“I Will Not Surrender!”: “Rhinoceros” Finds New Resonance at the American Repertory Theatre

A man is sprawled before a café entrance, a white cloth draped over his face and a bottle of brandy in his hand. He sits up with a start, as though imbued with life by the sharp spotlight shining on him, and laments to the audience: “I’ve always tried to live, but life has passed me by.”

This attention-grabbing and starkly sobering image opens “Rhinoceros,” as staged by director Diane Paulus ’88, priming the audience for the emotional whiplash the show evokes. The classic Eugene Ionesco play explores how our conception of humanity is transformed under the siege of totalitarianism through an absurdist conceit: in a small French village, there is a shocking invasion of rhinoceroses!

Watching the American Repertory Theater’s interpretation of “Rhinoceros,” I often wondered whether to laugh or soberly contemplate the human condition, which captures why you need to experience this play for yourself. Though the characters are situated in a deeply absurd context, the humor and fear they respond with allow us to see ourselves in them. Their reactions are not nearly as implausible as they may seem at face value, and that’s what makes us squirm.

The disheveled man, we later learn, is named Bérenger, played by John Turturro. He stumbles into this café to meet his old friend Jean (Paul Giamatti). They discuss the importance of intellectual vitality for a full, attractive life and spirit (“You don’t exist, dear Bérenger, because you don’t think!” exclaims an exasperated but good-humored Jean).

Their jovial rendezvous is soon interrupted by the rumbling stampede of a stray rhinoceros, leaving a haze of smoke in its wake. The town square, replete with a central white chapel and a quaint grocery store on its right, is filled with a cast of confused townspeople.

However, no one except for Jean seems bothered by the incident. Bérenger suggests the rhinoceroses may come from a nearby swamp, or may have escaped from a zoo long ago and only just reemerged. An incredulous and irritated Jean insists that the rhinoceroses should be treated as a serious concern—they are an unprecedented threat to civilian welfare.

Ionesco conceptualized the rhinoceros metaphor during World War Ⅱ to describe the suppression of dissent pervading the status quo to accommodate fascist regimes: “But they looked upon you as an alarmist, then a nuisance, finally an enemy to be run down. They looked like they wanted to lower their heads and charge.”

By showing how dangerous ideological concession can be, Ionesco conveys the urgency of resisting totalitarianism. For example, it soon becomes apparent that this is not merely a rhinoceros invasion, but an epidemic of rhinoceritis, a condition that prompts even those ideologically opposed to violently transform into a rhinoceros.

Jean himself morphs into a rhinoceros before the audience’s eyes. He brays, “I’m all for change,” his voice distorted into a low rasp. Giamatti’s Jean becomes unrecognizable, his disposition agitated and buzzing with anger like a rabid dog. Bérenger flees his friend’s home, alarmed at how quickly and completely Jean has abandoned himself and his morality.

The cost of conformity, it seems, is the loss of one’s humanity.

Paulus’s staging lends the play an element of unnerving realism, stripping it of some of its visual frills:

“In the original, every time [Jean] comes out of the bathroom, he has more makeup. He has more of a horn. And I thought, if we can put into Paul’s performance the transformation happening physically, vocally, then for the audience, we’re more in Bérenger’s shoes. Like, what is happening to this person, to this human?” she stated in an interview for NPR.

Paulus uses what is not shown to develop the eerie atmosphere Ionesco intended. Instead of ever showing us the rhinoceroses, smoke pervades the stage and the low wails of a rhino herd hum in the distance, signaling their gathering. At the same time, the humans onstage grow progressively more isolated and bewildered. This directorial restraint effectively situates the bizarre premise in a world theatergoers can recognize, heightening the tense tone.

At the start of Act Two, the chapel that served as a visual focal point throughout the preceding act is suddenly overturned. The characters never explicitly address the choice, but it seems to imply an institutional overhaul and the destruction of societal anchors caused by the rhinoceroses. The status quo’s belief systems are easily trampled, and their destruction is apparently unremarkable. The world that “Rhinoceros” inhabits falls into visual disarray, mirroring the increasingly chaotic behaviors of its characters.

As Bérenger hunkers down to evade the epidemic, he clings to the last human relationships that have sustained him: those with his coworkers, Dudard and Daisy, played by Alex Ross and Tatiana Maslany, respectively. The three entertain the idea of living together, sustaining a human stronghold as the rhinoceros population around them grows. Dudard reasons that to keep living they must at least try to understand the rhinoceroses, the rhinoceroses’ way of life seems most natural: submitting to primordial instinct. Dudard swears that he will bring them down from the inside, as he races out the door.

So, Daisy and Bérenger live together in affectionate dysfunction until, in frantic fits of passion and fear, Daisy confesses her desire to experience the rhinoceros community’s protection. Frenzied, Bérenger strikes Daisy across the face. In a scene characterized by constant motion, Daisy and Bérenger pull apart, anticipation building in the abrupt stillness of their bodies.

This moment, among the show’s most climactic, is marked by uncertainty and silence, broken only as Daisy rises and stalks into the wilderness.

Bérenger, alone and afraid, questions his own humanity: “What is my language if I’m the only one that speaks it?” Turturro’s performance is stunning in its stony vulnerability. His humanness is strengthened by its uncertainty. It poses the question: Is humanity defined by how we see ourselves, or by our conceptions of and care for the world around us?

The granite-like backdrop rises to reveal a mountain of precarious stacked bedframes, uninhabited and rendered unnecessary by total societal transformation. The setting is desolate and deeply unsettling, as the realization settles that Bérenger is the only remaining human as far as we can see. The stage’s darkness is interrupted only by the glowing gray eye of a rhinoceros, its ivory horn glinting. The rhinoceros is not inherently menacing, but its hulking body contrasts with its unstated intent: unmoving, it watches over Bérenger as he brandishes a makeshift sword and yells, “I will not surrender!”

His resolve is not unwavering, but that makes his choice to remain true to himself all the wiser. His humanity shows partly in his ability to reason, argue, and listen critically to those around him. It is tested, of course, but it survives.

“Rhinoceros” is filled with humor, resolve, and timeless insight. It forces you to sit in discomfort and makes you consider questions of your own moral fortitude. I implore anyone who can to see it as soon as possible. At its core, it is about curiosity. Under a government that weaponizes political and social polarization, seeking greater connection and contending with our own fallibilities is the only effective inoculation against ideological isolation.

Sadie Gugliotta ’30 (sadie_gugliotta@college.harvard.edu) is comping the “Harvard Independent.”