Before the Dawn: Destruction, Healing and Rebirth in Marriage

Directed by Guo Shixing and written by Swedish theater master Ingmar Bergman, the play *Scenes from a Marriage* ran for over half a month at the Gulou West Theater in Beijing from late November to early December 2017. The entire work, originally five hours long, was condensed to two hours and forty minutes. The two protagonists, a man and a woman, with minimal sets and props, entered and left the stage with the play, completing a process of self-destruction and rebirth. However, life never offers salvation; the end of one contradiction is the beginning of another. Life goes on, the cycle continues. When everything is torn apart, the actors, carrying the questions left to us by the playwright and director, look ahead blankly, quiet and lonely, bitter and desperate.

one

Guo Shixing said, “Bergman’s plays are like simmering porridge.”

The Chinese love using food metaphors, drawing parallels between various food-related elements and metaphors. Guo Shixing, well-versed in Chinese folk culture, aptly and brilliantly uses the analogy of “cooking porridge” to describe Bergman’s plays. No steaming, no stir-frying, no boiling, no deep-frying, and no haphazard hodgepodge, but rather a process of simmering—simmering the plot, the characters, the audience, and the actors. After several hours, there are no sparks flying, no enticing aromas, yet all the flavor is contained within that pot of porridge.

Bergman’s true intention was not merely to express or explore marriage, but rather life itself. Marriage was simply the vehicle for this discussion, or rather, the most direct channel for observation. Therefore, the screenwriter chose to place this discussion within the context of marriage. And what about sex? Sex is a barometer of marital status. Sex doesn’t explain everything, but it is certainly an important standard for testing a marital relationship, as the man in the play complains with a touch of cruelty: “Every action is so perfect, but sex is disgusting.”

The plot of *Scenes from a Marriage* is not complicated. The protagonists are John and Marianne, a couple married for many years, whose story begins and ends in one bed. The only conflict that can be considered is the man’s infidelity. He grows tired of his wife and has a new lover. He struggles with this dilemma, finally confessing to her one day, “I’m in love,” and then angrily packing his things to leave. The woman’s transformation is gradual, from initially rejecting the truth to pleading and begging to stay, and finally, she too embarks on a journey to find new love. At the end of the play, the two, now divorced, return to the same bed through an affair. They rediscover the long-lost comfort and understanding, only to find it’s a dead end—the bed is neither a sanctuary for love nor a battlefield for pleasure, but a cruel trap set by life, mocking these two ordinary men and women who are no different from us. They are us.

The play received lukewarm reviews, and audience members began leaving before an hour had even passed. Those who remained murmured amongst themselves, “What on earth is going on?” accompanied by slightly impatient coughs and sighs. The audience remained far from quiet, with the glow of cell phones evenly distributed throughout the theater, indicating that *Scenes from a Marriage* had clearly failed to capture their attention.

To be fair, if you treat it as a play, you will indeed be disappointed. *Scenes in Marriage* is not a work that relies on plot to succeed, and extramarital affairs are nothing new. Guo Shixing understands and respects Bergman; he didn’t make the work more dramatic, didn’t add more “localized” elements related to China, and didn’t over-arrange or embellish it. He trusted the playwright, the two actors, and the audience, letting the work flow naturally on stage. Occasionally, a couple of dramatic moments would emerge due to the intensity of the plot, but more often, as Guo Shixing explained—”I don’t particularly agree with ‘localization.’ I just wanted to present Bergman’s work in its original form. His works are about marital problems, problems faced by all humanity and the world; there’s no need to add China’s specific circumstances. Bergman didn’t write melodramas; the story isn’t strong. The relationship between the two people is like simmering porridge.”

When a play no longer relies on plot, we can say that it has either failed halfway or succeeded completely.

Novels, films, and plays, though using different mediums, are all arts of storytelling through plot and characters. The conflicts and contradictions between plot and characters, and the new events that arise as these conflicts deepen, are among the most challenging aspects to test an author’s skill. The more layered the pacing of the plot, the more precisely the emotional moments are arranged, and the more cleverly the suspense is set up, the more compelling the work becomes. Among these, the foreshadowing and revelation of suspense are particularly crucial.

Alfred Hitchcock’s interpretation of suspense is often considered classic. Hitchcock believed there are two types of suspense: one is the sudden explosion of a bomb under a table when two people enter a room, sit down to talk, and the bomb explodes. This surprises the audience and relies on secrecy to enhance the dramatic effect; this is called “sudden suspense.” The other narrative technique involves the audience seeing a killer enter the room and hide a bomb under a table before entering the room. Then, the two people enter the room but don’t find the bomb and continue their conversation. In this case, the audience becomes more involved and empathetic, feeling anxious for the characters; this is “expectational suspense.” In Hitchcock’s words, “The bomb must not explode; if it doesn’t explode, the audience will always be anxious.”

There’s nothing new under the sun. Hitchcock’s theory isn’t about creating new suspense, but rather about how to set up existing suspense. Suspense itself doesn’t offer many novel tricks depending on the genre; the key is for screenwriters and directors to carefully craft suspense at its most exciting juncture, maximizing the audience’s emotional engagement. While Hitchcock was discussing suspense in film, his ideas apply to all narrative arts, including stage drama. In the seemingly uneventful play *Scenes from a Marriage*, there is indeed suspense to be created: the bombshell of an extramarital affair.

two

While both are plays dealing with extramarital affairs, the play *The House Is Not Flying*, adapted from the novel by British novelist Somerset Maugham, is clearly more dramatic and topical: Aju, a gentle and virtuous housewife, and her husband John are an enviable couple. However, John is secretly having an affair with Aju’s beautiful and sexy friend, Mary. Although their affair has already been discovered by Aju’s sister, her mother prevents Aju from knowing the truth, lest the innocent and kind-hearted Aju be hurt… Ultimately, Aju joins her friend Barbara’s company, starts a business together, sheds her role as a housewife, regains her dignity in front of her husband, and plans a romantic trip with her former suitor, Jim.

The play “The Red Flag Never Falls at Home” features eight characters: wife Joo, Joo’s husband John, Joo’s sister, mother, Joo’s friend Barbara, Joo’s suitor Jim, lover Mary, and Mary’s husband Henry. These characters are played by two men and two women, with some cross-dressing roles, such as Mary and Jim being played by the same actor, which adds a lot of comedic effect to the play.

From the very beginning, the audience, along with the sister and mother, learns of John’s infidelity, while only Jo remains unaware. This is where the suspense begins—under what circumstances will Jo discover the truth about her husband’s affair? As a housewife, how will Jo react? Once exposed, what will the drama’s trajectory be, and how will it end? The audience is almost immediately drawn into the suspense created by the playwright. With the introduction of different characters and the unfolding plot, the audience’s hearts are constantly filled with worry for Jo; empathy arises, and the audience faces all the possibilities alongside the character. Maugham, a particularly skilled short story writer, naturally understands the importance of plot twists. Thus, we suddenly realize that Jo had known about her husband and Mary’s affair all along, had been preparing for her own financial independence, and even covered for them when the affair was almost exposed to Mary’s husband. If Ah-Zhu’s actions weren’t shocking enough, then the scene where she makes a fortune, throws a bank card at her husband, and prepares to go on vacation with her suitor in a bright red dress is like a real-life “Temptation of Wife,” making the audience even more entertained and thoroughly satisfied.

This ingenious arrangement is naturally thanks to Maugham; “The Red Flag Never Falls at Home” truly captivates the audience from beginning to end. It’s so theatrical, so full of drama, with a superb structure and clever arrangement. The suspense in the plot and character development is thrilling, echoing Aristotle’s definition of plot, especially “discovery” and “twist,” from thousands of years ago in “Poetics.” The actors’ vivid and slightly exaggerated performances are hilarious, with each punchline delivered perfectly, and each twist handled “both unexpected and logical.” The wife, Ah-zhu’s, counterattack at the end, in particular, meets most people’s expectations of a play, or rather, a story. It may not be a universally successful work, but at least it has grabbed the audience’s attention. Everyone understands what kind of story it tells and its central themes: marital infidelity, the importance of economic foundation, and, regardless of gender, the weariness of marriage and the yearning for novelty.

Many viewers’ biggest takeaway from the play was that “women should never be housewives; they must be financially independent.” Indeed, financial independence is a prerequisite for everything else. However, returning to marriage, while financial independence may earn a woman dignity, can it win back her husband’s love? Can it eliminate the undeniable weariness that comes with daily living together year after year? As seen in the play, despite the wife’s seemingly victorious ending, has the fundamental problem been solved? Ah Zhu doesn’t intend to leave her marriage and sees through John’s reluctance to divorce for the sake of social status and face. She wants to repay the humiliation John inflicted upon her in kind; her revenge has only just begun. However, we all know that staying in a marriage devoid of loyalty, trust, and love is not only revenge against a cheating husband but also revenge against oneself.

In terms of plot and suspense, *Marriage Situation* seems far inferior to *The Red Flag Never Falls at Home*. It lacks secrets; while the man’s extramarital affair is revealed somewhat unexpectedly, it offers no real surprise. Although the woman transforms from initially meek and submissive to eventually alluring and captivating, she remains fundamentally unchanged, unlike Ah-Zhu’s complete turnaround in *Home*. There’s no triumph, no indifference, no decisive confrontation; the woman is still the same cautious, even slightly timid, woman she once was, only now she hides her hurt more deeply, using more “indifference” to mask her inner “concern.”

So, having abandoned plot and suspense, what does “Scenes in Marriage” intend to rely on to win over the audience?

The answer is, don’t try to conquer. The screenwriter doesn’t try to cover up, revise, or embellish; instead, they choose to show the audience the trivial, messy, indecisive, and repetitive aspects of life itself.

There’s a scene in *Scenes from a Marriage* that left a deep impression on me. One evening, the woman lay in bed as usual. Then, seemingly without warning, she said, “I’m pregnant.” The man was clearly taken aback, but tried his best to hide it. He tried to remain calm, even feigning a gentle and considerate demeanor as he discussed the issue with the woman. The woman lay down, the woman sat up, the woman turned her back, the woman turned around, the woman laughed, the woman cried, the woman murmured to herself, the woman cried out, the woman repeatedly asked, “Do you really want this child? I mean, do we really want this child?”

The man neither objected nor agreed; his expression held no joy. Had the woman not asked so many times, even a hint of impatience would have been perfectly concealed. He always went along with what the woman wanted to say, never saying he didn’t want the child, but neither did he truly desire it. Women are always sensitive. She seemed to be asking the man if he wanted the child, but in reality, she was asking if he loved her. She was using this test to ascertain whether the man still cared about her and the family. Finally, the man relented and agreed to keep the child. The woman, relieved, said, “Actually, whether we have this child or not isn’t important.”

After the line was spoken, a few faint chuckles rippled through the theater, mostly from men. I don’t know if they were laughing at the playwright’s illogicality or the woman’s foolishness. But I want to say, there’s nothing funny about it; it’s terrifyingly real. Two people lying in the same bed, two people who always maintain politeness and propriety, both in public and at home, two people who are the closest yet as strangers as if they lived on different planets: a neurotic woman trying to cling to this crumbling, already rotten relationship; a seemingly perfect man, secretly plotting an escape but unwilling to confront outsiders; one groveling and begging for mercy; the other desperately trying to break free; one on the verge of hysteria due to lack of response; the other unwilling to even argue with such suffocating indifference… Their paths have long since diverged. A newborn baby can’t save them, nothing can save them. Anyone who has experienced a long-term relationship or a long-term marriage can probably understand that bone-chilling coldness, the kind that seems impossible to thaw. Guo Shixing understands Bergman, and that’s precisely the brilliance of *Scenes from a Marriage*. It’s bland, devoid of thrills or surprises, only filled with boredom, tedium, and protracted scenes, followed by wave after wave of overwhelming boredom that makes it unbearable to continue watching. The audience is almost swallowed up by this immense boredom; the actors torment each other on stage, while the audience struggles to endure even greater torment until they want to escape—this isn’t a play, this is life, the most real and ordinary life.

Great masters show people their artworks, but true artists lead people to confront life itself.

three

If love is an eternal and brilliant theme in human art, then extramarital affairs are the disgraceful shadow beneath it. Though disgraceful, they reflect, from another perspective, the flaws, cracks, and fissures of the institution of marriage and human nature, inadvertently revealing previously undiscovered dark sides and subconscious thoughts, forcing us to stop and re-examine ourselves and our entire lives. Love is the most direct and powerful mirror for understanding oneself, and marriage is even more like a demon-revealing mirror, exposing everyone’s problems, big or small, leaving no room for escape. It aims to expose our most vulnerable, hypocritical, and dark sides, leaving us powerless to retaliate, trapped in the invisible tomb of marriage like walking corpses, day after day, yet unable to break free.

The man said through gritted teeth, “I’ve wanted to get rid of you for four whole years.”

As mentioned above, *Marriage Situation* doesn’t actually tell us a story about how a marriage breaks down, but rather how individuals face society and interpersonal relationships, such as facing their parents—do you have the courage to say “no!”? And most importantly, how do you face yourself? When you’ve already discovered that the love between two people has vanished, to what extent and for how long can you pretend to be indifferent? The director wants to show us the process of a person’s collapse—when they can no longer pretend, can no longer endure, can no longer act. As Mr. Yu Shangyuan said, “Drama is like digging a pit, throwing people into it, and seeing how they climb out.”

Drama should raise questions, but not necessarily solve them. It doesn’t necessarily offer a viewpoint, but it must express one. This expression can be any feeling: confusion, bewilderment, absurdity, or understanding. It’s about confronting the issue directly, not necessarily offering a clear opinion or advocacy. Playwrights are not saviors, but rather those who, compared to ordinary people, are better able to confront their inner selves and life’s dilemmas, maintaining a degree of rationality or objective thinking when most are lost in a daze. As Guo Shixing understood Bergman: “He didn’t have a viewpoint. He was expressing himself. We are all illiterate when it comes to matters of the heart; he presented the raw reality of marriage. His plays are very realistic, very solid, showcasing the complexity of relationships between the sexes. But he was also at a loss regarding the problems that exist in relationships. This is actually about how deep love is in modern society, whether people can find love, whether people can find happiness, and whether the happiness you perceive truly exists.”

Therefore, this play does not depict idealized, pure love, nor the kind of goal-oriented love that is achieved at all costs. It is real, naked, clumsy, mixed, confusing, draining, and brings loneliness and pain. The root cause of this often profound loneliness lies in the irrationality of the marriage system and the eternal contradiction between loneliness and the desire for warmth. Society encourages marriage and childbirth, building stable families and reducing the number of potentially dangerous and insecure single individuals, thus contributing to social harmony. But can marriage truly solve this problem? Clearly not. Marriage is merely a division of labor and cooperation to maximize benefits, a complement of resources. Therefore, when people can transcend economic constraints, marriage is no longer the only or necessary choice, and people can no longer pretend to believe that marriage is the ultimate destination.

Throughout their lives, each individual must first deal with their own needs and the ever-present feeling of loneliness.

Many people mistakenly believe that marriage is the ultimate destination of love, so they rush in. However, after being immersed in marriage for a long time, they become soft and accustomed to it, only to find themselves powerless to escape. Marriage is not poison; it doesn’t kill. It’s a pot of lukewarm water—everyone who jumps into marriage is like a frog unwilling to sleep alone, willingly soaking in the relatively warm pot of water. It seems to offer comfort and warmth, isolating us from the cold outside world, but in reality, it imprisons us in a new cage. And here lies the paradox: those who enter this pot of lukewarm water do so to escape the cold outside, but once inside, as time goes on and the water temperature rises, they find themselves breathless and wanting to escape. Most people have lost the ability to escape, while the small number who manage to break free with their last ounce of strength forget, in the comfort of new frogs, how they were skinned alive the last time they jumped out. They quickly jump into another pot, as if this pot is truly any different from the last.

What are the true needs of men and women when they are together? How do they control each other? And why does marriage, this seemingly insurmountable cauldron, attract countless men and women who irrationally jump into it? Humans are inherently lonely; one lonely soul cannot comfort another equally lonely soul. Within marriage, there is mutual consumption and torment; outside of marriage, there is mutual support and solace. How important are marital or family responsibilities to two people? How can one truly face oneself? Can loneliness be eliminated through affection? No one understood these philosophical questions—which arise from marriage but extend beyond it—more profoundly than Bergman. Like the man in the play, he grew tired of the woman beside him and went to another. However, after breaking free from the shackles of marriage, he discovered that loneliness is eternal; no one or any method can eliminate it, and in this sense, everything is meaningless. With his characteristic detached tone, Bergman ruthlessly exposes the veil of illusion surrounding marriage, revealing the naked truth of the “Emperor’s New Clothes”—that marriage is a relationship where one can only appease others and obey their every whim. Love will eventually fade, fidelity does not exist, marriage is not the solution, and novelty and loneliness are two separate things: one is fleeting, while the other is destined to accompany us until death.

Life is a one-way street, and relationships between the sexes are an eternal topic for humanity. The most intriguing aspect of *The Marriage Situation* is its connection between a culture that champions individualism and the institution of marriage. As one commentary stated: “While narcissism promises a free new life, liberating individuals from family constraints and traditional moral concepts, once the logic of individualism is introduced into the ‘marriage situation,’ it’s difficult to prevent relationships from evolving into a chaotic free-for-all, leading the pursuit of happiness down the path of self-centered narcissism.”[] This explains why people simultaneously proclaim their desire for freedom while blindly rushing into the simmering waters of marriage. Loneliness is eternal, as is the effort to overcome it; marriage merely seems to satisfy this pursuit of security and belonging. However, others are hell, and marriage is not heaven; contradictions will always exist.

In the play’s finale, the man and woman, now separated from their marriage, return to the villa where they once vacationed. It’s the villa where the man confessed his affair to the woman. This time, they fall asleep in each other’s arms, completely unguarded, without reservation, and without suspicion. They whisper to each other like never before, freely, comfortably, even with a touch of the romance of early love. The stage begins to spin, round and round, as if it will never stop. Sun and moon alternate, dawn and dusk intertwine, reality and illusion blend, like a dream. We seem to be transported back to that night at the beginning of the play, yet we have truly experienced all the joy and sorrow.

As Bergman, through the male protagonist in the play, says, “When it comes to feelings, we are all illiterate.” Ultimately, everything is unsolvable. The problems that begin with a marriage arise with its end, giving rise to new ones. People waver and struggle, torn and uncertain, within and outside of marriage, yet can never truly escape the heart-shaped rope that binds them. We cannot demand a solution from the director or screenwriter. Artists are not saviors; they are only responsible for detachment, discovery, and raising questions, not for providing answers. It’s not that artists lack wisdom, but that life itself is unsolvable. Like that bed that seems to spin forever: day and night always alternate, confusion and doubt always arrive unexpectedly and endlessly. We are powerless to solve it, nor can we demand an answer or ending, because it is not a play, but our most real lives—contradictory, unsolvable, absurd, like the boulder Sisyphus will forever push—life born in darkness and destined to end before some dawn.

CLIMAGOHI Extra Long Silicone Massager with Suction Base – Pink/Purple ZY-SC11039

Rated 4.68 out of 5 based on 77 customer ratings

(77 customer reviews)

[SULTRYCARE] Extra Long Body-Safe Silicone Internal Trainer – Integrated Suction Base – 6.3 in Insertable – Smooth Contoured Shape – Pink/Purple ZY-SC11039

Add to wishlist

SKU: ZY-SC11039

分类： Dildos

标签：ZY-SC11039

Before the Dawn: Destruction, Healing and Rebirth in Marriage