Two Productions by Eminent 'Auteur' Directors from the Archive

(Part 1: Play Reports)

[I had intended to re-present these archival play reports from my pre-Rick On Theater archive along with some inserted commentary on the two directors and their illustrious companies.  Both artists, Giorgio Strehler and Ariane Mnouchkine, are—or were: Strehler died in 1997—world-renowned theater artists and their companies, Il Piccolo Teatro di Milano and Le Théâtre du Soleil, are internationally acclaimed.

[I felt, though, that most people who know of them are theater folk—artists themselves or devoted theatergoers.  I wanted a chance to make sure that ROTters who aren’t in either category got a chance to know about these astounding stage artists and performing troupes.  (You will find that both pairs are represented on this blog; the reports on two of their other works are cross-referenced in Part 2.)

[When I finished reediting this play report, which I wrote in 2005, four years before I started ROT, and then inserted the profiles and background material I wanted to add, the post got very long.  I struggled with a way to preserve both my intentions—re-present the play reports and profile the artists—and finally decided to post the report first on its own—slightly reedited from my original, but substantially unchanged—and then publish a second post with the commentary I’d composed.

[So below is the report I wrote for some out-of-town friends back in 2005 and on 13 October, I’ll post the profile and background comments.  I hope you’ll derive something interesting from the two parts of “Two Productions by Eminent Auteur Directors from the Archive.”]

LINCOLN CENTER FESTIVAL
1 August 2005 

Last month [July 2005], Diana, my usual theater partner, and I saw two of the events in the Lincoln Center Festival: Arlecchino, Servant of Two Masters and Le Dernier Caravansérail (Odyssées).  (The latter was a two-parter, so three performances all told.)  This is a clear and unambiguous representation that New York City gets more and a broader variety of cultural events from all over the world than, I believe, anywhere else on the planet. 

(I’ve never done a survey—and I’m not aware that anyone else has—but unscientifically, I think that’s so.  For theater alone it seem to be true, but if you add in opera, dance, and music performances, and then count all the visiting visual art exhibits—New York City is the capital of the world.) 

Both productions were fascinating experiences, and both had serious flaws as productions despite extraordinary performances.  We saw Arlecchino first (22 July), so that’s where I’ll start.  (It’s as good a place as any, right?)

ARLECCHINO, SERVANT OF TWO MASTERS
by Carlo Goldoni
Piccolo Teatro di Milano—Teatro d’Europa
Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts
22 July 2005

The Piccolo Teatro di Milano’s three-hour production of Arlecchino, Servant of Two Masters, originally staged by Giorgio Strehler in 1947, is his take on the farce by Carlo Goldoni (1707-93), The Servant of Two Masters, written in 1745 and first performed in 1747.  It’s an adaptation from the previous century’s commedia dell’arte scenarios and is representative of Goldoni’s take on the commedia tradition. 

Arlecchino, known as Harlequin in English, is arguably the best-known character from Italian commedia dell’arte (with the possible exception of Pulcinella, who became Punch in the popular English puppet shows).  To celebrate this inventive and sly servant, Strehler changed the name of his production of the Goldoni classic to Arlecchino, Servant of Two Masters.

Strehler, who died in 1997 at 76, stripped the text down to allow more improvising by the cast, returning the play to its commedia roots.  (I’m going to assume a certain familiarity, if not with Goldoni’s classic, then the basic facts of commedia.  Like that genre, the plot of Arlecchino is virtually irrelevant—just a frame to hang hi-jinks and verbal play on—so I won’t bother to recount it.  [In Part 2 of this post, I will provide a brief synopsis of the background of commedia dell’arte.] 

(Suffice it to say that the play involves mistaken identities, scheming servants, plotting parents, separated lovers, and everything, in fact—as someone once said—that makes life worth living!  From what I gather, both from reading reports and watching, the improvisation came during rehearsals and conception.  The performances are choreographed tightly and, obviously, verbal improv wouldn’t allow the supertitles to follow the dialogue closely, which they apparently did.) 

In order to focus attention on the lead character, Strehler slightly renamed the play, which has been in the Piccolo’s repertoire for nearly 60 years (and over 2000 performances in 40 countries, according to their count).  This production has been staged by Ferruccio Soleri, who’s played Arlecchino for more than four decades and, at 75, is still doing it. 

That’s one of the most remarkable aspects of this event—Soleri, under his mask, takes on the frisky, scheming clown like a man of . . . oh, I don’t know, maybe 35 at the most.  He’s astounding, to put it mildly.  (I had read Charles Isherwood’s 22 July review in the New York Times beforehand, so I knew Soleri was 75, but when he took off his mask at the curtain call, it was still a mini-shock.  I had really forgotten while he was working how old he was.)  

The whole cast, as a matter of fact, is perfect.  (There’s one guy—Paolo Calabresi, who plays Il Dottore—who I swear is either a giant or the rest of the cast is shrimps.  He looks immense.  I’d guess his huge belly is padding, but he isn’t wearing stilts or lifts, so his height is real, and he towers over everyone else on stage!) 

[I just looked Calabresi up on IMDb and was surprised to find him listed; his page even has his height.  It turns out he is tall, but not a giant—he’s 6' 2¾".]

And the concept of reproducing commedia, with its little street stage (representing the commedia wagon bed), flat painted scenery, the actors “off stage” sitting or standing on the Alice Tully Hall stage to the right or left of the commedia stage as they awaited their entrances, the musicians and stage hands mostly visible—and sometimes engaging the actors in arguments when something doesn’t go “right”—the inserted lazzi, and the songs into which the actors break at the drop of a hat during scene changes, is delightful and, from my limited knowledge of theater history, wonderfully accurate.

I’m going to take a short (?) side trip here and delve into a topic Isherwood brought up in his review: the connection of commedia, especially as depicted here, with contemporary comedy.  If you don’t already know it, or haven’t really seen it beyond reading about it in some theater history treatise, you can absolutely see where our common comic practices on TV and on stage originated.  Isherwood mentions Homer Simpson, but I don’t watch that so I can only take his word for the reflection—but Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Chaplin, Martin and Lewis, Peter Sellers, Monty Python, Laugh-In, That Was The Week That Was, and Saturday Night Live: they’re all in there. 

This production even makes liberal use of an actual slapstick, the comic device (that dates back to Roman comedy, I think—a progenitor of commedia) that gave its name to a whole genre of modern (?) Western silliness.  (The circus clown is, of course, a direct descendant of the zanni Harlequin/Arlecchino, followed by the Red Skeltons, Jackie Gleasons, Jerry Lewises, Lucille Balls, Carol Burnetts, Jim Carreys, among others 

(After watching Soleri, I’m also convinced that Chico Marx was Arlecchino’s great-great-great-. . .-grandson!  Not to mention Ed Norton and even Barney Fife—who were more like his great-great-great-grandnephews.)  What’s amazing is that it’s still all hilarious!  I’m not even a great lover of clowns—none of those performers I just listed are favorites of mine (except maybe Burnett)—and even though you know what’s coming most of the time—the routines haven’t changed in centuries—the execution by true masters like Soleri makes them seem fresh and surprising, even though they’re really not. 

Possibly the funniest scene in the play—one you could easily imagine Chaplin doing—is the one in which Arlecchino simultaneously serves separate dinners to his two masters at Brighella’s tavern.  Soleri juggles the dishes and trays, tumbles and pratfalls, balances and dances in every direction, dodging the tavern keeper and his servants—never spilling a drop or dropping a platter!  (It gives entirely new meaning to what we used to call at summer camp “running the biddie”!)

I made a brief reference above to the set, which is sort of bifurcated.  The Piccolo Teatro’s set (designed by Ezio Frigerio) is an evocation of a town square, not quite realistically presented—there are awnings which resemble birds’ wings or ships’ sails—in the middle of which is a small raised platform that is the commedia playing area. 

At the rear of the platform is a frame on which are hung four pairs of painted curtains which represent another town piazza with the front entrances of several houses (Il Dottore’s and Pantalone’s), a large room in Panatolone’s house, the interior of Brighella’s tavern, and a Venetian street by a canal.  As the scenes change, the stage hands simply step up on the platform and draw back or close the appropriate drapes to reveal the new locale.  

Off the sides of the platform, on the original Tully Hall stage, are waiting areas where the actors prepare for their entrances, the stage hands idle until they’re needed, and the musicians sit with their instruments.  (There’s also an old fellow sitting stage right with a large book, obviously the text of the play or the instructions for the scenario.  He’s either supposed to be Goldoni or a prompter—Michael Feingold in the Village Voice says he’s the prompter; I don’t recall that the commedians used a prompter, but never mind—and he occasionally got into disputes with the actors and others.  It was an innocuous gag and just added to the general whirl of activity that included, but wasn’t limited to, the action on the platform.) 

Props are minimal—only what is actually used in the scene, no decorative elements beyond the painted drapes.  “Decor” is painted onto the drapes, which looked to me to be modeled on 18th-century settings (Goldoni’s period) rather than 16th- or 17th-century (commedia’s period). 

The costumes, from what I could judge, are also early or mid-18th-century.  Arlecchino, of course, wears his customary diamond-patterned patchwork outfit (an article on Soleri says he goes through three of them each show because of the sweat); all the comic male characters wear commedia masks, though only Arlecchino wears his all the time.  (That’s, of course, why it was such a shock to see Soleri’s face at the curtain call.)

You may have noticed that I’ve focused on the physical aspects of the performance and haven’t said anything about the verbal comedy.  That’s because that’s where the problem lay for me.  It wasn’t the company’s fault, really—they spoke Italian, which I don’t understand, but that’s their language. 

The difficulty was in the supertitles and the auditorium configuration.  I couldn’t read the titles from my seat without missing what was happening on stage entirely—it was physically impossible.  There was only one title screen—up on the proscenium arch, right in the center.  I was sitting fairly close to the stage, but over on house right.  Alice Tully Hall is really a concert stage, and it has a wide stage with a very pronounced curve to it so that the house right and left seats are at about a 45° angle from the center of the stage.  (Think of trying to watch a TV screen from the side.) 

Between the height above the stage and the angle of my view, reading the titles meant straining so much that I’d never get them read in time to look back at the stage to see what anyone was doing.  So I decided to pay attention to the physical work, rely on the synopsis and my knowledge of the play and commedia to clue me in to what was going on, and ignore the actual dialogue. 

It wasn’t a completely satisfactory trade-off because I know that commedia includes a lot of jokes and other verbal play which I missed (assuming they would have even translated into English, which I supposed is problematical—though one review suggested that all the humor was replicated), and I wish that Lincoln Center, or whoever made this decision, had put screens at the sides and/or on the front of the stage (as several productions have done at the Brooklyn Academy of Music). 

I can understand why a simultaneous interpreter wouldn’t have worked—the dialogue came too fast—but additional screens wouldn’t have been an imposition, especially since the performing area was confined to the center of the Alice Tully stage; the rest of the space was “off stage” and would not have been hampered by a screen placed at the outer edges of the proscenium.

Now Le Dernier Caravansérail (Odyssées).   

*  *  *  *
LE DERNIER CARAVANSÉRAIL (ODYSSÉES)
conceived by Ariane Mnouchkine
Théâtre du Soliel (Paris)
Damrosch Park, Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts
27 & 29 July 2005

This six-hour-plus production of Ariane Mnouchkine’s Théâtre du Soleil is performed in two parts, each of which runs over three hours.  Théâtre du Soleil has erected a large tent in Damrosch Park next to the Met and the New York State Theatre (since 2008, The David H. Koch Theater).  I understand that Théâtre du Soleil supplied the bleacher structure—not the tent itself, and I don’t know about the stage platform. 

This makes some sense, since one of Mnouchkine’s principles is that spectators should come and watch the actors prepare and the “dressing rooms” are beneath the bleachers so you can stand around and watch the make-up and prep.  The bleacher structure would have to be somewhat specially designed to accommodate this.  In Paris, where Théâtre du Soleil is housed in a warehouse on the outskirts of Paris, I believe they even run open rehearsals to which the public is welcome. 

If you haven’t read about this production, it is about refugees (a caravanserai, or caravansary, is a place where a caravan stops en route; the analogy is to refugee camps and detention centers).  Mnouchkine and her assistants traveled to several refugee centers all around the world, including Sangatte on the French coast which was originally established for Kosovar refugees, and collected their stories and, apparently, letters and/or diaries recounting their “odysseys” (hence, the play’s parenthetical subtitle).  Le Dernier Caravansérail (“The last caravanserai”) is, in this sense, a documentary play. 

You could go to the whole play in one day, with a meal break (I think they offered this on weekends), but Diana and I went on two nights, a Wednesday and a Friday (27 and 29 July).

Théâtre du Soleil was last in New York in 1992 with Les Atrides, Mnouchkine’s take on the four Greek plays by Aeschylus and Euripides that tell the tale of the House of Atreus.  They performed at a Brooklyn armory—Les Atrides was part of the BAM season that year—and used the same kind of bleacher set-up as Caravansérail.  (I presume it was the same structure, in fact—though over a 13-year period it may well have been replaced.) 

Les Atrides, like most of Mnouchkine’s material from what I know, was based on existing classical theater texts (she’s also done a Tartuffe, reset in the Middle East), which makes Caravansérail different for her.  (I’m not on real solid ground here: Théâtre du Soleil may often do original texts and I just don’t know about it.)  

I’m not sure if the difference in source material is wholly to blame for my difficulty with Caravansérail or not, but in comparison to Les Atrides, I found this less exciting dramatically, even though Mnouchkine’s staging and the work of the actors and other performers (Théâtre du Soleil always uses live music specially composed for Mnouchkine’s productions) was exceptional. 

Les Atrides was a remarkable experience which remains with me still.  Mnouchkine presented the Greek classic tragedies in the costumes and style of Indian (that’s East) theater, principally Kathakali as far as I could tell, in a set that looked to me like a squared-off bull ring.  It was stunning, even at 10-plus hours.  (I was so impressed with that production that I not only bought the photo book covering half the show that was on sale at the armory, but got Diana to buy me the second book when she went to Paris and saw Théâtre du Soleil there.) 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Caravansérail, whose two parts are titled “Le Fleuve cruel” (The cruel river) and “Origines et destins” (origins and destinies) respectively, isn’t entirely divorced from classical texts: Mnouchkine has modeled her play somewhat on Homer’s Odyssey, though it’s not at all an adaptation. 

The similarity, from my perspective, is pretty simplistic: the narrative, if you can call it that, is episodic, like the Odyssey, though the personalities aren’t continuous.  (Some “characters” repeat, but Caravansérail doesn’t follow one family or group the way Odyssey follows the crew of Ulysses’ ship.) 

Also, Ulysses and his crew have left a war that ended and were returning home victorious—circuitously, to be sure, but home was their goal; the wanderers in Caravansérail are fleeing on-going conflicts, of which they are victims, and they’re not headed anywhere familiar—or even predictable.  It would also be hard to describe the events of Caravansérail as “adventures.” 

There is, in fact, no actual narrative to Caravansérail.  Each episode recounts the fate of a group of oppressed and threatened people from some troubled part of our world from Afghanistan to Chechnya and Bosnia to Iran and Kurdistan. 

I don’t know if Mnouchkine had some intent in mind, but all of her refugees are Muslims.  Their oppressors are mostly Muslim, too—Taliban, Iranian ayatollahs, Baathist thugs—but not all of them are—Russian soldiers, Serb terrorists and “ethnic cleansers,” Australian coastguardsmen, French border guards 

I also don’t know if she deliberately avoided any portrayal of Americans or Brits as the instigators of flight—none of the Afghan or Iraqi refugees are fleeing the post-9/11 fighting; all are fleeing the regimes we overthrew and expelled.  That she’s French suggests to me that she wouldn’t down-play this out of a sense of “loyalty”: the French weren’t on our side in this tempest.  (Even if you characterize her as “Russo-French,” as one writer does—the Russians weren’t with us on Iraq, either.) 

It’s possible that this is because some of the material originated before 9/11, of course—though dates used in the text go well up to today.  Maybe she just didn’t want to alienate her potential audiences, and the point is not about blame or responsibility but about human intrepidity and capacity to hope and survive. 

It may be easier to make this point if the bad guys aren’t “us.”  (Remember, we are not a culture that likes to see itself portrayed in black hats, even if we were actually wearing one.  Think of the brouhaha over recent attempts to mount exhibits on the A-bomb and the current controversy over what can go into Ground Zero’s historical exhibits.)  One writer suggests when noting that the U.S. doesn’t figure in Caravansérail’s stories that it is a way of pointing out that we are not “at the center of everything.”

There is no “set” for Caravansérail.  The stage is bare and there is no decoration of any kind on the canvas walls.  There is a long trench-like hole near the front of the stage from which stagehands clamber and out of which some set pieces are fed, especially the large tarp that becomes the raging waters first of a river (part one) and then the Indian Ocean (part two).  (The trench also stands in for the entrance to the Chunnel into which would-be illegal immigrants from France to England are smuggled in several scenes.  This is the only time characters—as opposed to stage assistants—touch the stage floor as they leap from the border-fence platform into the Chunnel or are brought out by border guards.) 

Settings for each scene are rolled out on the same kinds of platforms as the actors themselves.  You may have read about this—it’s the salient image of the production: the characters are all rolled around on wheeled sleds—”big skateboards, essentially,” Charles Isherwood calls them.  They almost never walk and they virtually never touch the stage floor: they step from their “entry” sleds onto another platform with a set—a house, a clinic, a border fence—and they may take a few steps on that larger platform, but entrances and exits are all propelled by other cast members scooting along squatting or even virtually lying on their sides, pushing with their legs. 

(The “stage assistants,” as they function here—though they are actually actors not in the current scene—are all dressed in the same costumes as the characters in the scenes, not in black or other “invisible” attire like Japanese kurombos.  The costumes are realistic and culturally appropriate for the locales of each scene.) 

They also do other tasks, such as flapping the skirt hems of characters on the wind-blown bluffs above the Dover coast, say, or twitching the tail and turning the head of the (stuffed) donkey one character had ridden in on, or “flying” a bird on a long pole.  They also occasionally sweep the stage floor—they did walk, or really run (all scene changes are on the run), to do this—I presumed so the sleds would move smoothly after some scene littered the stage with sand or other detritus.  It was all very Brechtian.) 

Everything moves on these dollies—trees, telephone booths, a motorcycle—which are soundless.  The symbol is, of course, rootlessness—no connection to the ground, no permanence.  If the main point of Caravansérail is that people find the will to keep going, despite what they encounter along the way—insensitivity, exploitation, threats, danger, violence, death—the main symbol is the peripatetic rolling platform.  This is quite striking at first, but you get used to the convention soon and it just becomes part of the mise-en-scène. 

The dollies also gave the actors a kind of ethereal quality—like the women in mid-18th- or mid-19th-century gowns who seem to glide across the floor because you can’t see their feet or legs—as well as a robotic aspect, since the actors don’t move while they are on the roll—just strike a pose until they arrive at their place.  Then they may step onto a larger platform for a scene, even pace around some as the scene requires (the acting is generally naturalistic), but when they exit, they step back onto the smaller sled and become static, like an automaton that is turned off until needed, then turned off again for storage off stage somewhere.  Not quite human, you know?  “Other,” maybe.

The action is episodic, as I said—like the Odyssey—though, the stories don’t connect for the most part.  (Each part has one continuing story: “Love in Afghanistan” in “Cruel River” and “A Caucasian Story” in “Origins”; other connected episodes concern locales—Calais or the Chunnel in part one—or themes—”Returns” and “Reminiscences” in part two).  We don’t get to know anyone—some aren’t even identified at all, remaining just unknown émigrés. 

Obviously, however, the common thread is flight from oppression and/or danger and hardship and/or exploitation on the way.  Both parts open with a similar, very effective and excitingly theatrical scene of some kind of water crossing.  In part one, a family or group is trying to cross a raging river between Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan in a ferry drawn across on a cable: “A Crossing (Central Asia).”  (New York magazine has a photo of this scene in the 8 August issue and so does the Village Voice of 26 July.) 

The little ferry is tossed about by the river whose water is portrayed by that gray silken tarp which is hauled out of the trench and flapped vehemently by the stage assistants (aided by a wind machine); it can’t carry but one or two passengers plus the ferryman and keeps returning for more of the large group.  When the river becomes too wild for the ferryman, who nearly loses some passengers and his boat and even falls overboard himself, he refuses to return to the other side with more passengers, and one actually steals his boat and sets out on his own, nearly capsizing until the ferryman scrambles aboard by using the cable as a tightrope. 

Though there is shouting over the sound effects of roaring water, no dialogue can be made out—the whole scene is a mass of confusion and peril.  In part two, the same theme is repeated in “On the Way to Australia” in which a small, overcrowded boat is being tossed in a violent storm on the Indian Ocean somewhere between Pakistan and the coast of Australia.  (Think The Perfect Storm, if you saw that movie.)  Once again the torrent is represented by the gray fabric swells (this time with a white tarp added for the whitecaps), and passengers fall overboard and are rescued as the little vessel is jostled and rocked. 

At one point, when the boat is apparently within Australian waters, a helicopter hails it and orders it to turn back: “Australia will not accept you!” yell the soldiers dangling from ropes as spotlights illuminate the tiny boat and the clinging passengers.  (The ’copter is not visible—we just hear the rotors and see the effects of its wash.) 

It’s hard to describe how cleverly and effectively this is all handled: the boats move about the waters—the second one meanders all over the center of the stage, though the first goes back and forth in a mostly straight line—and passengers fall off and bob alongside in several different spots.  There are obviously holes in the tarp to permit the boat to move “through” the water and for the swimmers to pop up here and there—but you can’t see them. 

Even though you know the water is fabric, the whole thing is immensely effective—theatrical and at the same time terrifyingly real.  Nothing else in the play is as effective or as theatrically satisfying as these two scenes—and that’s unfortunate. 

The languages of the performance are French, of course, plus all the languages spoken by the travelers and their tormentors—Russian, Arabic, Farsi, Pashto, Serbo-Croatian, even English (one of the refugee centers is in Australia).  This could even become amusing, perhaps unintentionally, because when both parties in a scene don’t speak the same language, such as at the medical clinic of the refugee camp at Sangatte, they speak a kind of pidgin French which sometimes evolves into Franglais, the lingua franca of international students in places like Geneva.  (We developed our own argot principally from French and English—both British and American—but also bits of German and whatever other languages people in the group spoke.  This may not have amused anyone but people like me, however.  [See “Franglais,” posted on Rick On Theater on 1 July 2020.]) 

Obviously, with so many different languages going on, the supertitles are pretty important in Caravansérail, and they were much more accessible than at Arlecchino.  First of all, the stage and the bleachers are straight—no deep curve to create angled sightlines—and there is no proscenium arch for the screen to be placed on, high above the stage. 

Théâtre du Soleil uses all kinds of locations for the projected titles—the back wall of the tent, a small screen that rises up from the slot at the front of the stage, on parts of the various mobile set pieces, even on the fabric which serves to create the roiling waters of the opening scenes of both parts.  I found that it was easier for me to read the texts through my opera glasses, but I could do that and return to the action pretty quickly without missing anything.  (The trick was to spot where the projection was going to show up—I did sometimes miss the first lines or two before I found the titles.  It was a little game.) 

The titles are more than just the transcription/translation of the dialogue, however.  There are also the texts of letters—some apparently from Mnouchkine to her informants—and prayers or poems, read over the loud speakers like a voice-over in film—there is no action on the stage during these moments (except scene-change cleanups or that kind of thing; no dramatic action)—and the titles of the scenes with locations and dates (another Brechtian element). 

The letter projections are quite interesting in themselves.  First, they are in a cursive-like font (the dialogue text is regular block letters), and they appear word-by-word as the speaker reads them out.  It isn’t so much as if we are watching the letter being penned, but more like it is being typed, despite the font.  Still, it is a case of supertitles-as-performance. 

(I have no idea if this is something new that Mnouchkine devised, but I’ve never seen it before.  Titles have always been just a utilitarian element in anything I’d seen before.  As it happens, we were sitting right above the technicians for this effect, and it is run by a laptop computer attached to a projector.  I have no idea, though, how the technicians could have so unerringly hit some of the spots on the moving set pieces.  In many cases, the titles are projected on beams of wood no wider than a 1”x4”, and since the platforms couldn’t always end up in precisely the same point on the stage each time, how did they always manage to hit their marks?) 

Out of curiosity, I sampled a number of reviews of Caravansérail (and Arlecchino as well) from several New York area publications and a couple from around the country.  As you might expect, opinions varied as to the result of Mnouchkine’s work here, though everyone was very respectful of the effort and the concept.  (Some of that may be political correctness in operation: who can admit publicly to not caring about refugees?  Even if you actually don’t.  [Note that this was written before Donald Trump and his administration appeared on the scene.]) 

Every critic describes, in almost the same detail, the two remarkable water scenes, but many mention and describe different other scenes that made impressions.  From my perspective, the closest review to my own response is Michael Feingold’s Village Voice piece, “Escape From Drama.” 

Overall, I found the piece more interesting than engaging—except for those two water scenes.  The ideas were intellectually or conceptually intriguing—the dollies, the titles, the episodic non-narrative—but didn’t add up to a truly exciting theatrical experience, the way Les Atrides did 13 years ago. 

The rolling actors and set, while it may have symbolized something significant, became just a convention; it wasn’t really moving (pardon the pun).  The titles, for all their curious manipulation, didn’t do much more than inform me of facts and delay the visual and active display on stage.  One writer compared these to an element of a PBS documentary, and that may be accurate. 

The string-of-pearls structure, all those episodes, ended up numbing me to the dramatic plight of the refugees and the human drama to which Mnouchkine seemed to want me to respond.  Not that there wasn’t emotional response—but I contend that it was less evoked by Mnouchkine’s theater than by pushing personal buttons which we essentially brought in with us. 

What I mean is, if someone who was steeled against the refugee plight came to this show, and he didn’t have any innate sense of despair or pity for the wanderers—Caravansérail wouldn’t rouse them in him.  Several critics indicated that the lack of character development and, therefore, personal connection was a tactic Mnouchkine used to open our eyes, but I have to side with the ones who said that it was counterproductive—it didn’t let us care; it just made us numb. 

One scene after another of basically the same tale—details and languages changed, but the fundamentals were the same, however superficial that similarity may have been.  I had thought that “The Cruel River” would somehow be different from “Origins and Destinies,” that one would show a different aspect of the refugee story—but the second part was more of what the first showed.  (Yes, I’m sure there were subtle differences in perspective or approach or something—but they were too subtle for my puny mind.) 

You remember that my criteria for good theater are that the piece must be theatrical and it must do more than just tell a story, it must reveal something to me about the human condition (sorry for the cliché: I don’t know another term).  Caravansérail ought to fit that bill—but it doesn’t work in the end. 

I think I also appended that the result must be good—and though I don’t want to dismiss Caravansérail as bad by any means—it’s too interesting for that—it just doesn’t connect.  It’s a shame.  (While many of the critics I read said that the piece doesn’t work in the end, several didn’t say that—and in some cases I got the distinct sense that they were afraid to say so.  My God, the empress has no clothes on!)

[Please come back to Rick On Theater on Tuesday, the 13th, to find out a little more about these artists, their work, and their companies.]

Mark Rozovsky & The Theater at the Nikitsky Gate

[On 27 and 30 September, I published a two-part post on Yuri Lyubimov, a world-renowned Soviet and Russian stage director, that included a 1990 interview conducted by Leonardo Shapiro.  That interview was published in 1991 in Bomb magazine.

[Leo Shapiro did that interview in the spring of 1990 when he was on a trip to Moscow to stage a play there.  The play was Kafka: Father and Son by Mark Rozovsky, which Shapiro had produced in English with his troupe in New York in 1985; now he was staging its Russian-language première at Rozovsky’s own theater, the Nikitsky Gate.

[During that same trip, when he interviewed Lyubimov, Shapiro also interviewed Rozovsky—except that that transcript was never published.  It exists solely in typescript, probably only in Leo Shapiro’s papers in the Archives & Manuscripts of the Billy Rose Theatre Division at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts—and in my own personal files.

[Rozovsky isn’t as famous as Lyubimov was; Yuri Lyubimov was at the height of his international renown in 1990.  Mark Rozovsky, though, was, like Lyubimov, also a rebel in Soviet days and ran a highly respected Moscow theater during the time that the USSR was transforming into the sovereign Russian Federation and the Commonwealth of Independent States.  Furthermore, Rozovsky got to Broadway: Strider, 1979-80.

[So, having profiled Lyubimov, with an interview appended, I’m going to try to do the same service for Rozovsky.  The added frisson is that very few people will have read the interview Shapiro did with this director-playwright.]

Mark Rozovsky is one of the most interesting contemporary Soviet theater directors.  In addition to writing for the stage, Rozovsky, 83, is also a theater director, screenwriter, composer, poet, and prose writer.  Mikhail Shatrov (1932-2010), a well-known Soviet and Russian playwright and screenwriter, has said about his colleague: “He is a phenomenon.  He does everything himself from start to finish: writing, directing, composing the music, and sometimes even performing.”

A multi-faceted artist, Mark Rozovsky has the title of People’s Artist of the Russian Federation (2004, “for great services in the field of art”).  He’s a Knight of the Order of Honor (1998, “for services to the state, a great contribution to strengthening friendship and cooperation between peoples, many years of fruitful activity in the field of culture and art”) as well as holding the Order of Merit for the Fatherland (2012, “for a great contribution to the development of national culture and long-term creative activity”).  Rozovsky’s a recipient of the Chekhov Medal (2005, “for Contribution to Russian Art”) and has twice been named Russian of the Year (2006 and 2012).

Mark Grigoryevich Rozovsky (Russian: Марк Григорьевич Розовский) was born Mark Semyonovich Shlindman on 3 April 1937 in Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky in the Russian Far East.  (Some sources erroneously say that Rozovsky’s birthplace was Petropavlovsk, sometimes also known as Petropavl, in what was then the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic.)  His father, Semyon Mikhailovich Shlindman (1905-67), was an engineer and an economist and his mother, Olga Konstantinovna Klempt (1906-76), was a dressmaker.

When he was just six months old, Mark Semyonovich’s father was arrested during Stalin’s Great Terror and spent 18 years in labor camps.  Olga Konstantinovna loved her husband greatly all her life, her son says, and when Rozovsky married his current (i.e., fourth) wife and they had a son, the couple named him Semyon Markovich, after Rozovsky’s biological father.

(Rozovsky is currently married to Tatiana Revzina, director and musical director of the Theater at the Nikitsky Gate, her husband’s theater.  Semyon Markovich is the couple’s only child.  From previous marriages, the director has two daughters, Maria and Aleksandra. 

(Maria Markovna Flyarkovskaya, née Rozovskaya, graduated, like her father, from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University and works as the head of the literary department of the Nikitsky Gate Theater.  Her husband, Vladislav Flyarkovsky, is the host of News of Culture on the Russia-K (formerly Kultura) TV channel.  Aleksandra Rozovskaya is an actress at the Russian Academic Youth Theater in Moscow.)

Despite her feelings for Semyon Shlindman, Rozovsky’s mother married an engineer, Grigory Zakharovich Rozovsky, who offered her protection from prosecution and persecution.  Grigory Rozovsky adopted Mark Semyonovich.

Olga Konstantinovna Rozovskaya was half Russian and half Greek.  Semyon Shlindman, Mark Semyonovich’s biological father, was Jewish.  Later, the director-playwright said that Judaism wasn’t part of his life growing up.  Even so, he explained, anti-Semitism confronted him frequently—he was called zhid, the Russian equivalent to ‘kike”—and this experience impelled him to become active in Jewish causes and organizations even though he wasn’t a practicing Jew.

When he turned one year old, Mark Semyonovich’s Russian grandmother took him to live in Moscow, away from the harsh living conditions in Kamchatka.  There he had to survive World War II (or, as the Russians call it, The Great Patriotic War).  More than once, little Mark Semyonovich’s grandmother had to save his life by wrapping her body around his to protect him from the shelling.

In 1953, when the 16-year-old applied for a passport, Mark Semyonovich took the patronymic and surname of his stepfather: Mark Grigoryevich Rozovsky.  On his new passport, the boy wrote down “Greek” as his nationality                                                                                           

Rozovsky graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University in 1960 and the workshop of Konstantin Fyodorovich Isaev (1907-77), a Soviet screenwriter, playwright, and Nikolai Aronovich Kovarsky (1904-74), a screenwriter and literary historian, of the Higher Courses for Scriptwriters and Directors in 1964.  (We’d probably call this the Workshop for Advanced Scriptwriters and Directors; it’s a non-governmental institution for postgraduate professional education in Moscow.)

The young theater artist joined the Writers’ Union of the USSR in 1976 and was a member of the Community Council of the Russian Jewish Congress.

From its founding in 1958, Rozovsky headed the student theater of MSU known as Our House (or Our Home: Nash Dom), which became widely known.  (The theater, which has roots back to 1756, is considered the oldest theater in Moscow.)

In the 1960s, Rozovsky also worked on the Literaturnaya Gazeta (‘Literary newspaper’), a weekly cultural and political newspaper.  He also wrote for the magazine Youth, an illustrated literary and artistic magazine for young people where he published popular columns of satire and humor.  He also worked in radio.

After the closure of Our House by order of the party in 1969, the director staged performances at the Moscow Art Theater, Leningrad’s Tovstonogov Bolshoi Drama Theater, the Mikhail Chekhov Riga Russian Theater in Latvia, the Kirov Academic Opera and Ballet Theater in Leningrad, Leningrad’s Pushkin Academic Theater, the Lensovet Theater in Leningrad, the Moscow Mayakovsky Theater, Moscow’s Obraztsov Puppet Theater, and the Polish Theater in Wrocław.  He also helmed movies and television shows.

During the decade of the 1970s, theatrical activity completely captured the budding young journalist.  In 1970, he created the theater at the State Literary Museum and in 1974 he worked as the principal director of the Moscow Music Hall.

In 1975 he staged the first rock opera in the USSR, Orpheus and Eurydice, written by composer Alexander Zhurbin and playwright Yuri Dimitrin.  The première was staged at the opera studio of the Leningrad Conservatory on 25 July.  (Since the term “rock” had a negative connotations for the leadership of the Soviet Ministry of Culture, the production was called “zong-opera” [зонг-опера]—from the German  der Song [‘pop song’].)

In 1983, Rozovsky formed the Theater at the Nikitsky Gate (Театр У Никитских Ворот) in the Central House of Culture for Medical Workers and became its artistic director.  In the tiny theater with an auditorium accommodating just 70 spectators, he staged performances of Poor Liza (musical, 1989; from a 1792 story by Nikolai Mikhailovich Karamzin), Doctor Chekhov (theatrical fantasies based on the stories of Anton Chekhov, 1983), The Story of a Horse (musical, 1975, based on Leo Tolstoi’s story “Kholstomer,” Gorky Theater; New York City Off-Broadway: 1979 [as Strider]; Broadway: 1979-80), Romances with Oblomov (1992, based on the 1859 novel by Ivan Goncharov), Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya (1993), among others.

(Aside from the New York performances, productions of Rozovsky’s The Story of a Horse have also been mounted at the Royal National Theater in London, and in Madrid, Stockholm, Tokyo, Seoul, Riga (Latvia), Helsinki, and other cities.)

After the new theater was founded, it received the status of a professional studio theater on 1 January 1987.  The Soviet Ministry of Culture officially granted the Nikitsky Gate the status of state theater on 1 October 1991.

On 25 January 2012, the Nikitsky Gate Theater moved into new quarters.  After waiting more than 12 years, the new four-story building of a former revival cinema on Bolshaya Nikitskaya Street in central Moscow opened its doors as a new playhouse.

The new Theater at the Nikitsky Gate boasts a spacious new auditorium with comfortable seating for 198 patrons and good sightlines.  The stage is equipped with the latest technologies, including modern sound and light equipment.  The lobby is decorated in green and brown tones to create an atmosphere of coziness and comfort.  With all the modern innovations, though, the historical appearance of the 18th-century mansion has been preserved.

Rozovsky’s company includes some very prominent artists, quite a few with honors such as People's Artist of the Russian Federation and Honored Artist of Russia.  They perform a wide variety of theater pieces representing philosophical parables and musicals, poetic performances and comedies, dramas and tragedies.  Currently, the Nikitsky Gate has more than 40 performances in its repertoire.  Rozovsky constantly adds new plays to the troupe’s catalogue.

Beyond the troupe’s performances at their home theater, Rozovsky and his Nikitsky Gate company participate in festivals both across Russia and around the world. 

In addition to his directorial work, Rozovsky’s the author of plays: Vysotsky’s Concert at the Research Institute (about actor, poet, singer-songwriter Vladimir Vysotsky), Kafka: Father and Son (produced in New York City in 1985 and 1991, and in Russia in 1990; see the interview with the playwright following this profile and my post on Rick On Theater on 5 and 8 November 2015), Triumphalnaya Square (about Soviet stage director Vsevolod Meyerhold), and Songs of Our Yard (favorite songs of the Soviet past played outdoors in the inner courtyard of the theater with spectators singing along).

Rozovsky is also the author of the screenplay for the three-part TV miniseries D'Artagnan and the Three Musketeers (based on the 1844 novel by Alexandre Dumas père, 1979) and the libretto for the opera Columbus’s Fifth Journey (to music composed by Aleksander Smelkov; presented at the Saint Petersburg Chamber Opera, 1994).

Rozovsky has been active politically as well as artistically.  In 1996 and 2003, he was among the cultural and scientific figures who called on the Russian authorities to stop the war in Chechnya and proceed to the negotiation process.

In October 2002, during the hostage-taking at the theater center in the Dubrovka section of Moscow, which resulted in the deaths of at least 170 people at the hands of Chechen terrorists and government forces, Rozovsky, whose 14-tear-old daughter Aleksandra was held hostage, took part in the live broadcast of Savik Shuster’s talk show “Freedom of Speech” on the television channel NTV.  Rozovsky called on Russian President Vladimir Putin to end the war in Chechnya immediately.

In 2007-2008, he was a member of the Supreme Council of the liberal political party Civil Power.

After the annexation of Crimea to Russia in March 2014, together with a number of other well-known figures of science and culture in Russia, Rozovsky expressed his disagreement with the policy of the Russian authorities in Crimea.  His position was set out in an open letter published in the socio-political newspaper Novaya Gazeta, known for its critical and investigative coverage of Russian political and social affairs.

Mark Rozovsky stresses the elements of poetry, psychology, and humanity in his productions.  But almost all of them also have a political aspect as well.  Before 1991 and the fall of the Soviet Union, his plays were unambiguously opposed to Soviet regimentations, suppression, and censorship.  

For a time, after Our House, the student theater, was closed on party orders, Rozovsky was blacklisted.  He heard from a friend that he was on a list of performers who were forbidden to appear on radio and television and he had to rely on friends to help him get directing jobs away from Moscow, such as Leningrad, Wrocław, and Riga.

Even after the Soviet Union dissolved, Rozovsky continued to emphasize his main focus—freedom of speech.  He saw the rise of fascism and nationalism in Russia and spoke out against it vociferously, both from the stage of the Nikitsky Gate Theater and in person.  He even had a running verbal battle with ultranationalist politician Vladimir Zhirinovsky, leader of the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (a misleading name).

*  *  *  *

[After having smuggled the script out of Russia, where production of the play had been forbidden by the Soviet Ministry of Culture, Leonardo Shapiro presented the world première of Mark Rozovsky’s Kafka: Father and Son with his troupe, The Shaliko Company, at the La MaMa Experimental Theatre Club in Manhattan’s East Village from 28 February to 24 March 1985. 

[After Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev initiated his policy of glasnost, or ‘openness,’ in 1986, Rozovsky was permitted to stage the play at his Theater at the Nikitsky Gate and he invited Shapiro to come to Moscow to direct it.  Rehearsals were in April 1990 and the Russian (and Russian-language) première was in May.

[Kafka is a two-character play that’s essentially a debate between writer Franz Kafka and his domineering father, Hermann; there’s little plot to synopsize.  The play depicts the strained relationship between the Son and the Father, which Peter Wynne of the Bergen County, New Jersey, Sunday Record described as “the classical Oedipal struggle”—though I say it’s more complex than that. 

[Shapiro said that he saw Kafka as “a Jewish family play, a play about fathers and sons,” but added that it was also “a warning about the new wave of repression of the creative spirit building here in the United States.”  The Minister of Cullure certainly saw the tyrannical Hermann Kafka as a stand-in for the repressive Soviet state and Franz represented the Russian artists—which is why he banned the play in 1983 

[The text of Kafka: Father and Son was based mostly on a letter Franz Kafka wrote, but never sent, to his father (“Letter to His Father,” November 1919) and parts of “The Judgment” (1912), Kafka’s most autobiographical story.  (I posted a two-part report on Shapiro’s productions of Kafka on Rick On Theater on 5 and 8 November 2015.)

[Because this was a typescript and not a published interview, I have taken the liberty of editing what I believe were typos.  I’ve also broken up a couple of very long passages, but I haven’t rewritten anything; I just split up the paragraphs into smaller units.]

INTERVIEW WITH MARK ROZOVSKY
by Leonardo Shapiro
Moscow, April 1990
Rozovsky’s words translated by Steve Nielsen

This conversation between playwright Mark Rozovsky and Director Leonardo Shapiro took place at the Nikitsky Gate Theater in Moscow in April 1990, preceding rehearsals on Rozovsky’s Kafka: Father and Son.  (The transcript begins in mid-conversation referring to a moment in Mark Rozovsky’s play when Kafka’s father says, “I’ll kill you.”)

Leonardo Shapiro:  I think that that was the one spot that was the hardest for us in New York.  Because the way we played it, it didn’t seem that at that moment the father was upset, it seemed like a moment of rest.  So it was very hard for us to find the logic of your introducing the idea of killing the son.  When did you write the  play?

Mark Rozovsky:  I don’t remember anymore.  I think it was in 1980, maybe 1981.

LS:  What gave you the idea?

MR:  By the way, the moment we were just discussing is very much like what prisoners in this country [i.e., the Soviet Union] lived through under [Joseph] Stalin [leader of the USSR, 1922-53].

LS:  Who?

MR:  Those who were interrogated by the KGB [Committee for State Security – the Soviet secret police].  I can understand those who confessed under torture, but there were a great many instances, and a lot of documents on this are appearing today, when the investigator did not subject the prisoner to physical torture, but got him to confess by other means entirely.  There were, of course, the standard provocations and games of nerves on the part of the investigator, but there was a huge number of cases when the accused confessed to a whole series of sins that, it was clear to everyone, he had not committed.  He would dream up a whole world.

LS:  To make them stop, or because he believed it?

MR:  It was a type of artistic fantasy.  It was complete delirium.  He dumped on himself, as they say.  [Russian theater avant-gardist Vsevolod] Meyerhold, for example, confessed that he was an English spy, a Japanese spy . . . .  The torture came later.  And  it’s a little strange to read about it today.  It’s like Kafka’s world was at work.  The more the victim confesses, the more he disarms his tormenter.  The more he surrenders the less chance there is of his being further persecuted.

LS:  Do you know the Kafka story “The Penal Colony” [written in 1914 and published as “In the Penal Colony” in 1919] where there’s a machine that carves the sentence into the prisoner like a tattoo?

MR:  Kafka had a lot of insight into the world of fascism and “socialism.”  It’s astonishing.  There’s only one other writer who had such insight into our times, [novelist Fyodor] Dostoevsky.

LS:  What actually led you think of this?  Were you thinking of that and looking for a way to write about it and then happened upon this letter to his father, or were you interested in Kafka and then you put these two ideas together?

MR:  When a volume of Kafka’s works was published for the first time [in the Soviet Union], in the ’60s, he immediately was widely read here.  There were even a lot of jokes at the time about Kafka.  And Kafka became a sign of a new style of life, new furniture, a modern sofa, the hallmark of a new cultural awareness.  It was fashionable to have Kafka on your bookshelf. 

We would gather in each other’s kitchen, with a bottle of vodka, and discuss Kafka.  It was, of course, a serious interest on the one hand, but on the other hand, Kafka, like a picture of [American writer Ernest] Hemingway, was to be found in all of the more or less cultured homes.  Which I considered terrible. 

Then, strange as it may seem, in the ’70s, the Kafka fashion passed.  People, with a very few exceptions, stopped reading him and lost interest in him.  But I had the feeling that the world in which we were living had become even more Kafkaesque. 

Furthermore, in 1968, the events in Czechoslovakia started with a discussion of Kafka.  Kafka continued to be the writer on whom our freedom and spirituality were tested.  And I wanted to write a play about Kafka because those times remain important to me. 

[Known as “The Prague Spring,” the “events in Czechoslovakia” in 1968 was an upheaval when reformist Alexander Dubček was elected First Secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia and attempted to grant additional rights to the citizens of the country.  The effort continued until the Soviet Union and other Warsaw Pact members invaded the country to suppress the reforms.]

I could have written a play based on The Trial [novel written between 1914 and 1915 and published posthumously in 1925] and that was the first thing that occurred to me.  It was like no other novel, in that it was similar to what our history was covering up.  But I decided, precisely for this reason, that I would not do The Trial and that was the first thing that occurred to me.  It reflected that history too clearly. 

And when I reread Kafka’s stories and the letter to his father, it seemed to me that these two things could be joined together, making a more profound, more indirect work.

LS:  Yes, it’s a great idea.  It’s much more interesting to create something new out of the combination of Kafka’s actual personal life and the creation of his actual imagination.  I think it gives you more freedom, and it also makes a connection between the personal and the social without having to spell it out.  The more detailed, real, and specific the story, the more weight it can carry.

MR:  Yes.  In what I was just saying, I was stressing the political side.  But Kafka’s strength is that he was able to translate the psychology of a man, the secrets of his inner “I.” 

For example, what are tenderness and caresses?  In Kafka they are the first signs of sadism.  We have become accustomed to violence, a cult of direct force against the weak.  But if I counter that violence with tenderness and gentleness, that force dissipates. 

And I also discovered that Kafka loved life, and his works are life affirming.  The morbid nature of his work and his inner depression are a means of doing battle for his love of life. 

Many people in this country rejected Kafka because he seemed so abject.  But that is not at all true.  He had a great love for life and for man.  And he, perhaps more than anyone else, was capable of joy. 

But the world around him was unjust and harsh, and it was only in his works that he opposed that world.  Only in art did his personality become absolutely free in this captive world.

And now, forgive me for putting myself in league with Kafka, this way of life has become my way of life.  Because, the only way of surviving those years was to write “for the desk drawer,” to write for the salvation of one’s own identity, as Kafka did, and be free only in art.

And this gave rise to a paradox: a blank sheet of paper, a pen, ink, a table and a chair, mothing more, and that is me. 

But out there is a huge world, a colossal bureaucratic machine, the army with its tanks and rockets, the navy with its aircraft carriers, the Ministry of Culture, and thousands, tens and hundreds of thousands, millions of people in the service and in the pay of the system.

And only one man stands up against that system, one man with a pen and blank sheets of paper.  And his only act is, from morning to night, from left to right, writing his manuscript.  That is how Kafka worked. 

But that is how, in this country, [Soviet writer, novelist, and historian Aleksandr] Solzhenitsyn worked, too.  And when that manuscript came to be called The Gulag Archipelago, it turned out that that manuscript, written by one man holding a pen in his hand, was mightier than the whole world  with its army of millions and its bureaucracy of millions. 

[Solzhenitsyn wrote The Gulag Archipelago, a non-fiction book about the Soviet forced-labor camp system, between 1958 and 1968.  (GULAG is the Russian acronym for the Main Directorate of Camps  –Glavnoye Upravleniye Lagerei.)  Seized by the KGB in 1973, a copy of the manuscript was smuggled out of the Soviet Union to Paris where the first Russian edition was published that year.  Translations into French and English followed the next year.  The book became a worldwide sensation; in the USSR, it was circulated in samizdat underground publication (literally, ‘self-published’).

[Solzhenitsyn’s Soviet citizenship was revoked in 1974 and he fled to West Germany.  In 1976, he moved to the United States.  Shortly before the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, Solzhenitsyn’s citizenship was restored in 1990; four years later, the famed writer returned to Russia, where he lived until his death at 89 in 2008.]

Who comes out on top?  The individual holding a pen, or the global system that is, in its entirely, opposed to that individual, against that one man?  The system, it turns out, is powerless, and is capable of only one thing—killing him.  It can do nothing more, because in every other regard, that individual is stronger. 

It’s very simple.  But in order to live thus, one has to have a remarkable inner strength, great talent, and faith in God.  By faith in God, I mean, above all, a sense of God in yourself.  And the messianic element in Kafka is to be found in all of the great Russian writers.

LS:  A strange Messiah.

MR:  Yes, strange, to be sure.  Therefore, here in the Soviet Union, to this day, Kafka has not been understood sufficiently profoundly.  I have in mind here the general reader.  There are, of course, some people who understand him very well, but the bulk of the readership does not understand him.  When the play [i.e., Kafka: Father and Son] is ready, I am sure that we will encounter this misunderstanding.  There will be some who understand thoroughly, and some who understand nothing at all.  And we must be ready for that.

LS:  What does that mean, ready for it?  Physically ready?

MR:  (Laughs.)  Perhaps.  We have to be ready in every way.  Perhaps you mean we should prepare ourselves by swimming laps?

LS:  In the play, when the father orders Kafka to write and Kafka writes, what does he write?

MR:  Who needs to know, the actors, the audience, or you? 

LS:   Well, in terms of the audience, there’s two choices: one is that he writes the story that he hands to the father later, and the other is that he doesn’t.  It’s either that or they don’t know what he writes.  He says that it’s his confession.

MR:  The son is describing his relationship with his father, as a result of which he perishes.  He makes an artistic image of him, and takes him from the world of everyday life into the world of art, the world of imagination.  And in that world he describes his demise as a result of what happened in the real world.

"The Theatrical Conscience of his Nation": Yuri Lyubimov (1917-2014), Part 2

 

[Welcome to Part 2 of my profile of Soviet-Russian director Yuri Lyubimov.  As you know, if you’ve read Part 1, this segment contains an interview of Lyubimov conducted in 1990 by American experimental theater director Leonardo Shapiro.  The interview, which was published in Bomb magazine, appears at the end of the post.

[If you haven’t read the first installment of “‘The Theatrical Conscience of his Nation,’” posted on 27 September, I strongly recommend that you do so before reading the second installment below.  I’ll be picking up the biological narrative with the upheaval in Lyubimov’s life that changed its trajectory and it won’t make a lot of sense without knowing how he got there.]

By 1983, an unbearable situation had developed at the Taganka.  Not only had two new productions in a row been banned, but so had rehearsals for the stage adaptation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s Theatrical Novel. 

At the invitation of the Great Britain-USSR Association, a British Government-funded organization established to promote and facilitate non-political contacts between the U.K. and the Soviet Union, Lyubimov left for England to stage his adaptation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment at the Lyric Theater in London in August 1983 (Evening Standard Award). 

After a series of interviews with Western journalists in March 1984 in which he openly criticized the Soviet regime, Lyubimov was relieved of his post as artistic director of the Taganka Theater, followed by a decree of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR on 11 July 1984, signed by Konstantin Chernenko (1911-85), Chairman of the Presidium and General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (1984-85), depriving Lyubimov of Soviet citizenship. 

Ironically, Lyubimov and Chernenko’s predecessor, Yuri Andropov (1914-84; Chairman of the Presidium and General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 1982-84), had had a long acquaintance and Andropov, who’d been Chairman of the Committee for State Security (KGB) from 1967 to 1982, had been something of a “closet defender” of the director, as John Freedman, a theater writer who specializes in Russian theater, put it.   Andropov died on 9 February 1984 and Lyubimov’s demise at the Taganka came two months later.

The eminent director couldn’t return to the Soviet Union even if he’d wanted to—he’d probably have faced arrest, like his parents (and Vsevolod Meyerhold, one of Lyubimov’s principal models, who’d been imprisoned and then murdered in the notorious Lubyanka Prison in 1940)—as his Soviet passport was no longer valid.  Across the Soviet Union—and even in the satellites—Lyubimov’s very name was not only removed from all the posters and programs of the Taganka Theater, but his productions were banned by the Communist authorities.  Even mention of him was forbidden.

During the years of forced exile, Lyubimov worked a lot in the West.  He staged productions, both plays and operas, in Israel (which gave him citizenship), Italy, France, the nations of Scandinavia, Germany, the U.S., the U.K., and Finland,  His productions of Crime and Punishment in Austria, England, the U.S., and Italy were awarded the highest theater homors.  

I saw Crime and Punishment at Washington, D.C.’s Arena Stage in 1987—Lyubimov’s American début.  It played at the Kreeger Theater, Arena’s proscenium house, from 2 January to 22 February.  Unfortunately, I never wrote about it, but the production was well-covered in the nation’s press.  The Wall Street Journal’s Edwin Wilson’s comments, for instance, noted some pertinent aspects of the production relative to the director’s style. 

“Rather than a straight dramatization of the story,” Wilson explained, “Mr. Lyubimov’s version is a highly imaginative collage of scenes, of dreams and nightmares.”  Of the production’s structure,  the reviewer observed: “He has a precise score for every element—music, lights, props, actors’ movements—and combines these in an astonishing synthesis of aural and visual effects.”

Robert Brustein wrote in the New Republic that

Lyubimov’s repudiation of realism . . . leads him toward a hallucinatory style that is non-linear, spasmodic, hypnotic.  It is also a style that annihilates the fourth wall and includes the audience as a character in the play.  From the moment we enter, we are implicated in the action—led through a narrow passageway as a mute woman directs our attention toward mannequins of Raskolnikov’s two female victims, toward our own images in a bloodied mirror.

In the New York Times, Frank Rich reported:  “With his co-adaptor Yuri Karyakin, the director has splintered and shuffled the novel’s scenes, as if he were dreaming about Dostoyevsky’s own dream-laden narrative.” 

The Demons, also from Dostoyevsky, was performed by the Almeda Theater in London in 1985 and toured all over Europe, including Paris’s Theater of Europe at the invitation of Giorgio Strehler (1921-97), world-renowned artistic director of the Piccolo Teatro di Milano.

At the invitation of the great film director Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007) who was also director of Stockholm’s Royal Dramatic Theatre, Lyubimov staged A Feast in Time of the Plague by Aleksandr Pushkin (1986) and The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (1988).

Konstantin Chernenko, the head of the Soviet state, died in office in 1985.  He was succeeded as head of the communist party, which was effectively the leader of the state as well, by Mikhail Gorbachev.  In 1986, Gorbachev established the policies of glasnost (‘openness’ or ‘transparency’). allowing for greater freedom of speech and the press, and perestroika (‘restructuring’), decentralizing the economy.

With these changes in the political situation in the country, it became possible for Lyubimov to return to Russia.  In May 1988, he arrived in Moscow, and his arrival became one of the most important events in the nation’s public life.  It was rightly perceived as a triumph of justice.  The next year, his Soviet citizenship was restored.

The director returned to the Taganka, but all was not well.  When Lyubimov was stripped of his citizenship in 1984 while he was abroad, the directorship of the theater was handed to Anatolii Efros (1925-87).  Most of the Taganka actors, however, saw Efros as an enemy, a sort of quisling or usurper imposed by the state, and sometimes flatly refused to cooperate with him.  The atmosphere at the theater was fraught and Efros died a mere three years after assuming the leadership of the theater.

Efros’s successor was a staunch Communist supporter, Nikolai Gubenko (1941-2020).  Along with his artistic and managerial duties, Gubenko used his influence to make it possible for Lyubimov to return to Moscow.  When he did, Gubenko stepped down as director but remained with the company as an actor.

(In November 1989, Gubenko was appointed the last Minister of Culture of the USSR, serving until the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, when the position was abolished.  He became the first Soviet arts professional to hold such a post since Anatolii Lunacharsky, 1875-1933, served as the first People’s Commissar for Education [Narkompros] from 1917 to 1929.  Lunacharsky was a playwright and critic.

(In 1995, Gubenko was elected a deputy to the Russian State Duma, the lower house of the parliament of the Russian Federation, where he served until 2003.  In 2005 until his death, he became a deputy in the Moscow City  Duma.)

Lyubimov restored the previously banned Boris Godunov (1988), and the play Vladimir Vysotsky was reinstated.  The following year, 1989, the premiere of Alive by Boris Mozhaev took place—21 years after the production had been banned.  In the same year, Lyubimov was given back his Soviet passport, and his name as artistic director and stage director six years later reappeared on Taganka posters.

The director of the Taganka had always been what we’d call today an auteur director, even as far back as the ’70s.  (It’s part of what got him in trouble with the authorities.)  No matter what Lyubimov staged—modern or classical prose, poetry, drama—he almost always rewrote the text a little: reduced it or supplemented it with other literary material. 

Even the text of Shakespeare’s Hamlet underwent changes.  The performance began with Vysotsky’s Hamlet singing Boris Pasternak’s poetic lines about Hamlet.  (We remember that the actor was a singer and played a seven-string guitar. The English title of a Vysotsky memoir was Hamlet with a Guitar.)  Prosaic dialogues of the gravediggers were added to the script. 

Lyubimov, however, was forced to combine work in the theater with productions abroad because of previously concluded foreign contracts.  He spent a great deal of his time away from the Taganka fulfilling these obligations.

In 1992, Lyubimov signed a contract with Mayor Gavriil Popov of Moscow intended to privatize the theater by attracting “foreign colleagues.” According to the contract, Lyubimov became the director of the Taganka Theater with unlimited authority.  He moved to the contract system which allowed him to hire or fire actors at any time.  He also received the theater building as property. 

Gubenko and Lyubimov had disagreements about the future of the theater.  As a result, the troupe was split and in 1993, most of the artists and part of the staff formed the Commonwealth of Taganka Actors (Содружество актёров Таганки – Sodruzhestvo aktyorov Taganki) under Gubenko’s leadership.

At the insistence of the disputants, Russian President Boris Yeltsin (1931-2007), freshly elected to the new office (1991-99). stepped in to resolve the conflict.  After a secret-ballot vote of members of the divided theater troupe, Yeltsin agreed to the establishment of a new company with Gubenko as artistic director.   The Commonwealth of Taganka Actors would occupy a new theater building a few doors away from the Drama and Comedy Theater and Lyubimov’s artists would remain in the old building.

In 1997, he completely abandoned obligations in the West, deciding to devote himself entirely to his theater.  He seldom worked abroad anymore, even though his company continued to tour worldwide without him. 

Taganka’s productions seemed invigorated and the theater re-energized.  In 1997, Taganka’s founder celebrated his 80th birthday with the première of his own dramatization of Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. 

On 11 December 1998, the 80th anniversary of novelist AIeksandr Solzhenitsyn’s birth was marked with the première of Sharashki (the colloquial name of prison-type research institutes and design bureaus, within the Soviet Gulag labor-camp system, in which convicted scientists, engineers, and technicians worked), based on the novel The First Circle (1968). Lyubimov not only directed the play, but ironically appeared in it as Joseph Stalin.

A month earlier, Marat and the Marquis de Sade, the translation of  1963’s The Persecution and Assassination of Jean-Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade (usually known simply as Marat/Sade) by Peter Weiss, premièred. 

In 1999, for the 35th anniversary of the founding of the theater, Lyubimov staged a new version of The Good Person from Sezuan with young actors.  The play became the unofficial symbol of the legendary Taganka Theater.

In the following years, the Taganka premièred many new works, including adaptations of prose literature.  As never before, the theater company also toured extensively, traveling repeatedly to Japan, Hong Kong, Greece, Germany, Croatia, Finland, France, the U.S., Italy, Turkey, Israel, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Colombia, Portugal, Spain, and other distant shores.  Lyubimov was awarded the highest honors and prizes for his productions. 

Lyubimov developed his own system for training actors and conducted master classes all around the world.  In Italy alone, he worked with actors in Rome, Milan, Bologna, Turin, L’Aquila (home of the Teatro Stabile d’Abruzzo, the Cineforum Primo Piano, and the Istituto Cinematografico dell’Aquila), and Naples.

On 30 September 2002, Lyubimov celebrated his 85th birthday with the première of Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe at the Taganka.  The years 2000 to 2003 were for Lyubimov what the critics called a kind of “Boldinskaya autumn.”  That’s a reference to the period in 1830 that was Pushkin’s most productive and creative; he’d secluded himself on an estate in the village of Bolshoye Boldino and completed an astounding amount of important work (including the verse novel Eugene Onegin).  For Lyubimov, this time yielded work that presented the viewer with “a powerful, deeply personal artistic expression of the director: six performances of great style and big themes.”

Lyubimov had initiated the contract system for artists at the Taganka and demanded strict discipline for the company members.  In his opinion, the responsibility of a good director was to protect talented actors, to apply an individual approach to them; and to require the actor either to fulfill the director’s intentions or leave the company.  The company’s artists rankled at this regime and a conflict between the artists and the director developed.

On 7 December 2010, at the presentation of the Theater Star Award (премия “Звезда Театрала”; an award based on audience votes),  Lyubimov first announced his wish to resign from the post of artistic director of the Taganka. 

In June 2011, on a tour of Good Person in the Czech Republic, the actors refused to rehearse unless Lyubimov paid them in advance.  This action offended the director, who complained that the actors cared more for money that art, and prompted him to submit his letter of resignation. 

On 6 July 2011, the Moscow Department of Culture announced the release of Lyubimov from the post of artistic director and director of the Taganka Theater at his own request.  Lyubimov left the theater on 16 July without saying goodbye to the actors.  He never returned to the Taganka.

After that, Lyubimov announced his creative plans: to stage Demons, the four-hour epic play based on Dostoyevsky (2012; Vakhtangov Theater) and Georges Bizet’s opera Carmen (2013; Bolshoi Theater). 

In late October 2012 Lyubimov was sent to the Moscow City Clinical Hospital with a heart attack.  Despite intensive treatment, the director fell into a day-long coma.  He came out of the coma and was discharged at the end of November after a month-and-a-half of treatment.  It was a harbinger of things to come.

As a result of Lyubimov’s illness, the Bolshoi première of Aleksandr Borodin’s opera Prince Igor, scheduled for December 2012, was postponed to June 2013.  Interest was great and tickets for all performances of the 1890 opera were sold out long before the rescheduled première.  When the production did open, the audience gave the performance a standing ovation.

The critical response to Prince Igor was overwhelmingly positive.  Interest from prospective theatergoers was great and to satisfy that demand, on 16 June 2013, the Bolshoi broadcast the opera live on its own YouTube channel—as well as on Mezzo, a French television channel devoted to classical music, and Russia-K television (formerly Kultura) across Russia.

After mid-June 2013, the director took a rest and underwent a rehabilitation course.  He gave master classes and prepared for a new opera project in Italy—near Bologna, where he celebrated his 96th birthday.

The director dedicated the 2013-14 season to the production of the opera buffa School for Wives based on Molière's 1662 comedy, the libretto of which he’d authored to music by composer Vladimir Martynov.  On 20 May 2014, Moscow’s Novaya Opera Theater was to host the première of the opera, but the director fell ill, preventing him from staging the première.  The opera was staged by director Igor Ushakov (who’d assisted Lyubimov on Prince Igor the preceding June) at the request of Lyubimov himself. 

On Thursday, 2 October 2014, the director was hospitalized at the Botkin City Clinical Hospital in an emergency.  He was in serious condition with heart failure.  Yuri Petrovich Lyubimov died in his sleep on Sunday, 5 October 2014, at 11:40 a.m. Moscow time, five days after his 97th birthday. 

A farewell ceremony for the director was held on Wednesday, 8 October, at the Vakhtangov Theater; he was buried at the Donskoy Cemetery in Moscow (the final resting place of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and putatively Vsevolod Meyerhold).

By the end of his life, Lyubimov had staged over 100 plays and operas.  He appeared in 37 plays and 17 films as an actor, several of which are considered classics.  “People tried to stick me with the label of political theater.  But that’s wrong. I was engaged in an aesthetic, in the expansion of the palette—what shades could be added in working with space and style,” he said.  

“A fierce stylistic innovator with montage, lighting, verse, song, set, text, and acting technique,” Leonardo Shapiro, in the 1991 interview posted below, concludes, “Lyubimov is probably best known for his daring theatrical adaptations of poetry and novels and his successful (and sometimes unsuccessful) run-ins with Soviet Premiers and Ministers of Culture over forbidden material.”

*  *  *  *

[The interview below of Yuri Lyubimov by Leonardo Shapiro, “Profiles & Positions: Yuri Lyubimov,” appeared in Bomb magazine (New York), issue 34 (Winter 1991).  Many of the names mentioned below are more fully identified in the foregoing profile of Yuri Lyubimov.  Since Shapiro has only provided last names, I’ve compiled a list, with life dates, appended to the end of the interview.]

“YURI LYUBIMOV”
by Leonardo Shapiro
(Lyubimov translation by Steve Nielson)

Now 72 years old, Yuri Lyubimov is one of the grand masters and prime creators of international theater practice. He founded The Taganka Theater in 1964 as an experimental theater, building on the theories and practice of Vakhtangov, Meyerhold, and Brecht. For most of its 26 years, the Taganka has been the boldest, most outspoken and avant-garde ensemble in Russia. Vladimir Vysotsky, Lyubimov’s Hamlet and a leading Taganka actor, became a national hero (partly through bootlegged tapes of his songs that were more powerful in the Soviet Union than the combined effect of Bob Dylan, Walt Whitman, The Beatles, and Edward R. Murrow in America).

A fierce stylistic innovator with montage, lighting, verse, song, set, text, and acting technique, Lyubimov is probably best known for his daring theatrical adaptations of poetry and novels and his successful (and sometimes unsuccessful) run-ins with Soviet Premiers and Ministers of Culture over forbidden material. Some of his best known productions over the years have been: John Reed’s Ten Days That Shook the World, Listen! (based on Mayakovsky), Hamlet (including banned Pasternak material), The Master and Margarita (adapted from the Bulgakov novel and a great hit for many years while the novel itself was still banned), Gorky’s Mother, Yevtushenko’s Under the Skin of the Statue of Liberty, Voznesensky’s Antiworlds, Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, Pushkin’s Boris Godunov, and Chekhov’s The Three Sisters. Since The Taganka, like other Soviet theaters, is a cumulative repertory company, most of these shows (and many more) are still running in Moscow. (This season the Taganka has 23 shows running in repertory in two theaters.)

Lyubimov went into exile in the West in 1984 when the authorities forbade his production of Boris Godunov. Now he is back at The Taganka, Boris Godunov is in repertory, and the actor playing Boris (Nikolai Gubienko) has become, under Gorbachev, the Soviet Minister of Culture. This interview took place last spring in Lyubimov’s office at the Taganka.

Leonardo Shapiro: How did you get the idea for the moving door in your production of Crime and Punishment?

Yuri Lyubimov: At first the idea was to leave the stage completely bare. In as much as the concept was such that it was essential that the audience know that Raskolnikov is a murderer, it was necessary that there be a corner where the old woman whom he killed for the object he had pawned lived; thus attention had to be focused on the scene of the murder and the rest of the stage left completely empty. The idea came about because 90 percent of the school children who study this novel in Soviet schools, write in their compositions and exams that Raskolnikov is a revolutionary, a positive figure, and that it was capitalism that led him to do what he did, all of which is, of course, false vulgar “socialization.” So in school compositions students write that Raskolnikov was right to kill the old woman and the only problem is that he was caught. And if one of the students in class were to say, “What do you mean, he’s a murderer,” the rest of the class would condemn him as a retrograde who was out of sync with the modern world. And if he were to say that the novel was the author’s soul crying out against murder in general, not only the class but also the teacher would condemn him. This alarmed me and compelled me to portray the novel differently from the way it always is staged. And that is when the idea of empty space and the door was born, in an effort to effect a very strong interaction with the audience, as with opponents. The door is a symbol of the threshold to a new life. Raskolnikov is always saying that one has to overstep the bounds, overstep . . . So this, it seems to me, is a very cynical, very appropriate image. A symbol of his nightmares, of his dreams. I had to imagine his dreams. No such dreams are described in Dostoevsky [sic], so these are imagined dreams. There are no such dreams per se in Dostoevsky.

LS: Did you have this idea before or during rehearsals?

YL: Before. Before. When I approach the actors I already have some ideas. I have a general concept of the play before I meet with the actors. Perhaps not everything is thought out entirely or laid out in scenes as in cinematography. There are things that I come upon in the process of rehearsing the play, but in general I can always demonstrate the basic shape of the play for the actors, the manner, the style, and how it will sound musically. I work with the composers a lot before rehearsals.

LS: Did you work this out analytically the way you’re explaining to me, logically? Or was it just, maybe, one night you had a dream and then there was a door?

YL: No, one always comes across such things unexpectedly. The door had to move, to fly out of this space into his dreams, in his first dream, in his first nightmare. This was very difficult to accomplish technically and was rehearsed very carefully.

LS: And the moving light? The actor moving the light instruments? That was also clear before rehearsals?

YL: Yes, I had all of that prepared from the start. It was important that the play be a play of shadows and mirages, so I laid bare the device. It is like theater on a public square.

LS: Was it a surprise to you to find out that the students approved of Raskolnikov?

YL: It was, how can I put it . . . A friend of mine, Koryagin, a teacher who worked with me on the adaptation brought me those compositions and they were the thing that moved me to do the play. I was horrified and felt a need to . . . I realized that people really grow up thinking like that. Now they have grown up, and you can see what’s happening. They wrote this while they were still in school, that Raskolnikov was right to kill her. And now people are being killed, here, in Tbilisi, in Armenia, and everywhere.

LS: Is it very different now? I understand you’re working on The Suicide now.

YL: Yes, but it will be . . . It will be Erdman’s play, but the play will be surrounded by his fate, a very difficult fate, and therefore the play will be called Erdman—The Suicide.

LS: And you started work on this once before.

YL: Yes, twice, twice, but the censors . . . Once while Erdman was still alive. Here’s a picture of him not long before his death, the one in the middle, the others are Paradzhanov and Vysotsky. Have you heard of Erdman before?

LS: Yes. How far did you get on the production before . . .

YL: No, they put a stop to it right away.

LS: But when you were working on it before, how far did you get?

YL: Only 10 rehearsals.

LS: Is your idea now very different?

YL: It’s a completely different idea. Then I thought together with Erdman simply of how to do the play so that they (the censors) would somehow pass it. We were busy together thinking of a way to deceive the censors so that they couldn’t protest. And now I don’t have those worries at all. I would even be glad if they would try to prohibit the play now.

LS: Do you think that’s possible?

YL: It’s possible.

LS: Is it difficult having too much freedom?

YL: You see, I’ve been doing this for 25 years, this theater is 26 years old. I’ve always worked freely and always said to my actors, don’t concern yourself with other people’s matters, the censors will come and do their work. That’s what they get paid for. You do what you think you should. For myself, I worked without censorship. And then I entered into battle with them, sort of surrendered. I conceded on the play Alive five, six times. But I have to finish it. It was banned, closed for 21 years, like cognac.

LS: And now?

YL: It’s running now, successfully.

LS: Why do you think that The Suicide may be prohibited?

YL: It has a strong ring to it right now and it could give rise to objections. They could start something. Though it was written over 60 years ago, it sounds as though it could have been written today.

LS: Do you really think that it would be forbidden by the current Minister of Culture? (one of Lyubimov’s best friends and a leading actor of the company.)

YL: No, what I’m saying is that the situation is unstable today and who knows what turn it could take. Before you came here, there were some young people who came up to me and wanted to meet with me. They were forbidden to meet with me.

LS: By whom?

YL: Their boss. When I was host of the program “Outlook,” a lot of material was cut from the program. So the censors still exist. It’s not true that they no longer exist. They still don’t invite Solzhenitsyn back or offer him his citizenship back. It’s completely illogical. They proclaim one thing and do another entirely.

LS: So you don’t think things have changed as much as people say?

YL: For the nonce, it’s mainly talk. To put it really roughly, if you used to be able to say five thousand words, now you can say nine thousand words.

LS: Do you think that your role has changed as an artist now that you’re not the only one saying forbidden things, now that the audience has other possibilities? There was a time when they could only come to the Taganka to see a certain kind of truth.

YL: Well, you see, it depends on whom you have in mind. It’s very abstract. We believed that we were saying something that our contemporaries were thinking about at home. That’s what we thought. But there were other contemporaries, too, who thought that we should be put in jail, or disbanded, or, basically, that something had to be done about us. They’re people, too. Therefore . . . And what does it mean that nowadays everybody is speaking the truth? The truth, after all . . . I’m not a newspaper. This is a theater, not a newspaper, or some sensational release of documents. We are artists, after all, and work with aesthetics, style, and form, and this is all independent. It’s simply become more complicated to work, that’s all. The theater was the first element in the country to enter into the free market. We had competition and had to become competitive. There’s choice. There used not to be choice. We were alone. But now there is choice. You can watch television and change the channel. There are people now, for example, who like to play at tuning in the Moscow City Council or the Supreme Soviet session. “Oh!” they cry, and get a great deal of pleasure from trying to see who is the dullest or the most orthodox. People are more alive in Moscow, and they’re interested in seeing how perestroika is proceeding. You turn on the Soviet channel—no perestroika whatsoever. You turn on the Moscow City Council channel—nobody wants perestroika. You read some Party document, say, from the Party Congress, and all the arguments are Stalinist arguments. And when you read Central Committee declarations or the Party platform, it’s all a type of raving. Everything’s very complex here. And on the other hand, there is an exodus taking place, an exodus, like the Jews from Egypt, people are leaving the country. Whoever can, does. Haven’t you seen the alarm on the one hand and apathy on the other hand?

LS: Yes. Oh, yes, certainly. Is what’s important to you in the theater, has that changed since your experience of leaving the country and coming back?

YL: The theater? Unfortunately, like a house without its owner, it collapsed. And everything that’s happening out in the streets, the erosion, it all penetrates the theater. The theater cannot be isolated, the actors feel it. Because it is a very difficult life, simply in the sense of getting through the day alive, where to get food for their families . . . It’s a very difficult life. And you can see it in the actors. They have poor concentration, they’re distracted, there’s a certain lack of precision. Maybe your actors try harder or concentrate more than here.

LS: Maybe. (Joke) But for you personally, is what’s important to you in the theater any different? Your values?

YL: Well, I think that, to put it roughly, I have to get the theater into shape, good athletic condition, to put it in terms of sport. And also, you understand, all of these horrible decades destroyed the people’s spiritual peace. People stopped believing and became cynical and are, therefore, empty. And that’s, perhaps, the most serious difficulty.

LS: Do you see theatre as a spiritual activity?

YL: I think that if an artist doesn’t have anything to say to people he should take up something else. Or it’s just searching for form for the sake of form. Mannerism. And that doesn’t interest me, I have no use for it. I love form, but only that form that the given play requires. Which you can see, for example, in Dostoyevsky. But on the other hand, if I could get the actors into proper creative and spiritual shape, I would perhaps give them more leeway and I wouldn’t have to ride them so much.

LS: What about the audience, can you shape them up, too?

YL: No, the audience now sits rather as though it had been hit in the head with a bag of dirt. Gradually a certain spectator may come who is genuinely interested in this process. The theater is a phenomenon for the elite, and is understood only by the highest level of society. It is not mass production, like television.

LS: Did you feel the audience was very different in London, in Washington, and other places where you performed?

YL: Yes. Scandinavia is more prepared for the theater. They love the theater there. The Americans are more embarrassed as far as the theater is concerned. They don’t have a real understanding of the theater.

LS: They see it as entertainment. They have lost the idea of theater.

YL: The Germans love the theater and value the director, the performance, and value the way the play is conceived. West Germany, that is. The English, of course. Poland is a theatrical country.

LS: Yes, I’ve worked in Poland. What are your plans after this production, after Erdman?

YL: I am supposed to go to Germany to stage two operas. Love of Three Oranges and The Queen of Spades in Munich. That’s in the West.

LS: And you have other plans for the Taganka?

YL: Other plans? Maybe . . . Bulgakov’s Theatrical Novel and then a type of poetic production including Pasternak, Akhmatova, Mandelstam, and prose from Doctor Zhivago and Nadezhda Mandelstam’s first book.

LS: All those at once?

YL: A type of gogol-mogol (“eggnog” i.e.—mishmash). That will be a year from now. If I am alive and healthy. And if I don’t fight with anybody.

[Leonardo Shapiro was the artistic director of The Shaliko Company in New York City and directed the Trinity/La MaMa Performing Arts Program.]

[The names Shapiro and Lyubimov mention in the interview are, in some instances, obscure and sometimes are given in alternative English transliterations.  Below is a list of those names with life dates, the Russian/Cyrillic spelling, and a brief identification:

·   Vladimir Vysotsky (1938-80; Russian: Владимир Высоцкий), Russian-Soviet singer-songwriter, poet, actor

·   Bob Dylan (b. 1941), American singer-songwriter; Nobel laureate, 2016

·   Walt Whitman (1819-92), American poet, essayist, and journalist

·   The Beatles [John Lennon, 1940 -80; Paul McCartney, b. 1942; George Harrison, 1943-2001; and Ringo Starr, b. 1940] (1960-70), English rock band regarded as most influential band of all time

·   Edward R. Murrow (1908-65), American broadcast journalist and war correspondent

·   John Reed (1887-1920), American journalist, poet, and communist activist

·   Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930; Владимир Маяковский), Russian-Soviet poet and actor

·   Boris Pasternak (1890-1960; Борис Пастернак), Russian poet and novelist; Doctor Zhivago, 1957; Nobel laureate, 1958

·   Mikhail Bulgakov (1891-1940; Михаил Булгаков), Russian writer and playwright

·   Maxim Gorky [pseudonym of Alexei Maximovich Peshkov] (1868-1936; Максим Горький), Russian-Soviet writer and political activist; a founder of Socialist Realism literary method

·   Yevgenii Yevtushenko (1933-2017; Евгений Евтушенко), Russian-Soviet poet

·   Andrei Voznesensky (1933-2010; Андрей Вознесенский), Russian-Soviet poet and writer

·   Fyodor Dostoyevsky [also Dostoevsky] (1821-81; Фёдор Достоевский), Russian novelist, philosopher, short story writer, and essayist

·   Aleksandr Pushkin (1799-1837; Александр Пушкин), Russian poet, playwright, and novelist

·   Anton Chekhov (1860-1904; Антон Чехов), Russian playwright and short story-writer

·   Nikolai Gubienko [more commonly, Gubenko] (1941-2020; Николай Губенко), Soviet and Russian actor, film and theatre director, screenwriter, and politician; Soviet Minister of Culture, 1989-91

·   Mikhail Gorbachev (b. 1931; Михаил Горбачёв), Soviet politician; General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, 1985-91; Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the Soviet Union, 1989-90; President of the Soviet Union, 1990-91

·   Yurii Koryagin [more commonly Karjakin or Karyakin] (1930-2011; Ю́рий Карякин), Russian writer, literary critic, and political activist; authority on works of Dostoyevsky

·   Nikolai Erdman (1900-70; Николай Эрдман), Soviet dramatist and screenwriter

·   Sergei Paradzhanov [also Parajanov] (1924-90; Сергей Параджанов), Armenian film director, screenwriter, and artist

·   Anna Akhmatova [pen name of Anna Andreyevna Gorenko] (1889-1966; А́нна Ахматова), Russian poet, translator, and literary critic

·   Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938; О́сип Мандельштам), Russian-Soviet poet; husband of writer Nadezhda Mandelstam

·   Nadezhda Mandelstam. (1899 -1980; Надежда Мандельштам), Russian Jewish writer and educator; wife of the poet Osip Mandelstam; her first book was Hope Against Hope (1970), translation of Memories (Воспоминания – Vospominaniya; the English title is a bilingual pun: the Russian word nadezhda means ‘hope’)

[Because the English transliterations of Russian names often has variations—I’ve only noted above the ones associated with the Bomb interview—I’ve included the Cyrillic spelling of the names.  Readers who wish to look the people up for further information should note that there may be variations in some of the Cyrillic spellings as well, though not frequently, and that I have omitted the patronymic (middle name) for the sake of brevity. 

[It’s common in Russian usage to include the patronymic—and I have in my profile when names appear—but you can successfully look someone up without it.  (As I noted in Part 1 of the profile, I provided a brief explanation of Russian patronymics and their use in “Michael Chekhov, Part 1,” posted on ROT on 2 November 2019.)  It’s also common practice in Russian to present names using initials, either just the middle initial (Anton P. Chekhov) or both the first and middle initials (A. P. Chekhov).