the play for this program, peer gynt, by henrik ibsen. now your host, mr. jose ferrer. i have been active in the theater for over 40 years, and it has never ceased to fascinate, challenge and excite me. how to describe the feeling that inevitably comes over you when the house lights dim, the curtains open or when the musicians tune their instruments, then silence? and then the overture begins. whether actor or director or playwright or audience member, all of us share in that special moment, that special magic, the here and now event which can only take place

within the specialized conditions of theater. you hear a lot about what theater really is. in fact, the comparison most often heard has to do with a mirror. the comparison, of course, is borrowed from shakespeare, when hamlet says, "to hold as 'twere a mirror up to nature." for many, theater is a reflection of life, an imitation. now, certainly, there can be a mirroring effect in the theater. as with any artist, if the dramatist or playwright holds up a mirror to nature, it is the mirror of that individual's own mind. what is reflected is a specialized point of view quite as unique as that same artist's fingerprint. the art of theater, however, encompasses much more than can be reflected in the mirror. think of it for a moment not as a mirror but rather as a prism. a prism reflects light, breaking it down into component parts, casting first this image,

merging with another image, this shadow, that shadow, this color, that color. and curiously, each component is recognizable. even so, the theater, as in a prism, breaks apart the phenomenal and perceptual work into its component parts and holds these parts up for identification, inspection, analysis. each image acts as a catalyst for myriad thoughts and ideas. but art is more than imitation. art is ultimately illusion. theater art is like all other arts in at least one very important aspect. any art, by its nature, must embody dynamic qualities. it must change, develop, grow. theater art is unique in the nature of its theater condition, the existence of live performers in a space shared with an audience, each capable of perceiving and responding to the other. while we feel that going to the theater

is important and should be encouraged, we recognize that some circumstances may make it difficult to attend live theater. television, although a different medium from the theater, gives us the opportunity to present concentrated performance which can exercise your dramatic imagination and increase your enjoyment of theater art. [music] theater art intensifies daily experience. it begins with a bare stage in the here and now moment of today. the playwright, director and performers focus our attention, thoughts and feelings to a given space, time and situation. one writer describes a theater experience as a play's life spark, which leaps from the stage

and, from the playwright's soul, across to the audience in a moment of vital contact. but we must not forget that theater is the home of illusion, that a play is art, that each exists in the realm of the carefully constructed make-believe. when we enter into this realm, we are asked to share actively in this experience, to suspend disbelief willingly, to become enthusiastic participants in the pretense. there is an art to viewing a play and performance. viewing a play for maximum enjoyment is a multi-level process. viewing in terms of meaning, language, character, message is called content viewing. to observe the play for plotting

and for what is technically happening in a play's performance is considered craft viewing. finally, critical viewing is perceiving with appreciation the playwright's purpose and the degree of realized potential, as well as the play's significance to us. what makes drama drama is precisely the element which lies outside and beyond the words, and which has to be seen as action or acted to give the author's concept its full value. and trying to get the fullest enjoyment and enrichment from drama, the audience must try to understand how the play can contribute to the sum total of human expression and thought. one play which stands in a pivotal position

in the course of drama is ibsen's peer gynt. ibsen wrote peer gynt in the late 1860s as an epic poem not intended for the stage. some years later, he decided to have it staged and commissioned edvard grieg to write the music for it. [music] ibsen developed the poetic epic play on an actual character in norwegian folklore who had lived about 100 years earlier. the setting is strongly norwegian: brooding skies, mountain and valley, fjord and forest.

in peer gynt, ibsen weaves folktale and fantasy, developing a new picture of emerging man and the problem of heroism in the modern age. peer, like other great literary epic heroes such as beowulf, siegfried, roland and faust, reflects a universal human condition: the search for identity and the mortal consequences of his actions. but peer is a more complex and introspective hero. while on the one hand he is an imaginative storyteller, he is also a liar. though he recognizes the good and the ideal, he consistently opts for evil and compromise.

when there is a shipwreck, peer determines that the cook's life is expendable and saves himself. the character of peer gynt marks a critical change in the concept of an epic hero and signifies the advent of an anti-hero concept. peer gynt covers a 50-year time span in one man's life. the play is developed into five acts. acts 1 through 3 cover peer's youth in norway. his maturity and adult years abroad is the subject of act 4. and finally, peer's old age and return home is the subject of act 5, the portion for our viewing. we will also see excerpts from scenes in acts 1, 2 and 3

as reminders of important figures in peer's youth. there's his mother, ase, who, like peer, prefers to view life romantically rather than realistically. there is solveig, whom peer loves and asks to wait for him. he leaves her behind to pursue his search for self and truth. with his personal slogan, go round, ringing in his ears, peer's search takes many years. he returns to his starting point and finds that he now must justify his search and his philosophy. [music] may i dance with your daughter?

you may, but first we must go inside and greet the people of the house. godspeed your work. don't turn me away. you're sent for me and so you must take me. wait for me. wait for me. yes, i'll wait. how can i be happy with such a pig of a son? what is the family left now from the days when your grandfather was a wealthy man? where are the sacks of silver left by old rasmus gynt? your father gave them feet, wasted them like sand. bought land in every parish, traveled in gilded carriages. where's what he wasted at the great winter feast

when every guest threw glass and bottle over his shoulder to splinter against the wall? ooh, if only i knew i had not been too strict with that lad. [music] where are you going? seawards. so far. and far beyond. ah, there's hallingskarv in his winter fur, an old man pluming himself in the evening sun. jokel, his brother, stands behind him, hooded still in his ice-green cloak. flogefann lying so innocent, like a virgin in her white linen. there's no use you trying to turn your heads. you won't touch her, you old man of stone. another hand to the wheel.

hoist the lantern. oh, she's blowing up hard. hmm. we'll have a storm tonight. can you see the ronde from the sea? no, of course not. hidden behind the snow field. and harteig? over there. ah, yes, of course. you seem to know these parts. you know, when i sail from norway, i pass this way. the dregs of memory stay in the glass. will we be in by daybreak? oh, just about, if the night's not too bad. oh, it's thickening in the west. hmm, it is. remind me when i settle with you. i'd like to give something to the crew. oh, that's very generous of you. they're mostly poor men. they all have wives and youngsters at home. what? wives and children? are they married? married? yes, every man. married? someone waiting to give them a good welcome.

as good as poor people can give. tell me, when they come home, what'll happen? well, their wives will give them a little extra something for once. candles on the table? maybe two, and a dram. or sit snuggly around the hearth, their children gathered around them. they'll bless you for your promise. well, i'm damned if i will. do you think i'm mad? why should i pay for other men's children? there's no one waiting for old peer gynt. uh-huh. well, you'll do as you please. it's your money. yes, yes. it's mine. you give me my bill as cabin passenger from panama and a--of rum for the crew and that's all. excuse me. i have other business to see to. the storm's coming on. no one ever thinks of old peer gynt. candles on the table. yeah, i'll put out those candles. i'll make them all drunk. one of those fools shall go ashore sober, they'll come home drunk to their wives and children, they'll swear at them, knock them about all their love destroyed.

wreck to windward. helm hard to starboard. anyone on the wreck? i can see three. quick, lower a boat. she'd fill before we cast off. well, you're not afraid of getting wet are you? that's impossible in a sea like this. they're screaming again. oh, look, there's a lull. you cook, will you try? i'll give you money? not if you gave me 20 pounds. you dogs. you cowards. don't you realize those men have wives and children at home that are sitting, waiting for them? well, there's virtue at patience. aye, bring her about. the wreck's turned over. ah, how silent it is suddenly. well, if they were married, this world's richer by three new widows. they have no respect for the powers above but i'm guiltless. oh, you bloody storyteller. how you can lie. well, on the day of judgment i can swear i stood ready and willing with money in my hand. but what good will that do if vengeance should strike down

the boats and all the-- sucked down to my death with the rest of them? if only i were younger. well, there's still time. they shall learn in the parish that old peer gynt has come riding back over the sea. good evening. who are you? your fellow passenger. and i thought i was the only one. a mistaken impression now corrected. it's strange i should see you for the first time tonight. i never appear in the daytime. yeah? hey, what a storm. yes. beautiful. beautiful? the waves are running as high as houses. it makes my mouth water. think of the wrecks there'll be tonight. think of the corpses drifting ashore. oh god, preserve us. have you ever seen a man strangled or drowned or hanged?

what? they laugh. their laughter is forced. most of them bite out their tongues. - get away from me. - just one question. suppose we, for example, should strike on a rock and sink in the darkness... do you think there's a danger? i don't really know what i ought to say, but suppose now, i should float and you should sink. oh, rubbish. it's just a hypothesis, but when a man stands with one foot in the grave, he sometimes tends to be generous. oh, money. no, no. but if you would be so kind just to bequeath me your valuable body. what? just your corpse, you understand, to help my researches. get away from me. whatever. my dear fellow, consider it to your advantage. i'll open you up and let in the light. i want to discover the source of your dreams. i want to find out how you're put together. no way.

but my dear fellow, a drowned body... you blasphemous man, you're provoking the storm. look at the sea. we may be drowned at any moment. i see you're in no mood for discussion, but time, they say, changes everything. we'll meet when you're sinking, if not before. perhaps then you'll be more in the humor. what horrible fellows these scientists are, you damn free thinker. a word with you, my good man. that other passenger, what kind of a mad man is he? i know of no other passenger. no other passenger? then who went into the cabin just now? the ship's dog. land close ahead. --my trunk, my strong box. get my things on deck. --with more important things to do. aye, captain. what i was saying just now... the jib's blown away. the foresail's gone. rocks under the bow. she'll go to pieces. help. help. a boat. help.

i'm drowning. oh, lord, save me. that's what it says in the bible. lord god, have mercy. let me reach the land. - let go. - let go. - i'll hit you. - i'll hit you. let go. this boat won't take two. i'll kick you down. no. get off. you get off. - oh. - oh. look, off with that hand. spare me sir. think of my children at home. oh, i need my life more than you. i'm still childless. but you've lived. i'm young. oh, go on. get on with it. you're dragging me down. oh, have pity, for god's sake. no one will mourn for you. i'm going to drown. oh, i'll hold you by your hair. quick cook, say your prayers. i can't remember. everything is going dark. oh, come on, cook. - give us this day... - oh, no. not that. give us this day... yeah. same old song. it's clear what you were.

give us this day... amen. well, you were yourself till the very end. oh, well, while there's life, there's hope. good morning. oh. i heard shouting. how nice to find you. well, did i prophesize correctly? let go. let go. this boat is only big enough for one. i'm swimming with my left leg. i'll stay afloat if i can just hold on with my fingers. now, about that corpse of yours-- - oh, shut up. - it's all you've got left. be quiet. just as you wish. what are you doing? i'm being quiet. i am fuming mad. who are you? a friend. yes. what else? tell me. what do you think?

the devil? oh, is it his way to light the lantern on life's long pilgrimage of fear? so you're a messenger of light? my friend, have you even once a year known the true anguish of the soul? well, of course, one's afraid when danger threatens. yes, but have once in life won the victory which only defeat can bring? look, if you've come to open a door, it was stupid not to have come before. what's the point of coming now when the sea is about to swallow me up? would you have found this victory in the warmth and comfort of your hearth's site? no, i suppose not, but i thought you're only joking. where i come from, laughter is rated as highly as fears. the tragic mask is not for everyday wear. yeah, you frighten me. get away. i must get to the shore. i will not die. oh, don't worry.

you will die in the middle of the last act. now, my dear friends, let me remind you about this dead man's pilgrimage on earth. he came, as you all know, from gudbrandsdalen, and moved here when he was no more than a boy. and you remember, till the day he died, he always kept his right hand in his pocket. yet you all know, although he sought to hide it, that hand we never saw bore but three fingers. i will recall one morning years ago, it was in time of war, recruiting officers had come to lunde. an old gray-headed captain sat with the sergeants,

and the burgomaster behind the table. lad after lad was measured, given his shilling and sworn in as a soldier. the room was full. and in the yard outside, the winter air was filled with young men's laughter. then, a name was called and a new lad stepped in. he vaulted towards the table. his right hand swathed in a blood-stained cloth. he told of an accident, a sickle that slipped and cut off one of his fingers close to the stump. the silence filled the room. he felt the scorn.

then the captain, an old gray man, slowly rose. he spat, pointed towards the door and said, "go." and as he walked, men shrank on either side. some six months later, he came to live among us, with his mother, his betrothed and a newborn child. he leased a patch of land up on the hills. he married, built his house, broke the hard ground. his vision was narrow.

beyond the tiny circle of those who stood close to him, he saw nothing. those words that should have resounded in his heart, for him rang meanings like tinkling cymbals. and from the day when the captain spat and rose and pointed, he carried his judgment on his brow and his three fingers hidden in his pocket. this was no patriot. for church and state, he was a barren tree,

but on his mountain side, in a narrow circle of home where his work lay, there he was great, because he was himself. the mettle of which god made him rang most true until the end. and firmly, i believe, this man is not a cripple in the eyes of god. now that's what i call christianity. there's nothing there that could distress anybody. if i were not standing here with my staff, i could well believe it was i who lay here

sleeping and hearing, as it were in a vision, of myself so praised. how good it is to be assured by the voice of authority: as a man sows, so shall he reap. and one must be oneself and look after oneself and one's own at all things whether great or small. and if your luck runs out, then at least you've the honor of having lived your life in accordance with the best principles. forward or back. and it's equally far. outside or in, i'm still confined. "go around," said the boyg. i must do that here. oh, the scripture says "of dust thou art made," and the first thing in life is to fill one's belly.

what's this? onions, that won't get me far. i have to be cunning and lay some snares. there's a river here, so i won't go thirsty. when i die, as die i must, i'll crawl under a tree blown down by the wind and cover myself with leaves like a bear and carve on the bark in big bold letters: here lies peer gynt, a decent chap, emperor of all the beasts of the forests. emperor, you old fraud, you're no emperor. you're just an onion. well, now, little peer, i'm going to peel you.

and you won't escape by weeping or praying. the outermost layer is withered and torn. now, that's a shipwrecked man on the upturned keel. here, mean and thin is the passenger. you still taste a little of old peer gynt. inside back is the digger of gold. its juice is gone if ever it had any. his next layer is shaped like a crown. no, thank you. throw that away, no questions asked. this layer now that curl so gently is the sybarite, living for pleasure and ease.

this next one looks sick and streaked with black. it could mean a priest. what a terrible lot of layers there are. oh, i must surely soon come to the heart. there isn't one. just a series of shells all the way through, getting smaller and smaller. nature is witty. life is a fox. when you think you've got her, she slips through your grasps and becomes something else or nothing at all. that hut on a-- surely i've seen it somewhere before, the antlers growing above the door. nails and planks to lock out nagging hobgoblin thoughts.

♪ the house is ready for pentecost ♪ ♪ my love is far away ♪ come back, come back come back to me ♪ ♪ if your burden is heavy oh, take your time ♪ ♪ i will wait i will wait for you ♪ one who remembered and one who forgot. one who has kept to what the other has lost. the game that could never be played again. oh, here was my empire and my crown.

wait for me. wait for me. yes. i'll wait. what is this sound of children weeping? weeping, but almost a song. thread balls are rolling at my feet. get away. you're blocking my path. we are thoughts. you should have thought us. you should have given us little feet. i gave birth to one once. it was a monster with a twisted leg. we should have flown like children's voices. here, we roll on the ground, grey balls of thread. thread. rubbish. would you trip your father? we are the of trumpet call. you should have sounded us.

see if--has shrunk and withers. the worm has gnawed us through and through. well, you weren't born in vain. lie there. you'll make the good manure. we are songs you should have sung. a thousand times you have stifled and strangled us. in the mind of your heart, we have lain and waited. we were never sung. curse you. curse you. curse you. did i have time to make up rhymes? we are tears you never weep. we could have melted the sharp ice spears. now the-- the wound has closed. our power has gone.

i wept once in the troll king's palace, but i got a tail on me just the same. we are deeds you left undone. the strangle of doubt has broken and crippled us. on the day of judgment, we shall be there to tell our story. take care. take care. would you damn me for things i haven't done? you're a fine driver. look who you've thrown me into a snowdrift. i'm soaking and frozen, you've come in a wrong way. oh, peer, where's the castle? the--led you a stray. well met, old man. good evening, friend. you're in a hurry? where are you going?

a funeral feast. indeed? forgive me. your name isn't by any chance, peer? yeah, peer. peer gynt, they call me. well, that's lucky. you're the man i have to collect tonight. have to collect? what business of you with me? as you can see, i'm a button moulder. you must go into my casting-ladle. what for? to be melted down. melted? yes. look. it's clean and empty. your grave is dug. your coffin is ready. tonight, the worms will feast in your body, but i have orders from my master to collect your soul without delay. but you can't, without warning. it's an ancient custom. at christening, as it funerals, one chooses the day, but the guest of honor receives no warning. i forgot. my mind's in awhirl. then you are? as i've told you, a button moulder. yeah, of course. i see.

so this is the end of my journey? my good friend, if this is most unfair, i'm not a real sinner. just the point. by the highest standards, you aren't a sinner. so you escape the horrors of torment and must go with others into the casting-ladle. as you've just told me with your own lips, you aren't what one could call a wholehearted sinner. scarcely even a minor one. now, you are talking sensibly. wait a moment, you're not virtuous either. i'm not claiming that. you're neither one or the other. a man needs strength and purpose to be a sinner. yes. but you weren't like that. you took your sinning lightly. i just splashed about on the surface. ah! we shall soon agree. the pool of fire is not for those who splash about on the surface. therefore, my friend, i am free to go as i came. well, therefore, my friend, i must melt you down.

you've learned some new tricks since i've been abroad. you've done it yourself. you know that one occasionally melts a button that's useless, for example, without a loop. what did you do in such a case? threw it away. yes, i've forgotten. jon gynt was famous for his improvidence, but the master you see is a thrifty man. he never rejects as worthless anything which he can use again as raw material. now, you were meant to be a shining button on the waistcoat of the world, but your loop broke. so you must be thrown back into the great pool. you don't intend to melt me down with other dead men. that's precisely what i intend. oh, this is the most sordid parsimony. no, no, anything but that, i will fight against it with all my strength. what else is there? you're hardly qualified to go to heaven. i'm not aiming as high as that. can you just send me down to serve for a while with him with the hoof. well, i've heard that the suffering there

is only spiritual, not at least thought to be fairly tolerable. but how this other business to end one's days with a speck of dust in someone else's body to be melted down, to be peer gynt no more? oh, that fills my soul with a revulsion. my dear peer, there's really no need to get so upset. you've never been yourself, what does it matter if you disappear? i have never been-- i could almost laugh. whenever i ever been anything but myself? no, no, button moulder, you are guessing blindly. if you would to look into my heart, you would see peer gynt and only him, no more, no less. it's impossible. i have my orders. look, it is written. "thou shall claim peer gynt. "he has defined the master's intention. he is waste and must go to the casting-ladle." i'm damned if i will. it will be fine thing if it turned out tomorrow, he meant somebody else. now, be careful, button moulder. consider the responsibilities. i have it in writing. well, at least give me time. what good would that do? time to prove that i have been myself all of my life.

prove it, how? witnesses, testimonies. i'm afraid the master won't accept them. oh, surely he must. i won't be long. one's only born once. very well, if you wish. but remember, we meet at the next crossroads. if only i knew where those crossroads were, i may be near, i may be far. a witness, a witness, where will i find one? spare a penny coin, sir, a homeless old man. i haven't any change. prince peer? well, well, and so we meet again. who are you? what, don't you remember the old man on the mountains? huh? the king of ronde. king of the ronde?

hey, well, i'm afraid i come down in the world. ruined? robbed of every penny. i tramp the roads begging for food. a witness. my dear sir, men like you don't grow on trees. oh, your highness has aged since last we met. i was a bit of a mad cap in those days. well, your highness was young and youthful. but you, sir... oh, my dear father-in-law. don't let's worry about that. i've got into rather a difficult situation. yeah. i need a witness, and you can help me more than any man i know. i might even raise you the price of a drink. you mean, i be of service, your highness? yes, listen and i'll explain. do you remember the night i came as suitor to your palace? of course, i do. you wanted to slit my eye and distort my sight

and turn me from peer gynt into a troll. yeah. how did i react? i resisted. aye. i renounced the chances of love and glory and power simply so that i could remain myself. now, i want you to testify to that in court. no, i can't do that. what do you mean? you pulled on troll-breeches and sampled our mead. yes, but i resisted the final step. it's the last verse of the song that matters. it was just the opposite of what you say. what on earth do you mean? you left the ronde with my motto branded on your brow. motto? the words that set us apart. what words? those words that distinguish troll from man, troll be thyself, thyself alone. me a troll? ever since then with all your heart and soul, you lived your life by that principle. not me. peer gynt? oh, it is ungrateful. you've lived like a troll, but you've always kept it secret. it's made you into a successful man.

and now, you turn up your nose at it. peer gynt, a troll, an egoist? most definitely. oh, rubbish. well, be off with you. oh, dear, kind prince peer. my dear sir, you are barking up the wrong tree. ay? i am completely broke. your highness, a beggar? yes. oh, dear. there's another hope gone. goodbye. i best be moving along. well, good luck to you. well, now, peer, have you found your witnesses? the crossroad already? ooh, that didn't take long. i can see from your face that you failed. well, one grows tired of the hunt. yes. anyway, where does it lead? well, shall we be off? one question. what does it mean to be oneself?

that's a strange question from a man whom a moment ago-- no, come on, answer me. to be oneself is to kill oneself. but i suppose that explanation is wasted on you. let us say always to follow the master's intentions. yes, but what of a man who never knew what the master intended him to be? his instinct should guide him. yes, but instinct can sometimes lead you astray and then you're lost before you're halfway. very true, peer gynt. and in this bad instinct, he with the hoof has his best angel. right. i abandon my claim of having been myself. oh. no, no, no. a moment ago on the moor, i said to myself it is true you are a sinner. now, we're back where we started. no, no. i mean a great sinner. maybe. oh, yes, yes. look, give me time.

i'll find a priest to make a confession, bring you a certificate. yes, if you could bring me that you will certainly avoid the casting-ladle. but can i try? but... please. oh, please. you can't be all that busy. until the next crossroads then, but not a step further. i'll find a priest if i have to drag him by his cassock. whoever have guessed that a list of one's sins would prove a man's salvation on his last night? what's this? a priest with a fowling net. i'm in luck. good evening, your reverence. good evening. awkward going, isn't it? indeed. but what wouldn't one do for a soul? someone on the way to heaven? i trust not. your reverence, i should like to consult you. proceed. i'm a good man, always been law abiding,

never been inside. but you know how it is. sometimes, a man's foot slips, and he stumbles. ah, yes. that happens to the best of us. yeah, well, these trifles-- trifles? oh, yes, only trifles. i've never done anything really wicked. oh, my dear sir, you're wasting my time. i'm not the person you seem to think me. what are you looking at? is that hoof natural? so i flatter myself. and i thought you were only a priest, and i have the honor-- well, one mustn't look a gift horse in the-- i'm delighted. give me your hand. you seem remarkably unbiased. and now, my dear fellow, what can i do for you? you may open your heart to me. well, if isn't too much to ask, i'd like a-- a place of refuge, hmm? you guessed. i don't ask much. i can even do without a salary, just good conditions.

a wawalled room? not too walled. and if possible, freedom to come and go as i please. my dear friend, it pains me to say this, but you can't imagine how many similar applications i receive from persons departing their earthly life. no, but think of the wicked life i've led. you said they were trifles. but now, i remember. i trafficked in slaves. i shipped heathen idols to china. we laugh at such things. i once pretended to be a prophet. who hasn't? no, my dear sir, i'm sorry. but if you can't produce better credentials than these, i can't let you in. no, but listen, once in a shipwreck, i half-robbed a poor cook of his life. would you expect me to be impressed if you told me that you had half-robbed a kitchen maid of something else?

oh, put these ideas right out of your head. resign yourself to the casting-ladle. what good would i do to you if i offered you board and lodging? think a minute. you're a sensible man. you'll keep your memory. that's true enough. but what have you got to remember? i promise you the memory of things past would give you little joy. you'd find no cause for weeping everafter, no cause for rejoicing or despair, nothing to fire your heart or freeze your blood. your memories would merely be a source of irritation. i must be on my way. i have a joint to collect, a nice juicy roast. may i ask what sins fattened him up? i understand that all his life he had been himself. been himself? yes. and are those people automatically your parishioners? that depends.

there are two ways in which a man can be himself, the right way and the wrong way. you may know that a man in paris has discovered a way of taking portraits with the help of the sun. either one can produce a correct picture or else what they call a negative. now, if a human soul in the course of his life has created one of these negative pictures, the plate is not destroyed. they send it to me. i develop it. i soak it, and i dip it, i burn it, and i cleanse it with sulfur and similar ingredients until the picture appears which the plate was intended to give. but when a soul like you has smudged himself out, even sulfur and potash can achieve nothing. then one must come to you as black as a raven to be sent back as white as a dove. may i ask the name that is inscribed beneath this particular negative? the name is peter gynt. peter gynt. and is mr. gynt himself?

so he affirms. he's a reliable chap. you know him? sort of. my time is short. where did you see him last? at the cape. of good hope? yes. although, i understand he's leaving very shortly. then i must be off at once. i hope i'm in time to catch him. i never really liked that cape of good hope. it's always full of missionaries from stavanger. hail shooting star, a greeting from peer gynt. we flash for a moment and then our light is quenched and we disappear into the void forever. is there no one, no one in the universe, no one in the abyss, no one in heaven?

how unspeakably poor the soul can be when it enters the mists and returns to nothing? oh, beautiful earth, don't be angry with me that i charge your sweet grass to no avail. oh, beautiful sun, you squandered your golden light on an empty hut. there was no one within to receive your warmth and comfort. the owner, i know now, was never at home. oh, beautiful earth and beautiful sun, why did you bear my mother and give her light? life is such a terrible price to pay for birth.

i want to climb up to the highest peak. i want to see the sun rise once again. i want to gaze until i am tired at the promised land and then let the snows pile over me. and let them write above: "here lies no one." and then afterwards let the world take its course. ♪ oh, christ--

♪ oh, holy ghost, our souls inspire ♪ ♪ to sing in heavenly choir and praise most glorious name ♪ no, never look there. that way lies waste and desert. i was a dead man long before i died. good morning. where is your list of sins? i've shouted and whistled all of them all. met no one? only a travelling photographer. well, your time is up.

yes, everything is up. the owl smells the light. can you hear him hooting? it's the bell for matins. what's that shining there? only the light from a hut. that sound like someone's sighing. a woman singing. there. yes, there i'll find my sins. set thy house in order. my house, it's there. away, be gone. if your ladle were as a large as a coffin, it would be too small for me and my sins. well, the third crossroads, peer, but then... forward or back, it's equally far. outside or in, i'm still confined.

i hear like a wild, unending cry, "go in, go back, go home. go 'round," said the boy. no, this time, straight through, however narrowed a path may be. judge this sinner. oh, speak. it is he. it is he. oh, praise be to god. cry out my sins. you have sinned in nothing, my only child. the list, peer gynt. cry out my guilt. you have made my life into a song.

oh, bless you for coming back to me at last. blessed, oh, blessed be our meeting on this morning of pentecost. then i am lost. there is one who rules all. lost. unless you can answer riddles. tell me. tell you. yes, i will. where has peer gynt been since you saw him last? been? with the mark of destiny on his brow as he sprang forth in the mind of god. can you tell me that? if not, i must go to my home down in the land of mists. that riddle is easy. tell me, where was my self, my true self, my whole self? in my faith, in my hope and in my love.

what do you say? now, you speak riddles. ah, then you are the mother to that child. yes, i am. but who is its father? it is he who forgives when the mother prays. my mother, my wife, oh, thou pure woman. hide me in my love. oh, hide me, hide me. ♪ sleep, oh sleep, my dearest boy ♪ ♪ i will cradle you, i will guard you ♪ ♪ sleep, oh sleep, my love, my joy ♪

♪ sleep now and rest you sat on my lap. we played together. the livelong day you've lain on my breast. you've always been close to my heart. now you're tired. you can rest. [humming] we shall meet at the last crossroads, peer. ♪ sleep, oh sleep, my love, my joy ♪ ♪ sleep now and dream

if anyone takes the theater as peer gynt did the onion and tries to peel off its accretions one by one to get at the heart of what theater really is, he will no doubt find that the most recent accretion is scenery. scenery is here today but was not there 350 years ago. thereafter, the peeling is progressively harder. probably the auditorium would be the next to go. the theater is then out of doors. next might follow the stage as a raised platform to act upon. take that away and the player is on the ground. going relentlessly on, the player would have to be stripped of his costume and mask. remove these and there will probably fall apart two separate pieces, leaving nothing inside.

those two pieces would be the player and the audience. take these away and you have no theater. this was a co-production of miami-dade community college and british broadcasting corporation, british open university. captioning performed by aegis rapidtext