Tamás Tarján: Passions that are shining on the bluish sky
Some can whistle, others cannot. In the performance of the Bárka Theatre (Maladype) who can (a woman) just touches her finger shortly and gives on the whistle to that person’s mouth, (a man character) who has just failed to do it.
The airy movement, the playful kiss to the hand can be seen symbolically too. The Tempest is about those who can give sharp, decorated and beautiful signs to the universe; and about those who can be powerful, noisy, rich but will disappear without any sign. There are free souls, and those who desire freedom on one side, and tyrants – who gut and ruin themselves too – are on the other side.
Zoltán Balázs’ mature performance shows the viewers first of all the mostly well-known – but typical for sure – drama of love-jealousy, Katerina’s suicidal tragic ending who tries to choose her lover (Boris) instead of her husband (Tihon), but the eternal tempest of any human life too which shakes us. “The” tempest. One of the greatest natural phenomenon and parallel to it one of the most saturated metaphors. The crest of great romanticism, the Sturm is shown by the performance that partly hides it too. It opens opera-like sets, uses many drama-musical undertones, lights with passionate lights – but it lets hear and see in their pure nature too, in their theatrical machinery, the building-fine-artistic, acoustic and visual effects. By Zoltán Balázs’ hand an art work was born, and the place of bringing to life is an art studio.
A studio of film making. It is really old-styled. On the rail, built in the set. reflectors are moving instead of cameras. The set technicians, who are dressed in black, and they are almost unnoticeable, handle the sources of light. Mostly that face is get into the frame of lighting on which we should focus our attention too. The light scenic of musical theatre is mixed with the dramaturgy of emphasised beam of lights of the outdoor theatres. From the crane, which is moved by a technician, a lamp of studio raises the circle of an orb to the painted sky. The five scenes (two parts) go on in a clearly defined period of time, but under the blueish glimmering it seems to be an eternal evening or night.
The not to super-modern technic which serves – follows and drives – the theatrical work is interesting and little bit funny too. The small camera cars make circles of an amusement park, as they come from the shadow, other time they go towards the gates of dark, invisible rooms. It’s a storm train in The Tempest. A train of cave. Of course these small cars with wheels do not run so fast as the ones in Városliget. There is a shaking irony under the pathos in the fact that from time to time parts of Leoš Janácek’s opera (Katya Kabanova), that was shown first in 1921, get the (singing) words from Alexander Ostrovsky’s play of 1960. The graceful music dubs the glowing drama.
Different kinds of effects are reflected on one another. Judit Gombár’s set could have been made by an early (from the end of the XIX. century) Csontváry’s drawing too. The viewers can see some expressively tensed, late romantically rampant maybe theatrical thing in the convex half bridge which is running up, in the vault under it, in the shocking purple-blue painted background. In its immovability the whole is moving. For some scenes it is not easy to get a more suitable platform or corner. Its vertical division and horizontal half circle help the simultaneous settings, the not easy chasing of different episodes, the connection of the elements of actions. The set does not imitate the real sites of the drama, but in its abstraction becomes concrete, set makes continuously the director and his actors stylize. Judit Gombár’s costumes that are not individual consciously do the same. On the men’s and women’s dresses we can see the same kind of military-like lines. The scissors have to cut only straight lines, and the needles march it. At least this is the pretence in this rigid, cool, rules follower world of orders. The colours come in the foreground with their meanings. A flash of light, a ruffle, a melody of wave on the women’s dresses can be seen as a rebellion against Marfa Ivanovna Kabanova’s (rich merchant woman, widow) despotic maternal authority. A red umbrella which is waved by a young boy can become a weapon against Savel Prokofievitch Dikov’s (merchant, considerable civil in the town) scrounger bossy behaviour.
The composition of the performance interprets as dramatic poetry the master piece of Russian dramatic works, which is before Chekov (it was written in Chekov’s birth year). However, Zoltán Balázs does not let fall the importance of real situations in the middle of the vibrant over poetic quality too. The formal language, which has formed in earlier interpretations, becomes tighter, there is not an actor friendly system of signs. It objectifies the actors, forces them to become tools, it melts them into the distinctive group of set, costume, light and sound more intensively than usual. Of course this road is usable, however sometimes we have the same feeling as when we are listening to our friend who is speaking a non-existent language: sometimes the direction makes only E-s to pronounce rigidly (ok well, sometimes É-s too). Maybe it cannot step over its own shadow, the artistic form, the undoubtedly actuality of solutions that are put in vitrines of a studio.
Fortunately, the Maladype (or more widely the Bárka Theatre) is mostly merged, community-minded studio so that the picture formed by the community comes over the details. Róbert Kardos cannot find a matching point with his role now, but the blankly thundering and staggering Dikov becomes more meaningful next to Olga Varjú’s empress like Kabanova who is cheated with patient evilness. (The sexual couple of the prudish old woman and the man with weak character is not prepaid or interpreted really.) Balázs Dévai (Tihon) and Zalán Makranczi’s (Boris) performance can be measured together: the earlier one’s sad-helpless character, childish whitening the later one’s homeless searching for love tell us how unworthy are both of them to Katerina’s subject of graceful, brave, honest storming. Kátya Tompos (we can think that she is determined by her name too) feels herself totally at home in the soul of the young wife. Her pretty physical reality dematerializes in case of the exam situations and tortures. She is ethereal like the tempest. When she sings a Russian folk song (in Russian language) before her abstract death, when she dies hanging on a vertical wall, she uncovers that unmeasurable distance by vocal sounds which separates her self-conscious, free desire for happiness, her self-acceptance from the others some kind of petty ways of life and not the clever manipulation of the text.
The actors’ performances – as we can see it – can be appreciated in character couples too. Olga Varjú, who is implacable and places her role perfectly and Kátya Tompos who is winner with her gentle purposefulness can die and live against each other. The couple of Marfa and Katya is the biggest artistic carrying power of the performance. Whether they want it or not Artúr Kálid’s sleepy-restless inventor, who makes experiments with perpetuum mobile and the young office worker by Ádám Tompa (Vania), who struggles with square movements, and always stamps from a duo too. Varvara (Tihon’s sister) and Glasha (servant in Kabanov’s house) becomes twins not only because of the actresses’ names (Kamilla Fátyol, Hermina Fátyol). Their outlook and function bring close the female characters (starts from pastel), the “helpers”. (It is not well understandable why Varvara works so hard against her brother and on behalf of her sister-in-law.) Éva Bakos shows sexual desire with a jumping rope, with the turning of the whip, her grey and old Feklusha as a pilgrim woman is a unique figure, she is the demon of vengeful prophecy and prejudice. Her choreographed mad rituals and speech are not equivalent. She can tell her fate better with her body, then wondering and losing herself in Dezső Mészöly and Pál Mészöly’s translation.
The original drama is much richer, and more captivating than The Tempest by Maladype. Anyway, Zoltán Balázs’ more abstract, poetic, artistically technical re-formation is valid, and beautiful interpretation of Ostrovsky’s ideas. It is a reason by someone’s rightness who lives her feelings authentically, with fighting and consistently – who finally dies because of her only life.
Tamás Tarján, Népszava, 2007
(translated by: Veronika Fülöp)
The airy movement, the playful kiss to the hand can be seen symbolically too. The Tempest is about those who can give sharp, decorated and beautiful signs to the universe; and about those who can be powerful, noisy, rich but will disappear without any sign. There are free souls, and those who desire freedom on one side, and tyrants – who gut and ruin themselves too – are on the other side.
Zoltán Balázs’ mature performance shows the viewers first of all the mostly well-known – but typical for sure – drama of love-jealousy, Katerina’s suicidal tragic ending who tries to choose her lover (Boris) instead of her husband (Tihon), but the eternal tempest of any human life too which shakes us. “The” tempest. One of the greatest natural phenomenon and parallel to it one of the most saturated metaphors. The crest of great romanticism, the Sturm is shown by the performance that partly hides it too. It opens opera-like sets, uses many drama-musical undertones, lights with passionate lights – but it lets hear and see in their pure nature too, in their theatrical machinery, the building-fine-artistic, acoustic and visual effects. By Zoltán Balázs’ hand an art work was born, and the place of bringing to life is an art studio.
A studio of film making. It is really old-styled. On the rail, built in the set. reflectors are moving instead of cameras. The set technicians, who are dressed in black, and they are almost unnoticeable, handle the sources of light. Mostly that face is get into the frame of lighting on which we should focus our attention too. The light scenic of musical theatre is mixed with the dramaturgy of emphasised beam of lights of the outdoor theatres. From the crane, which is moved by a technician, a lamp of studio raises the circle of an orb to the painted sky. The five scenes (two parts) go on in a clearly defined period of time, but under the blueish glimmering it seems to be an eternal evening or night.
The not to super-modern technic which serves – follows and drives – the theatrical work is interesting and little bit funny too. The small camera cars make circles of an amusement park, as they come from the shadow, other time they go towards the gates of dark, invisible rooms. It’s a storm train in The Tempest. A train of cave. Of course these small cars with wheels do not run so fast as the ones in Városliget. There is a shaking irony under the pathos in the fact that from time to time parts of Leoš Janácek’s opera (Katya Kabanova), that was shown first in 1921, get the (singing) words from Alexander Ostrovsky’s play of 1960. The graceful music dubs the glowing drama.
Different kinds of effects are reflected on one another. Judit Gombár’s set could have been made by an early (from the end of the XIX. century) Csontváry’s drawing too. The viewers can see some expressively tensed, late romantically rampant maybe theatrical thing in the convex half bridge which is running up, in the vault under it, in the shocking purple-blue painted background. In its immovability the whole is moving. For some scenes it is not easy to get a more suitable platform or corner. Its vertical division and horizontal half circle help the simultaneous settings, the not easy chasing of different episodes, the connection of the elements of actions. The set does not imitate the real sites of the drama, but in its abstraction becomes concrete, set makes continuously the director and his actors stylize. Judit Gombár’s costumes that are not individual consciously do the same. On the men’s and women’s dresses we can see the same kind of military-like lines. The scissors have to cut only straight lines, and the needles march it. At least this is the pretence in this rigid, cool, rules follower world of orders. The colours come in the foreground with their meanings. A flash of light, a ruffle, a melody of wave on the women’s dresses can be seen as a rebellion against Marfa Ivanovna Kabanova’s (rich merchant woman, widow) despotic maternal authority. A red umbrella which is waved by a young boy can become a weapon against Savel Prokofievitch Dikov’s (merchant, considerable civil in the town) scrounger bossy behaviour.
The composition of the performance interprets as dramatic poetry the master piece of Russian dramatic works, which is before Chekov (it was written in Chekov’s birth year). However, Zoltán Balázs does not let fall the importance of real situations in the middle of the vibrant over poetic quality too. The formal language, which has formed in earlier interpretations, becomes tighter, there is not an actor friendly system of signs. It objectifies the actors, forces them to become tools, it melts them into the distinctive group of set, costume, light and sound more intensively than usual. Of course this road is usable, however sometimes we have the same feeling as when we are listening to our friend who is speaking a non-existent language: sometimes the direction makes only E-s to pronounce rigidly (ok well, sometimes É-s too). Maybe it cannot step over its own shadow, the artistic form, the undoubtedly actuality of solutions that are put in vitrines of a studio.
Fortunately, the Maladype (or more widely the Bárka Theatre) is mostly merged, community-minded studio so that the picture formed by the community comes over the details. Róbert Kardos cannot find a matching point with his role now, but the blankly thundering and staggering Dikov becomes more meaningful next to Olga Varjú’s empress like Kabanova who is cheated with patient evilness. (The sexual couple of the prudish old woman and the man with weak character is not prepaid or interpreted really.) Balázs Dévai (Tihon) and Zalán Makranczi’s (Boris) performance can be measured together: the earlier one’s sad-helpless character, childish whitening the later one’s homeless searching for love tell us how unworthy are both of them to Katerina’s subject of graceful, brave, honest storming. Kátya Tompos (we can think that she is determined by her name too) feels herself totally at home in the soul of the young wife. Her pretty physical reality dematerializes in case of the exam situations and tortures. She is ethereal like the tempest. When she sings a Russian folk song (in Russian language) before her abstract death, when she dies hanging on a vertical wall, she uncovers that unmeasurable distance by vocal sounds which separates her self-conscious, free desire for happiness, her self-acceptance from the others some kind of petty ways of life and not the clever manipulation of the text.
The actors’ performances – as we can see it – can be appreciated in character couples too. Olga Varjú, who is implacable and places her role perfectly and Kátya Tompos who is winner with her gentle purposefulness can die and live against each other. The couple of Marfa and Katya is the biggest artistic carrying power of the performance. Whether they want it or not Artúr Kálid’s sleepy-restless inventor, who makes experiments with perpetuum mobile and the young office worker by Ádám Tompa (Vania), who struggles with square movements, and always stamps from a duo too. Varvara (Tihon’s sister) and Glasha (servant in Kabanov’s house) becomes twins not only because of the actresses’ names (Kamilla Fátyol, Hermina Fátyol). Their outlook and function bring close the female characters (starts from pastel), the “helpers”. (It is not well understandable why Varvara works so hard against her brother and on behalf of her sister-in-law.) Éva Bakos shows sexual desire with a jumping rope, with the turning of the whip, her grey and old Feklusha as a pilgrim woman is a unique figure, she is the demon of vengeful prophecy and prejudice. Her choreographed mad rituals and speech are not equivalent. She can tell her fate better with her body, then wondering and losing herself in Dezső Mészöly and Pál Mészöly’s translation.
The original drama is much richer, and more captivating than The Tempest by Maladype. Anyway, Zoltán Balázs’ more abstract, poetic, artistically technical re-formation is valid, and beautiful interpretation of Ostrovsky’s ideas. It is a reason by someone’s rightness who lives her feelings authentically, with fighting and consistently – who finally dies because of her only life.
Tamás Tarján, Népszava, 2007
(translated by: Veronika Fülöp)