted actors to shuffle over and sign our catalogues, I listened to weepy, joyful and overstimulated fans breathlessly discuss the performance, and I felt somewhat removed from it all.
I’m not heartless. I was actually moved by the novel when I first read it in 2016. It even made me cry. I can’t necessarily say I enjoyed reading A Little Life, but on the whole, I found that the quiet beauty of the writing almost made up for the sheer horror of Jude’s story. I loved the warm authenticity of the relationships between the four men, and was touched by the insightful way Yanagihara captured the myriad complexities and nuances of everyday "little lives".
But this is not translated to the stage. Rather, the depth and breadth of the novel is distilled down to a series of increasingly violent and bloody vignettes. The characters are shallow and one-dimensional, and consequently, their pain and suffering is meaningless — even farcical at times. Almost everything that is subtle or joyful or gentle is expunged from the script in favour of relentless cruelty.
The dialogue, for the most part, is banal and pedestrian. As David Benedict puts it, writing for Variety, "there are no lines or speeches eloquent enough to portray the pain with sufficient depth." Rather, I felt myself becoming increasingly inured to the beatings, lashings, cuttings, burnings, self-harm and rapes enacted upon James Norton’s Jude. I began watching the two rows of audience members seated on the other side of the stage and found that I was more interested in, and entertained by, their flinching, weeping and averted gazes.
Ironically, despite all the skin and blood Jude bares over the 220-minute production, there is no real "fleshing out" of his character. There is nothing unique about this Jude; he is merely a vessel for trauma, a punching bag made human. We see little of the novel’s brilliant lawyer, talented musician, son, friend, cook, or art lover. Despite all that the talented James Norton brings to the role, this Jude amounts to little more than the sum total of the abuse inflicted upon him. Where the novel succeeds in portraying the indelible effect of trauma upon a person’s psyche, the theatrical production presents only a cipher of a man. One cannot understand or empathise with the destruction of a soul if there is no real, authentically human soul to begin with.
The production is not wholly without merit, however. Designer Jan Versweyveld’s staging is simple yet effective, with spare furnishings and open spaces. Two video screens on either side of the stage show slow tracking shots of Manhattan streets that speed up and become distorted whenever any violence erupts onstage. An all-female string quartet jabs and screeches, adding to the underlying feeling of menace and general unease.
The entire cast is undeniably talented. Norton imparts a raw honesty and childlike sincerity to the role. Luke Thompson’s Willem is similarly authentic, bringing a sweet, puppy-like joy to the stage. Omari Douglas is hilariously sharp as JB, and I wish more was made of Zach Wyatt’s role. And then there’s Elliot Cowan, whose succession of abusive and predatory characters are played with insidious charm and cruelty.
There are moments of true beauty too. When Jude gently sings Mahler’s Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (I have been lost to the world), I felt a lump rise in my throat. And when Jude’s prostrate and battered body is tenderly picked up by all his friends, their love and support is made quite literal.
But as I soldiered on through the play’s second half, I found my thoughts wandering to the undisputed titan of the stage; specifically, the defeated words of his doomed Scottish king. Neither Yanagihara nor van Hove are idiots, but their play is indisputably replete with walking shadows that strut and fret upon the stage. The theatrical adaptation of A Little Life is full of sound and fury — and misery, violence, gore and bucket loads of fake blood — but ultimately, it signifies nothing.
- Jean Balchin, a former English student at the University of Otago, is studying at Oxford University after being awarded a Rhodes Scholarship.
