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Unmasking empathy: An examination of the ethics behind Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life 

By Saskia Koopman

In the world of theatre certain productions possess the power to provoke lasting introspection, leaving their audience emotionally stirred or deeply affected. A recent viewing of the poignant theatrical adaptation of A Little Life fell into such a category, as Yanagihara’s tragic tale unfolded before my eyes. Indeed, in contemporary literature, as well as in their theatrical counterparts, few novels have been as polarising and emotionally taxing. As you are invited into the tormenting minds of Jude Francis and his friends, an important question comes into mind: are we as consumers of art inadvertently glorifying, or even fetishising trauma?

A glimpse into the plot: 

For those unfamiliar with the novel or play, Hanya Yanagihara’s narrative centres around four friends as they navigate the textures and complexities of life in New York. However, it becomes evident that Jude stands apart from the rest of the group. Despite the translated French title ‘Une vie comme les autres’ which reads as ‘A life like any other’, Jude’s life is a world apart from those of his peers; he suffers from trauma, a haunting past life, and an excruciatingly guilty conscience. He harms himself. 

Ivo Van Hove’s stage adaptation is palpably faithful to Yanagihara’s novel, as he examines the emotional intricacies of the characters and the struggles of their respective psyches. In an attempt to navigate the characters’ shifting perspectives, the omniscient narrative voice unflinchingly immerses itself in the harrowing past of a broken Jude St. Francis. In doing so, the play doesn’t hesitate to demonstrate the harsh and often distressing events which Jude endures, making this unflinching production both strong and challenging. This disturbing exploration of love, friendship, and its bounds in the face of unimaginable suffering and harm leaves its audience visibly moved by this raw depiction of trauma and pain; Yanagihara’s story is a difficult read and an even harder watch.

The production’s unswerving focus on the intricacies of Jude’s past spark a heated debate on the artistic portrayal of trauma, and essentially, it is this very depiction of the darkness which permeates his life, wherein lies the crux of the issue. Audiences, emotionally drained as they grapple with the intensity of the narrative, have been quick to label this story a “misery-soaked epic” (Slate Audio Book Club), accusing its author not only of lacking artistic taste but also of dangerous moral failing. Her refusal to sugar-coat her narrative makes the plot too much for some to bear, inviting allegations of creating an unfair depiction of trauma in which she violates the canons of literary taste.

While the intention behind this depiction of trauma undoubtedly seeks to elicit empathy and understanding, perhaps almost serving as cathartic, it is crucial to consider how such an unfiltered portrayal of psychological trauma could unintentionally slip into the realm of inadvertent fetishization. Empathy is one of art’s vital consequences, allowing us to connect and share experiences, contributing to our understanding of the human condition. That being said, concerns arise when in this particular case, the depiction of trauma becomes a form of entertainment in itself, potentially even lending a voyeuristic experience for the audience. Certainly, in A Little Life, readers and viewers are invited to witness the most unthinkably intimate and painful aspects of Jude’s narrative. While some may deem such scenes as fostering empathy and raising awareness about the plethora of lasting effects of trauma, it comes as no surprise that others may worry about our unconscious fascination with suffering. To put it bluntly, the line between empathetic engagement and voyeuristic curiosity here may have become slightly blurred, especially when the narrative lingers on such distressing content. 

Yanagihara’s work interestingly raised questions concerning the allure of suffering in literature and art; is there truly a tendency to fetishize trauma due to its exploration of heightened emotional experience? And ultimately, does our fascination with suffering stem from an innate desire to feel more deeply, or perhaps more authentically? 

By Jack Fry

Over Easter, I was lucky enough to attend the latest stage adaptation of Tennessee Williams’ iconic southern gothic melodrama, A Streetcar Named Desire, in its West End run at the Phoenix Theatre. Directed by the critically lauded Rebecca Frecknall, fresh from winning an Olivier award for her part in the revival of the musical Cabaret last year.  

In her interpretation of the play, Frecknall does not conform to tradition but rather conveys its essence and spirit in this production. Immediately, the striking staging demonstrates this, as the home of Stanley and Stella is represented by a raised square platform resembling a boxing ring, preparing the audience for the war of wills between Stanley and Blanche. There’s a sense that the production has been stripped down to the bones; it is elemental and this serves the story in highlighting the characters’ raw and primal urges that are the beating heart of the play. This is amplified by interludes of lyrical dance in which the actors, in tune with their bodies, use their full range of motion as though representing the overwhelming nature of their sexuality and desire for control.

Although the lack of walls, doors and the dividing curtain highlighted the claustrophobia and limited privacy of the setting, it at times disoriented me as a viewer. I was unable to discern the layout of the home in my mind. While I understand these creative choices made by Frecknall and how they aid the storytelling, it did at times distract me from the play itself as I attempted to make sense of the layout of the dwelling.

The air in the theatre was thick with rising steam and an impending thunderstorm. This underscored the humidity of the climate but also how the characters’ emotions are at boiling point; these often bubbled over at which point the floodgates opened and the play was punctuated with a downfall of torrential rain. While this could be viewed as a tad contrived, I believe it was a piece of direction that served the narrative arc in a particularly cinematic way.

There’s a real spark of energy captured in this iteration; the vibrance and raffish air of New Orleans that attracted the beat poets and the bohemians is brilliantly encapsulated by the disorienting sound design and the drums. Tom Penn, whose thundering drumming drives the play from the start, has the exuberance of the uncontainable jazz improvisation of the time and makes for a fitting accompaniment. 

The play is arguably the most talked about this year, perhaps for the inclusion of Paul Mescal as its leading man. Coming to the play from a completely fresh perspective, I expected Mescal to occupy the audience’s focus. However, this was not the case and while impressive, in my opinion, he does not give the stand out performance. Patsy Ferran is deserving of this praise as an enthralling Blanche who embodies the freneticism and mania of the character so powerfully through her seemingly endless streams of dialogue. She at once invokes our sympathy and frustrations as we observe all her pretensions and delusions. There is a strength and deception in her fragility that stokes the conflict between her and Stanley. Mescal’s Stanley is equally fragile but in his toxic masculinity; his emotional threshold is low and repeatedly he erupts in volatile outbursts. I found myself holding my breath when he entered the home; his violence is inevitable and when he is present the threatening atmosphere is immediately heightened. The animalistic nature of Stanley is made more prominent as he prowls around the house on all fours in different instances throughout the play, as though stalking prey or guarding territory. Mescal’s performance underscores his ability and range in depicting the various aspects of masculinity. It is perhaps most impressive in light of his complete departure from the more vulnerable and gentle characters he has previously played, such as Connell in Normal People. Overall, the pair do well to move beyond the iconic performances that have been seared into the collective cultural consciousness by Brando and Vivien Leigh in the original film adaptation.

Altogether, it was a particularly impressive production that acutely captured the disturbing and harrowing nature of the story; I was left in an almost stunned state afterwards. It certainly warranted all of the fanfare!