It was good. Or it wasn’t. It all depends on which review you read. This one is pretty good. I mean, it is a positive review, but it is also good, because it actually mentions someone who put in a lot of work on The Dance of Death by August Strindberg; the literal translator, aka Son. Mine, not Strindberg’s.
He was invited to the press night earlier this week, and I gather he was surprised to find quite a few of his words were still in the play. He had half hoped the artistic interpretation by Conor McPherson would place it on a spaceship or something.
Because of the circumstances I had been very tempted to go and see it myself (it’s on at the Donmar at the Trafalgar Studios until January 5th), but decided that even Son’s translation would not make me want to travel to London the week before Christmas in order to sit through a couple of hours of Strindberg. I have no reason to believe The Dance of Death will ever count as cheerful.
It just goes to show I was not totally misguided in persevering with that foreign language for all those years. Admittedly, I did not have Strindberg translations in mind back then, but someone has to do them.
(I had half angled for a review of the play, but not only is he busy translating other stuff, but he might be too close. So this is all you get.)