this isn't a feminist manifesto. this isn't an expose of man's perpetual undermining of the female sex and its weaknesses. this isn't friedan, or woolf, or wollstonecraft. it doesn't go that deep in the direction of modern feminism, because that's not what it's about. it's about human nature and innocent complicity, and how easily things can be hidden under the veil of domesticity. it holds more if you don't look at it through only this perspective. if you step back, away from gender politics for a second, away from our contemporary bias, it is, and represents, so much more.
this is a drama, a very short one. my guess, if you enhance the dramatic interludes between dialogue and revelations, it'll top out at 30ish minutes as a production. reading it takes much less time (if you're not taking notes like me), but the story is so chillingly executed and deeply intriguing, you wish it could be longer. it's almost like things move too fast, too much exposition is given at once, and what was once an insignificant piece of the puzzle (a "trifle") suddenly, threateningly, becomes the most important thing, and there's something mildly disappointing with realizing the faster you read the closer you get to the end. (the same feeling, I would imagine, in watching the performance.) you want more, but with more would come tediousness; it would become a police procedural, tv detectives coming out of the wings to interrogate the shaken wife and redneck neighbor, culminating in a stark confession or shootout in the streets at the end of 45 minutes + commercials. the best, and most frustrating, thing about trifles is the power in its length.
sure, you can read between the lines of the women's casual judgments and relations to the unseen wife of the freshly murdered man, analyze and come to an understanding that this was obviously glaspell's way of dissing the societal system in which women are meant to be little more than cooks, cleaners, mothers, and wives, even when it becomes a matter of life and death, but I don't think that's the only theme to this play. if anything, antigone, or really anything ibsen ever wrote, are better examples of early feminism in drama than this. the main evidence to the feminism argument is that, presumably (because we are only ever given some of the information, never all, and never without bias or commentary), the aforementioned doomed husband was murdered by his now potentially doomed wife after suppressing her dreams and desires for the decades they've been married. (she was a chorus girl when they met, he made her stop singing, etc. etc.) the women (the wives of the sheriff and neighbor/witness) find a broken birdcage in the messy kitchen (after a few sympathetic remarks over "couldn't she have cleaned up before getting arrested?"), and then the corpse of a bird whose neck has been wrung hidden beneath scraps of fabric in mrs. wright's sewing box: this, of course, is supposed to represent the suffocation of life that she had been feeling under the "wings" of her husband, who similarly had his neck wrung the night before, and in bed nonetheless. yes, these could be (and probably are) explicit and heavily symbolic parallels to the role of women in society at the time, and the burgeoning independence movement which was becoming stronger and stronger every day, but they are not as interesting, imho, as the story itself, and are most definitely not the only thing to be taken from this play.
it's a murder mystery first, then, sort of, a commentary on the future of feminism. it's a fascinating, spellbinding, relatively unsolved crime story that feels--no, is--scarily real, 1916 and before and after.