If you think a mysterious inspector dropping by uninvited to shake up an upper-crust family is just another mundane dinner party, think again. "An Inspector Calls" by J.B. Priestley is anything but boring. The play, written in 1945 but set in 1912 in the fictional town of Brumley, snugly fits into the familiar walls of the Birling family’s opulent home. This disturbing narrative unfolds in one evening when Inspector Goole arrives unexpectedly to investigate the suicide of a young woman named Eva Smith. Why? Because each family member had a hand in pushing her to despair, revealing systemic societal rot. But don't let the liberally slanted criticism of individualism fool you; there's a lot more to unpack here.
First things first, let's talk about the man of the hour—Arthur Birling. A capitalist to the core, his speeches reflect optimism about the future and heavy skepticism over socioeconomic shifts. Priestley uses him as a symbol, or dare I say, a strawman to critique capitalist ideals. Yet, the laughter doesn't come from Birling but from the failed attempts of coopting individual success as societal failure. Are we meant to pity or despise Arthur's capitalistic endeavors as 'selfish'? The joke is on those who claim that the success of one man is the downfall of others. From the onset, Birling exemplifies the self-made man narrative, and it's a real shame some folks can't stomach it.
Enter the inspector, the supposed knight of socialist ethics. Inspector Goole’s voice serves as the mouthpiece for Priestley's socialist undercurrent. He relentlessly questions, prodding each character to spill all the divine 'truths' of societal cohesion. Ironically, Goole’s emphasis on collective responsibility obscures personal agency. Yes, let's not forget that aspect—the erosion of personal responsibility. Socialists want you to believe that the greater good trumps individual liberty. These are not tear-jerking revelations of interconnectedness; they are coercive suggestions that prioritize the collective at the individual's expense. Funny how conveniently this gets packaged as moral high-ground.
The other Birling family members and Gerald Croft—the quintessential fiancé—add layers but predictably echo the core themes. Sybil Birling, Arthur’s wife, represents the willful blindness of maintaining social propriety over common sense. Magistrate or not, her dismissiveness and her 'charitable' contributions reflect altruism with strings attached. Such philanthropy is weaponized to charm the masses, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? It’s reputation over substance here, a theme much adored by the left.
Sheila Birling, the daughter, offers the redemption arc everyone supposedly wants. Her 'eyes opened' tells an attempted tragedy of social awakening. The young woman whose actions directly harmed Eva Smith pulling out the “we must change” card doesn't hold a candle to self-accountability. The irony lies in Sheila’s commitment to change only under the weight of guilt-induced enlightenment rather than genuine understanding—a trait romanticized, but fundamentally flawed. Transformation should be introspective, not insinuated by a heavy-handed stranger.
Son Eric Birling unravels what 'privilege' looks like when unchecked—a concept overemphasized but deserves a grasp on nuance. His contribution to Eva's downfall serves to highlight the pitfalls of recklessness. Yet, being lectured by the so-called voice of authority without personal repentance marks the very danger of externalizing blame. Instead of focusing on redeeming one’s autonomy, Eric's fate encourages empathy marred with state dependency. It’s as if individuals can’t reclaim control over their decisions. Are we seriously meant to embrace such a dichotomy?
Lastly, let's not ignore the overall framing. Priestley neatly ties up his argument against capitalism and personal gain masked as social obligation. However, the narrative fails to entertain another viewpoint—what happens when it's too much collectivism and not enough individuality? That side conveniently remains underexplored—a shadowy absence to keep the audience squared with the fear of unfettered personal ambition. But not that it's ever explained how economic growth and innovation flourish without such ambition. Spoiler alert: They don't. A monologue on shared burdens laced with anxiety over opposing views leaves more questions than it answers.
"An Inspector Calls" serves as a cautionary tale more powerful for its unintended lessons than for its direct appeals. While Priestley hopes to galvanize public support for a connected community, he inadvertently highlights the necessary grit of individual accountability. The alternatives weren't just subtle encouragements for a collective; they smacked down the flourishing capacity of human independence. That's the real intrigue—a discussion untold, yet vividly present in every scene Priestley so carefully orchestrated.