Death of a Salesman (Śmierć komiwojażera)

Death of a Salesman is the most frequently staged of Miller’s plays in Poland, with numerous revivals since its Polish premiere in 1960. Its social and political commentary has managed to remain relevant throughout various periods of Polish history, and sixty-five years after its first performance in Poland, the seventy-six-year-old play is more pertinent than ever. Following two decades of capitalism, by the 2020s, Polish viewers have come to fully understand the Willy Loman of the 1950s and his world—one filled with promises of a better life, upward mobility, and the relentless pursuit of success contrasted with illusions of prosperity and, ultimately, deepening inequality. We are now in Poland a society of Willy Lomans, Charleys, Frank Wagners, and their children.This may also explain why there are currently three Willy Lomans roaming Polish stages: one in Gdańsk, one in Kraków, and now also one in Łódź. The three concurrent, independent productions of Death of a Salesman that have opened in Poland within the past six years (all of which are still running!) constitute the most we have seen of the Lomans since the ‘60s, when the play was staged nine times between 1960 and 1961 alone. The most recent Łódź production of Death of a Salesman premiered on December 2, 2023, at Teatr Nowy im. Kazimierza Dejmka (The Kazimierz Dejmek New Theatre), the very same stage where the play was first performed in Poland in 1960 in a production directed by Janusz Warmiński. Reviving Salesman on the same stage coincides precisely with the theatre’s artistic policy under its then principal director, Dorota Ignatjew, whose vision for Nowy sought to balance a respect for tradition with a commitment to addressing contemporary issues. Salesman achieves all these goals while also paying tribute to Kazimierz Dejmek, Teatr Nowy’s first Artistic Director and one of Poland’s most influential artists, under whose auspices the play premiered in 1960.The director of the 2023 revival, Remigiusz Brzyk, is no stranger to Teatr Nowy, having staged more than ten productions at the theatre. Death of a Salesman also marks his second engagement with Arthur Miller’s work, following a 2000 production of The Crucible (at Teatr Jaracza in Łódź). Brzyk’s career, which began in the early years of Poland’s post-communist transformation, reflects a synthesis of world classics—including Bernhard, Sophocles, Chekhov, Brecht, Shakespeare, and Molière—alongside contemporary Polish playwrights such as Słobodzianek, Śpiewak, Demirski, and Masłowska. All of Brzyk’s productions, whether Molière or Masłowska, aim to render the text relatable to Polish audiences, an approach which has generated both praise and criticism. “His work falters due to oversimplification and the obtrusiveness of hastily attached theses,” argues Drewniak. “After all, not everything ever written can take place anywhere, meaning in Poland, and not every classic text or character belongs here, to our time” (Drewniak).1 However, in an interview with Izabella Adamczewska, Brzyk claimed, “In Death of a Salesman at Teatr Nowy, I don’t introduce Polish realities because I don’t feel the need to. I like the strange hybrid of the American Dream created by Miller, the setting of the very beginning of the dream of rapid success, and the analysis of the reasons for its collapse” and he adds, “I don’t need bottles of Coca-Cola or replicas of Polish decorations to evoke a fragment of our reality. This isn’t about psychological or realistic strategies. I believe in the intelligence of the audience” (Adamczewska).2In fact, Brzyk’s production of Death of a Salesman involves minimal alterations to the play’s language or stage design that would indicate temporal or spatial shifts, and the domestication techniques are rather subtle. Also, the costumes, designed by Rafał Domagała, hint slightly at the 90s era, serving more as a memory of the time rather than a direct replica, which corresponds to Brzyk’s vision of the play.However, there is one notable exception that may suggest that Brzyk’s stated belief in the intelligence of the audience eventually wavered. When Willy visits Howard in her office (yes, in Łódź Howard is female), she does not immediately acknowledge his presence, as she is mesmerized by a state-of-the-art Technicolor projector, initially displaying home footage of her children. Soon, the moving images seamlessly transition into vintage TV commercials and news coverage of the Polish Dream: fully stocked supermarkets, people carrying bulky shopping bags, going up and down escalators, and, finally, close-ups of luxury goods such as bottles of Coca-Cola and boxes of German washing powder. A date stamp in the bottom right-hand corner displays 1992.Despite the sudden (unnecessary?) and momentary shift in time and place, the office scene is probably the most powerful moment in this production, visually and symbolically. The wall onto which the videos are cast is draped with sheer, pleated curtains that distort the projections, fragmenting them into disjointed images of luxury, which mirrors Willy’s own fragmented reality and shows the true colors of the Polish Dream, washed out and muted. It is at this very moment that Willy reveals his understanding that his dream is a forged, unattainable fantasy. The entire myth that Willy created around himself shatters in front of us, in front of him. Ladies and gents, the king is naked. Willy enters Howard’s office, small and insignificant, taking a seat on a tiny stool besides his boss’s large folding chair, which immediately sketches out their power relations. Stammering and shooshed throughout the dialogue, Willy’s negotiation and social standing weakens by the minute. But then, unexpectedly, and inconsistently with Miller’s text, Howard leaves to bring Willy a cup of coffee. It is then that the world is restored for Willy. His female boss, a twenty-something college graduate who took over her father’s business, without earning it (like Willy has had to, like one should!) is making him coffee: the patriarchy has been restored, Willy has been re-masculated.While Howard is absent, he briefly collects himself, takes up her place in the folding chair center stage, and settles in comfortably. He puts on a paper crown (which he wears until his ultimate breakdown in the restaurant), and, like O’Neill’s Yank in The Hairy Ape, he mimics the stance of his aspirations. But once Howard in her woman’s suit, high heels and perfect hairdo is back, the fantasy ebbs away. This is also, or perhaps primarily, because Karolina Bednarek plays Howard fiercely: she is spiteful, cold, and emotionless. The confidence of her walk and her talk, how she generally conducts herself, serve as a contrast to Willy’s mental and physical deterioration. She owns it and she knows it. Despite being a minor character, she emerges as a leading lady, in this scene, and in the production. Howard is the opposite of Linda, a stifled, dependent housewife who has no say in her own home. Whether intentionally or not, these aspects of the production effectively reflect generational shifts and the evolution of gender roles in 1990s Poland.As the basis for his script, Brzyk chose the 1960 translation by Joanna Gorczycka, despite the release publication of a more recent, updated version by Anna Bańkowska in 2019. The older text was retained for this production, possibly because it was the one used in the original premiere at Teatr Nowy sixty-five years ago. Nevertheless, the text is clumsy and outdated, with dialogues that do not quite flow naturally, and the language feels disconnected and false, struggling to resonate with a contemporary audience. It is also evident that Gorczycka was rather unfamiliar with American culture and its nuances, a common challenge for translators from behind the Iron Curtain in the 1960s. As a result, the text contains several very literal translations, such as “whipped cheese” (“bity ser”), which conjures an awkward image, as if the cheese was literally beaten with a whip.Moreover, Brzyk’s production features an abridged script, with certain lines removed from the dialogue, but not entire scenes. While this does not significantly impact the overall narrative, some characters may have lost too many words to provide greater (or any) depth to their roles. This may be the case with Katarzyna Żuk’s extremely disappointing portrayal of Linda—soft and unremarkable. Trailing her husband back and forth, repeating insipid phrases like “yes, darling, yes,” Żuk never truly develops Linda as a character. However, perhaps she never had the chance to, as large portions of the character’s dialogue are cut and others abbreviated, limiting her ability to fully build her role. Despite this, she was (surprisingly) recognized as the best supporting actress of the 2023/24 artistic season by “Teatr,” one of Poland’s most prestigious theatre journals.Similarly, Piotr Seweryński’s Charley, lacks substance, personality, and purpose. His brief appearances in only two scenes reduce him to nothing more than a helpful neighbor who stops by to play cards and lend money. In much the same way, Sławomir Sulej’s Ben is barely present, existing more as a background figure than a fully realized character. Dressed in an absurd safari costume, he spends much of his time standing and gazing solemnly at other characters, or pacing the stage with little to do—and even fewer words to do it with.Other dialogues have been transformed into soliloquies, giving Willy the space to tell his story on his own terms. One such example is the last conversation he has with Ben before taking his life, which is in the form of a monologue and becomes a poignant confession from a deeply troubled mind that has finally found peace. This follows Willy’s final dialogue with Biff, here a soft and moving conversation stripped entirely of anger or guilt. Biff speaks to Willy calmly, even lovingly, as he tries to explain himself. This scene provides a moment of respite after the highly emotional confrontation at the restaurant—and it works.The set, created by Marika Wojciechowska, is simple and simplistically symbolic. It features a table, a few chairs, a green vintage fridge to the left, and a rack with Biff’s trophies at the back center stage. The kitchen set maintains a fixed position on stage throughout the performance. The audience is partially enclosed by plastic sheeting, showing that Willy’s house is in a constant state of renovation. In the opening scene, he enters carrying a drill and immediately begins working on the house. There are also clotheslines stretched across the auditorium, hung in the past, yet they remain throughout the act—almost like an art installation.But the dominant element of the stage design is sport, which is built up to a multilayered (though a bit too obvious) metaphor. The floor is marked with football field lines, with the midpoint 50-yard line bisecting the space—where most of the interactions between Willy and his sons take place. To the left, a high school gym-like setup with sports mats and gym equipment is present in the first act, later replaced by hurdles in act 2—a visually compelling yet simple symbol of the obstacle race that the Lomans have been running. At the end of act 1, when Biff and Happy head to their bedroom, they leave the living room door ajar, revealing a glimpse of a stadium seating structure made of folding chairs at the back of the stage, an unsubtle reminder of Biff’s lost career and unfulfilled potential.Act 2 opens with a full view of this arena facing the audience which transforms the entire theater into a stadium, with stands at both ends of the stage. The audiences in the stalls and the characters in the folding chairs sit and observe the ultimate fall of the House of Loman. And when the restaurant scene collapses into chaos, tennis ball launchers in the wings flood the stage with a barrage of tennis balls. As such, tennis, more relatable to Polish audiences, takes center stage, overshadowing football as a symbolic element—associated with privilege and big money, it is ultimately what the Lomans have been striving for and excluded from. And Bernard, who appears in his every scene wielding a racket, is a constant reminder of that.The first act feels sluggish, and it is in the second act that the performance truly gets into gear. To some extent, this can be defended as an artistic choice: the first act serves as a deliberate build-up, establishing the world and Willy’s gradual mental decline which is then emphasized in the more dynamic and hectic second act. The office scene marks the turning point, from which everything goes downhill, and ultimately culminates in the frenzied dinner scene, in which the restaurant resembles more of a disco than a dining place, with wild lights, blaring, thumping dance beats, and Happy snorting cocaine off a ping-pong table, surrounded by prostitutes. For this scene Brzyk summons Ben from his safari and sits young Linda mending her stockings at the table with Willy and the boys. The world is chaos, and all hell breaks loose for Willy. Juliusz Chrząstowski’s performance as Willy in this scene is fervent and frightful. However, the actor starts the play too intensely, already detached from reality the moment he enters. The buildup is so fast and overwhelming that it becomes almost unbearable to follow. There is no respite, no room to decompress. And when he falls apart entirely at the restaurant, he does so by stripping off his clothes, crawling on the floor and pulling fabric samples from under his coat. Yet, the scene is somehow effective because Chrząstowski is highly consistent, and his Willy Loman embodies everything expected of the character: he is a crazed, borderline abusive, compulsive liar, and at the same time an unaccomplished, sad old man, desperately trying to fix the world for his family in the only way he knows how. Chrząstowski excels in this version of Willy, and clearly stands out as the strongest actor in this production.Maciej Kobiela as Biff and Damian Sosnowski as Happy also deliver strong performances in their roles. Their characters are well-developed, with clear contrasts between them, effectively highlighting the differences between the brothers, their power struggle, and the shifting dynamics of their relationship. Happy is a broken womanizer, well-groomed and elegantly dressed, contrasting with Biff in his teenage-like sportswear and corresponding teenage attitude. The balance between the two is well-executed, and it works effectively. The weakest link in the cast is Edmund Krempiński, whose portrayal of Bernard is substandard, leaving one to question his presence on stage. His performance lacks emotional depth, with his physicality conveying little to no nuance. He delivers his lines in a manner reminiscent of a recital at a high school declamation contest, rather than a fully realized character. The remaining cast members (Magdalena Kaszewska as The Woman, Rozalia Rusak as Miss Forsythe, and Wojciech Oleksiewicz as Stanley) serve the production well, though not outstandingly or memorably.Overall, Brzyk delivers a competent production, but something feels off, and it is difficult to identify what it is exactly (beyond the elements that have already been mentioned). But for one, there is no emotional desolation, no tears, no much-needed catharsis once the curtain falls and the lights come up. The funeral scene and Linda’s final monologue are as unmoving as can be—a remarkable feat for a director to stage such a moment without evoking even a hint of emotion. Żuk delivers her lines from behind a plastic curtain, her tone dry and matter-of-fact, but it was also the build-up to this scene that was lacking, leaving it devoid of the weight it should have carried. And perhaps that is the missing piece throughout the production. The heavy layers of symbolism, the visual metaphors, the grand staging—all seem to overshadow the raw, intimate tragedy of a family unraveling. Perhaps there is simply too much happening, or the stage itself is too vast for a story so intimate. Whatever the reason, the Łódź production of Death of a Salesman fails to fully do the Lomans justice.