What is the problem if there is no problem?

Roundtable with Young Directors

In this installment of our series about the artistic, structural, and financial situation of theater, we have a conversation with young directors – Zoltán Balázs, Viktor Bodó, Péter Forgács, Gábor Rusznyák, and Árpád Schilling – the edited version of which we are publishing here.

The conversation was represented by editors Judit Csáki and Tamás Koltai.

– You probably have an idea of why we specifically invited you to this conversation. The key word is: generation. Do you feel a sense of intellectual or even fate-based community with each other, which stems from certain similarities in your situations despite the differences in your career paths? Or is the problem you face something that cannot be defined along generational lines?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I don’t feel any aesthetic-based community at all. I’m really happy when I see someone doing something exciting. I assume the others feel the same, and this applies to those who aren’t here, like Béla Pintér or László Bagossy. We belong to the same generation in the sense that we grew up around the same time and were influenced by similar things. But how we express that is completely different.

– What is the situation like for a young director starting out in Hungary today? Having a rough idea of the realities, did you get what you expected during your years at the academy?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I think theater directors in Hungary are in a really good position. Everyone has work, everyone can work. The difficulty is for the young director who wants to establish their own company – that’s tough. But this is the case all over Europe; Hungary is no exception in this regard. When I applied for the academy, I knew I didn’t want to go into theater. When Zsámbéki asked me at Katona in ’99, I immediately told him that I wouldn’t sign a contract. I thanked him, I was happy, proud of myself, and I’m still grateful to him, but my intention hasn’t changed.

– In part, the situation is similar for Zoltán Balázs and Viktor Bodó, who also had – or had? – their own companies, Maladype and Magma, respectively. At the same time, you also work with other companies. Is this a matter of choice? To become independent or integrate – is this an existing alternative?

VIKTOR BODÓ: On the one hand, of course, it’s a matter of choice. Before the academy, we were a company, an amateur one, but a company (the AD HOC group). Then I started at the acting department, but from the second year, I also joined Krétakör, and I left there when I began studying directing. I planned to start my own team after graduation. When we were in our final year, we started organizing so that we could immediately start as a company once we graduated. I didn’t really care about the details; I felt like I’d just met the people with whom I could create theater. This group, hastily put together in school – maybe too early – already worked together on different directing exams. Many things came to mind, but applying for a space was out of the question, not just because of the bureaucracy, but because I simply wasn’t interested in a large-scale institutional project. It was more important to first gather a team, start rehearsing somewhere, later transform a warehouse into a space that could serve as an office, studio, sound room, rehearsal room, screening room, editing room, and various play areas, but not a huge complex, just a 500-square-meter warehouse where we could fit. Back then, I didn’t think too much about it, I just felt we had to start, there was no point in waiting. The first plan was to organize various young creative groups, primarily theater groups, but also filmmakers, photographers, writers, who were interested in each other and wanted to work. We managed to put the office together, set up a few computers, got sponsors, started a company, and worked from morning till night. Our enthusiasm spread to others as well, including those who weren’t involved in theater, who helped us out – we became more and more. It became clear that there was a great need for a base where people could sit down with a thermos of coffee, generate ideas, write, come up with programs. It’s a shame that there aren’t many such places, but I thought, then there will be, we just have to work. At that moment, it seemed like the best path, but over time, the company came to involve too many tasks that I couldn’t keep up with, and we couldn’t find anyone to delegate them to. We took on too many things, we should have moved more slowly, step by step, but at least we learned that (and much more). Not every idea was feasible. I spent more time developing and managing this system, dealing with economic issues, than focusing on the piece I was about to direct, since we had to do tasks that would normally require two specialists. But there was really no other choice. We stumbled into many pitfalls, and many arguments arose about rethinking the whole thing. The people I planned with at school were mostly in the graduating class or in the third year, so we wouldn’t have been able to start working together anyway. I wanted us to start only if our operation was secured in the long term. I could only guarantee this for a year, with production contracts, on a per-project basis, not with a monthly salary. Someone couldn’t or didn’t want to take that on. I told everyone to listen to all offers, and let’s see what happens. When the invitations came, we had a meeting, and several thoughts were raised that were disappointing to me, but I had to understand them. Or simply things that were difficult to hear because they proved that not everyone was satisfied just being the founder of a starting company, which, of course, is risky. Essentially, this company, at that point, including me, wasn’t ready to launch. Eventually, everyone signed a contract somewhere. I felt the wisest choice was to step back, not do office work, not organize, but focus on preparing for the launch properly. Nothing was lost, but what we had wasn’t enough yet. Naturally, personal issues also played a role in such decisions. A lot happened, I wanted to learn and work, I wanted to focus on reading, analysis, and directing. We always worked as a team, both with the AD HOC group and Krétakör. After the academy, I signed a contract with Katona and immediately got to work. I could be a member of a hardworking and demanding company. I could learn from masters. I could do my work freely and get useful and helpful advice. I could ask anything I didn’t understand, and I could voice any issues I had. So, this is a time I really value and is very important to me. For someone to leave school and work in a theater is quite normal. They really have to practice, they have to work. "Integrating" is a term that sounds scary and cowardly to me. I signed a contract, but I don’t feel like I’ve lost my independence. The desire to create theater is still within me; I’m planning, and I can ask advice from people who have walked this path before me, even if in a different way and at a different time. Running a company, managing the long-term operation of an institution involves many things that are better to calculate in advance. Some of it can be learned, but for other parts, it’s helpful to see firsthand how it’s done or how it shouldn’t be done when the time comes.

– Do you feel like you gave up your independent plans due to the circumstances?

VIKTOR BODÓ: In our case, it wasn’t about lack of money or space. Everything was in place for us to start. I simply felt that I couldn’t take on that responsibility yet. It was a bad feeling, it hurt my vanity. I feel like a "rural kid" compared to the other directors. I didn’t know much of world literature, and I had to decide whether to read all the huge amount I had missed or focus on the office that organizes the programs, so that the company could have money, a space, and not be entirely dependent on grant applications to keep a project running. Also, I thought we should rehearse for three to four months, maybe the whole summer or even a year, secluded. I didn’t want to compromise, and I didn’t have a partner who could help with the organization and fundraising. That was another factor.

– So, Zoltán Balázs is the only one among you who works with his own team and with "foreign" companies as a guest.

ZOLTÁN BALÁZS: The two things complement each other. The long-term responsibility is, of course, with Maladype, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing for a young director to be part of a structured theater life. At least it did me a lot of good. Árpád Schilling, who is sitting next to me, fled from the same place – the Bárka – where I last worked.
Despite all my fears, we had a great time rehearsing with the Bárka company, and Ilona Béres’ "solid core" personality was an incredible inspiration for all of us. Besides Bárka, it’s important that I also have an independent life where I can be completely free. That’s Maladype. If I couldn’t try out what I thought with them, with people I really believe in, I would probably have had a lot more tension and anxiety when starting such a project. But I had to start the piece – Theomachia – because of it. Sándor Weöres was a real challenge because he doesn’t give any practical instructions that would serve as a grip for the director. But he opens up a world, a theatrical existence that must be figured out. The actors in Theomachia eagerly devoured the material as a well-deserved treat. It’s a great joy because it proves that there is no such thing as two separate languages: one spoken in Maladype, and another spoken within the professional actor-driven system. There is one language. That’s why I don’t think it’s important to stay in one place, to put down roots. You have to learn, and you have to see. For me, that’s abroad. I’ve learned a lot from foreign studies, and I continue to do so. Not necessarily form, but taste, freedom of thought.
Maladype is important because this is a path that can be consistently followed with them. In the long term, the only freedom is a company of your own. Although, often, people can be gathered together for a single production.

PÉTER FORGÁCS: There are no generations, we don’t form a generation, not least because the five of us would never sit down together in real life. The three of us – Süsü (Árpád Schilling) and Gábor – were in the same class, but we didn’t sit down together then either. Once every semester, we’d complain to each other that we weren’t interested in each other, and then that was it. Even now, I miss that relationship and the complaints. I’m also happy when I see something that excites me, or when I feel someone says something for me, or says it better than I would. And then, of course, I’m jealous of them, but at the same time, I love them. In this way, some form of community is created, even if we don’t talk, even if we don’t look each other in the eye.
Your other question was about starting a career. Working with your own company or "fitting in," as you say – a dramatic situation, but for me, it's not really a question. Obviously, because I’m a slow person, and probably naive too. I enrolled in that school, finished it, and now I’m trying to practice my craft. For each performance – aside from directing the play – I set tasks for myself. I learn, I search, I might find something. There are many actors – and there will be more – who I believe it’s my task to work with, so I need to get to places – or situations – where I can meet them. In other words, I can find my own actors. Those who, one day, will come with me at the first word, when I say, "Now we’re going to the green and we’ll perform there..." This is where I stand right now. Struggling in a sluggish, stagnant theater for my truth, finding actors and thinking together with them is probably just as much of a challenge as fighting for my own survival.

– When you sign up for a task, to direct this or that play here and there, what is it in the current Hungarian theater structure that disturbs this idyllic picture? Süsü says that directors in Hungary are in a great situation, everyone can work. Meanwhile, Krétakör has no building, and Péter Forgács says he has to build his "own" company in a sluggish theater. So, it’s not the relationship between the two directing paths – the independent and the “fitting in” – that we need to examine, but rather the relationship of both to what we globally call a structure.

GÁBOR RUSZNYÁK: I’m a happy director from Kaposvár. I guess – just to say something new – everything has at least two sides (I’m sure there are at least two sides to the coin), but our little theater world, our structure, well, it's at least a tetrahedron, a monstrous, malformed, faceless, intangible, dirty, infected mess, but IT EXISTS. I mean that in our little (theater) country, there hasn’t really been a system change. The leaders of the value-giving theaters are the same, while the world and values, you know... Obviously, a radical break might not be the solution (or maybe it is), since the previous era has its values, and there’s immeasurable knowledge accumulated that it would be foolish to sweep away, especially since we don’t have much of that knowledge. However, it’s also true that our knowledge, or whatever you want to call it, just can’t take shape. But it’s a fact that we can work. We can go to any theater, and the directors are happy because they can show us off, "Look, we invite young directors, here they are, they are working." Heaven forbid I pity ourselves, because I’m not the sufferer of something bad, evil, hypocritical, fossilized, and "you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours," but rather a participant, a player, a builder, a wall-builder.

PÉTER FORGÁCS: We go around selling plays and ideas, which is nice and sometimes heroic, but ultimately hopeless. Because once we’ve embarked on this profession, none of us wants to just direct various plays in different places, to patch up different holes. We want to belong somewhere, and that doesn’t just mean being needed, but also means we need to find the why and how. Obviously, we’re also at fault. I at least find it hard to find that situation, the how and why, so that I’m not just directing a play somewhere, but shouldering all the burdens of that place – from the cleaner to the lead actress. So I’m not just responsible for one performance, but for a community.

VIKTOR BODÓ: There’s a lot of bitterness here, which I don’t really understand. One can decide whether one wants their own company. If you do, you gather people, and in the worst case, you throw a lock somewhere off a warehouse, like several visual art groups did in Berlin, you go in, and you make a performance. But that’s really the last resort, for when no one has figured out how to get money. Maybe it’s just my obsession. One must find joy in independence, in working for your own place. In finding the money for it, in gathering people. If that doesn’t bring joy, everything is lost. Moreover, you find out what the team is like, who is willing to stick with it for the theater you’ve decided to create together. I haven’t yet thought of the idea that if I want to work, I should call someone on the phone. When we had time, we came up with something and made it happen. I don’t want to continue glorifying Katona, but for me, it’s a very good workshop. I went there with anxiety, thinking, oh no, going to a state theater. I was already through my umpteenth brainwashing, thinking this was going to be terrible. The bad, useless lamentation starts already in school, but uniting and coming up with something – that somehow doesn’t work. There are things I would do differently in my own theater, but I think if I divide it by percentage, here I have something to learn, not something to say. And what I need to say, I do say, and I do it. And if I feel that this limits my freedom, it must change at that moment. I don’t see what’s evil and hypocritical. I don’t want to hurt anyone, not even you, Gábor, I just think this is whining.

GÁBOR RUSZNYÁK: This is Székely Gábor’s expression, but thank you. It felt especially good coming from you... When we finished, the three of us talked about what it would be like if we tried to stay together somewhere. But we had the example from Kecskemét, what happens when three young people, who consider themselves self-willed and talented enough, start making theater together. And then what happened, happened. Or here’s another story of three people, Baal, when a good piece is born, everyone adds their creative talent, and such a situation might have earned itself a place. But that story also played out with Bárka, where a good performance was also made, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and from that, a theater was born. And it became what it became, and there are people and there are... So, a theater won’t be built for a long time, and young people won’t be given a theater for a long time, that’s clear, in fact, theaters will be closed, downsized, made into reception buildings, because the way things are going, it’s questionable whether company life can even survive. The positions of directors in existing theaters, and their tenders, are decided on political, not professional grounds, or they can only be inherited (the tender is one of the horrors of the "new world," inheritance is of the "old world"). Those who have been sitting in the same seats for ten or fifteen years, their way of thinking is at least understandable, since they grew up in this: you went to a theater, stood in line, and if all went well, you got there. It was a very exceptional situation when Zsámbéki, Székely – and I would also include Marton here – suddenly found themselves in the director’s chair. If they think of handing over now, in Zsámbéki’s mind, it’s not Viktor, but Máté Gábor, and in Marton’s mind, it’s not Péter, but Géza Hegedűs D. (Perhaps quite rightly so.) The "generation" is a term that can be attached afterwards. There are personalities, individuals, who, through talent, luck, connections, and, not insignificantly, through you, critics, and other factors, rise to prominence, get into a position. Then these people can intertwine, form alliances of interest and defiance, create dinner and round tables (with rules, secret signals, and everything, as it should be, which they then fight for with their lives...). Well, then the discussions go on, deciding who will go where, for how long, and for how much, and the current king, or kings, will also play along. Oh, and there’s the betrayal of each other, the sacrifice of leaders, with treachery, poison, or just simply with a shovel. And then you’re still there, you chroniclers and legend-makers, who, when you get tired of the heroes you’ve exalted (and who were also exalted by you), you want new heroes around the table, or at least blood, struggle, revolution, which is why you find, produce, and give birth to (theater) world-saviors every year, or you call us here, hoping we’ll say something brilliant...

– Regarding your debate: Marx, who thought about the ladder and consciousness, might have been right in some way. Viktor Bodó's situation is good because he is a member of a company, and the best one at that. But there are very few companies where you can honestly go even as an audience member, let alone as a director. Wouldn’t it be necessary to have a change of individuals before or instead of a structural change, if you will, a generational shift? Székely, Zsámbéki, and others were already theatre directors in their early thirties. Now even the generation ahead of you – Novák Eszter, Bagossy László, Keszég László – are not. If there were more authentic theatre directors, wouldn’t there be a better chance for you to build a "generation-based" company? Or is this an illusion? After all, we’ve seen that even when people teamed up, they couldn’t win bids several times, or if they did, they failed, like for example, József Bal and his team in Kecskemét. Apart from their own inexperience, didn’t the fact also play a role – and isn’t this tendency becoming even more pronounced now? – that neither the local governments nor the audience need theatre companies that consistently represent contemporary spirit? They only need individuals, but even then, only so that they fill a category, like the "young director" or the "highly talented innovator" – let’s call it what it is: Sándor Zsótér – who is "loved by the critics and the actors," and the artistic director "tolerates" him? Isn’t this what Gábor Rusznyák ironically referred to in an interview with Ellenfény as the "compliant director"?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I’m a bit tense because it feels like you’re putting words in our mouths. Gábor, you need to more precisely formulate what your problem is. You direct in pretty good theatres, and you get the money for it. As far as I could see, Péter, in Három madár, you worked with all young people. I don’t know how much you were forced to direct that play with those particular people. I don’t understand, what exactly is the problem when there are people sitting here who direct in Kaposvár, Nyíregyháza, the Vígszínház, or the Radnóti Theatre. These could obviously be better theatres, but then don’t sit us here, but Babarczy, Csaba Tasnádi, László Marton, or András Bálint, and talk to them about what direction they should move in. If someone has a big problem with something, they should fight against it. It’s very trendy to shake the rag and say everything is crap. I remembered a few things when the issue of companies came up. One is that Székely, Zsámbéki, Ascher, and other significant directors essentially made a kind of theatre. Back then, there was no other type of theatre, or there was one that the new generation collectively hated, and then finally the young titans came who made exactly the same thing, but they did it excellently. This united them. Today, thank God, or unfortunately, the situation is different. Now, everyone makes the kind of theatre they want, or aren’t ashamed of. The generation has no aesthetic or intellectual role anymore. Sándor Zsótér, for example, is not from our generation, but he’s a good example of where European theatre is heading. He is younger, braver, and more powerful than any of us. By the way, this is not a guarantee that a person will make good theatre just because they have a partner, because Zsótér always works with different people, and still manages to unify the company, sometimes doing things that are simply unrepeatable. So, the quality we represent is not necessarily tied to the company. The other thing is what the owner of the theatre wants, the state, or the local municipality, and what the audience wants. None of us lived when Székely and Zsámbéki worked in Szolnok or Kaposvár, but I would be curious to know what kind of audience went to the theatre when they got there, and what kind of actors they had to work with in the early days. Yet, we still talk about the legendary Kaposvár and Szolnok. Slowly, they transformed it because they were incredibly forceful and tough. I believe it’s a matter of temperament. It doesn’t work like: let’s all team up, let’s really have a company, let’s think the same way. I don’t think it has ever worked that way. Some people fought to create a community, and if they met people who were close to their taste, they invited them to join the cause. So, if we really want some change, or if something really bothers us, we need to formulate it clearly and fight against it.

– What kind of change can one want?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I’d return to the building issue. I thought of an analogy: you can obviously keep a bicycle in the staircase, but cars are usually kept in a garage. I think the Krétakör is now a car, not a bicycle. It’s no longer about me wanting us to have a theatre, it’s about us having reached the point where this theatre can’t be operated in any other way. Another, more general thing is that there aren’t enough venues where you could submit plays, where you could develop initiatives outside of structures. This is now the realm of cultural policy. And then comes the question of whether one should apply or be invited. In Germany, there are, let’s say, eight or ten star directors who get invitations. The rest aren’t invited. They apply. But Hungarian theatre works absolutely on an invitation-based system; one doesn’t need to apply. I think what would really excite the theatre would be if there were much tougher competition in every area, instead of the comfortable invitation-based system we have now. Yes, one should have to apply until they reach a level where they are invited. Precisely because at that point, they wouldn’t need their youth anymore, but their professional knowledge. I would trust the competitive situation more – if there were one. The problem is not how someone manages, because every director has the right to shape their company in their own image, but that there is no competition where the valid alternative could beat the invalid one. The current bidding system is mostly unfair. When Krétakör applied for the Bárka, it wasn’t a fair situation. That’s what we’re talking about, that’s a real problem. Why should someone apply if they already have this concrete experience, and it turns out that everything is already decided in advance?

– Gábor’s team doesn’t say they’re not working in good places or with good teams, but that they’ve worked in bad places too, and that there is no possibility for what the Krétakör has: continuous development. So, in both cases, it’s about participating in the construction of something, which is more than just directing a performance. It doesn’t matter how we describe it, whether by saying there is no competitive situation, or that there is stagnation, which manifests itself in the fact that codified theatres are both lenient and not. From László Marton to Tamás Jordán, directors invite young directors, but they make sure those directors don’t go too far in asserting themselves, because they are paying attention not only to the young director but also to the whole theatre. A more serious issue is the fixed bidding, which discourages many from applying. István Márta got the Új Színház because he was the only one who applied, because the person who was previously put in the position didn’t feel like going through the whole process again. This issue could also be solved by giving a theatre to a "key-holder" and handing over the keys to them. For instance, they could do this with five theatre buildings in Budapest. And then the problem, including that of the Bárka Theatre, would solve itself because a new process would begin. Because then there would be five empty theatre buildings. Here you go, take one, with the necessary support, and if you don’t perform well enough – different indicators can be attached to that – then sorry, three or four years later, goodbye. But until then, anyone can come, so applying wouldn’t feel like begging. How many companies can you name in Hungary today? A theatre with a real company. Five? No. The Katona?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: Kaposvár.

– This is still only two.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I think this is a bit extreme, because no country has eighteen actors in its ensemble.

– But they don’t pretend that all eighteen are repertory theaters. The competition should have a starting line so that new entrants can also take off. Moreover, the field is overcrowded, especially in the "also-ran" category, and there’s more and more pushing inside.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: In this slightly feudal country, leaders like to treat the shared assets they are entrusted with as fiefdoms. There’s no healthy turnover, transfer of knowledge, or competitive situation. In the case of theater, this is a cultural-political issue, and there’s always something hypocritical about it. Because when things go wrong, or when a fundamental issue needs to be addressed, they always refer to the profession. But who is the profession? It refers to directors who fear for their positions, who were appointed in ancient times and view any change or modernization attempts as personal attacks, regardless of the issue at hand. This group also protects each other's interests in a circular manner. There’s no courage in cultural politics. In the Netherlands – where the theater structure has fundamentally changed – the theater directors didn’t stand up and say, “I realized, what I’m doing is terrible, I need to change my methods, it’s time to give my place to others.” The owner can say that, and the owner is the state. There, they should be able to come up with some kind of concept, articulate challenges (more grounded than “we overspent, guys, so we’re holding back some money”), and once they do this, they should categorically stick to their position. But now, I would like to ask you. I’m curious if you’ve approached any of the directors and told them that you’d like to shape the ensemble and take on a more serious task, such as artistic leadership...

PÉTER FORGÁCS: Why should we say that? If I’m invited somewhere for a job, I have to think that they are inviting me in my entirety – otherwise, I couldn’t work. I try to stay open, to believe, to listen. The question isn’t whether I ask for a larger role or whether I’ll become artistic director, but whether it’s possible or worthwhile to belong to a given place. Do I want to, does the place want me? Is there an ensemble, and if not, can there be one? What are the consequences of a job? Now, as an outsider, all I can do is try to say good things in the interest of a play or an actor, or, if I think it’s true, in opposition. But I’m just passing through. I come, we work, I leave, and by the time I return, what I managed to build has already been torn down. I start again from scratch. There’s no process, no development, no ensemble, just isolated people and isolated performances. I have no problem with the structure itself. The structure is a form: a building, with a doorman, a boiler room, heating, warmth. The question is, what fills the form. I can’t do anything but fill it. I fill it, it spills over.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: If you manage to create a really good performance, there’s no difference between whether you are a guest or have your own ensemble. When I went to the Schaubühne, they also told me who I couldn’t work with. It was a partial freedom. But the performance didn’t fail because of that, it failed because I was untalented. If you really want an ensemble, you need to gather those three to five people and go into the green, as Peter said. But you need to decide that quickly. When we started the Krétakör at the Marczibányi Cultural Center, it wasn’t any better than fighting little battles in a state theater. There’s no big difference between gathering in a small hole – from this perspective, our situation is not better now – or fighting with those four people in an attic, a basement, working with them at night. Plus, you don’t have to worry about whether they’ll be paid. You get the money, and they’ll organize an audience for it. That’s why I don’t understand what’s wrong with your situation.

– It really seems like everything is in perfect order; perhaps cultural politics just needs a little boost to give more money.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: We would need an economic concept instead. We should think about how to run institutions more efficiently. The saved hundreds of millions should be used to create and operate the theaters of the future: the incubator houses, the reception centers, the small contemporary theaters. However, only the owner of the institutional system can do this, and they must do it. Let’s not forget, it’s 2004, even in Hungary. In connection with this, let me add one last aesthetic observation. Before the regime change, everyone could feel like a resistor and thus represent something different in a sharp way. Our generation’s misfortune is that there is nothing worth truly fighting for, because you can’t decide whether something is white or black. Therefore, I wouldn’t even attack the legendary theaters, because, for example, what Zsámbéki and Székely created with Katona back then, and what the theater means today, isn’t merely a matter of decision. Clearly, that’s why Viktor is there now. Your task will be to renew the theater.

– Two concepts keep getting mixed up: the theater person and the theater maker. The theater maker is also suited for leadership, and he aspires to it – people like Babarczy, Zsámbéki, Székely – whereas the theater person wants to do valuable work in optimal conditions, which are created by the theater maker (leader). This is a difference in temperament. János Mohácsi is an excellent director, but he probably can’t and doesn’t want to be a director. At the same time, it’s somewhat absurd that if Babarczy wants to retire from leadership, after decades of work in Kaposvár, there is no successor who is indispensable, or at least difficult to say no to. On the other hand, can we ask why someone has been a director for so long, and why they’ll remain so, when we don’t see anyone stepping forward who could rightfully be a candidate for their place? The rigged applications are not sufficient explanations by themselves. Shouldn’t you be a little better, more determined, more organized?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: That’s a good question: do we really want to manage a theater, with all its filth and difficulties? I think I could talk about what I’ve been experiencing on a small scale for ten years now, with all the responsibility, the concerns of the actors, the financial part, the organizational problems, and all the trouble. I would ask my colleagues who have failed in theater applications what they truly wanted: a creative ensemble or a comfortable director’s chair? If it’s the former, then go for it. Create it, and fight for it.

– You can fight for positions, that’s true, but for how long? Often, the fight is undignified. It feels like begging. Eszter Novák’s team didn’t have enough of Peter Brook’s recommendation in the Veszprém application. When she was about to apply in Miskolc, they hadn’t even announced the application, but already told her to her face that the result was predetermined. They ran Róbert Alföldi twice for the Új Theater, we know the result, so of course, he didn’t run the third time. But as a star name, for example, in the Budapest Chamber Theater, where obviously you could also direct anytime you wanted, and which God himself created as two small incubator-style reception theaters. From the perspective of the audience, in the still waters, it’s not about how long someone has been a director, but about the fact that the same people and the same performances come back.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: That’s why they liked it.

– Who? Where?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: Tamás Koltai told me recently that it’s a problem that there is no investigative theater journalism. That’s true. We should look into precedent-setting cases and examine them based on concrete professional arguments, discuss them, and name the responsible parties. For example: Művész Theatre, Új Theatre, Miskolc National Theatre, Szeged National Theatre, Bárka, Sopron Petőfi Theatre. It’s not just the National Theatre that could be an awkward issue.

GÁBOR RUSZNYÁK: We are quiet people, we don’t even talk to each other, we haven’t thrown pamphlets or notes from the balcony. We don’t stir up scandals, there’s no such thing, you can’t do that. But there were investigative reports, not just one, when they took the New Theater from Székely, or when the whole profession abandoned Bálint. That could have been done. And no one feels bad about it. Or those who feel bad up there, they just move one chair over, and then it doesn’t hurt as much, and everything is fine. I’m only angry or bitter because we’re assisting these things. That’s how I feel. We can add a little plus sign to this, and then I won’t say we’re assisting, but that we’re working hard to make sure it stays this way, as long as it’s still theater.

VIKTOR BODÓ: What’s happening in this country is not normal, but it’s not only true for how the theater structure works. It shouldn’t take much thought or effort to give an established ensemble a permanent place, or to have a base where others can start. We talk a lot about this, and we have concrete plans, but that’s not enough anymore. Unfortunately, I have to see – this is how I grew up – that it’s not always enough if an idea is good. To make it happen, you need redistribution, political connections, etc. But I wouldn’t say that’s the only problem. The profession coming together? Who in the profession? A common plan? No one is forbidding directors and actors, or anyone who loves theater, from joining forces. It’s important to clarify why things never get to this point. We didn’t initiate it now either. I think it’s crucial that we don’t solve problems with mourning, sabotaging, or raging. I’m ready for anything if it’s about coming up with something, putting together a plan that can be negotiated.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I don’t believe in any kind of community movement. Now, we’ve finally made it into the Theatre Society, and we can participate in the directors' meetings. Isn’t that just a dream? I don’t want to judge it, because they’d probably kick my ass for talking about it. I’m just saying that I don’t believe in anything like that, whether it’s professional or alternative. There are experienced, serious theatre directors sitting there, and they can’t formulate anything in three consecutive, coherent sentences about what they want. There’s one thing I believe in: that in a board or, more importantly, in the ministry or the city hall, we could send two or three people who are like, for example, Gyuri Szabó from Trafó—who is incredibly precise, trained, knowledgeable, and as an advisor or influencer, could present something we might have no idea about, but that would be very useful for us. We should learn about other theatrical systems, and what advantages they have over our system. We don’t need to blow up the theatres, just use them better, more intelligently. The biggest problem is that there is no problem. Everything works well because the cultural politicians don’t even know that things could work differently. There’s no other system. They don’t know what a co-production or touring system is. They don’t know how regional theatres could be operated more efficiently, both artistically and financially. They got a schematic model, and they say it works well, so let’s keep it that way. Some theatre people also say the same. Why should the current theatre directors change the existing system when it’s been working for fifty years? The only word that might have an effect is shame. Very few people are fighting for change.

– Maybe there’s only one battle: for survival. Everyone for their own. There are small battles because the big one takes time and energy. And it’s risky because you can lose. Especially risky to lose when you’re young, because people write you off quickly.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: Sorry, let me say something about this. Not to put you on the spot, Zoli, but what you said earlier eerily reminds me of something Laci Keszég said when he finished at the college. He said: he has a spiritual reserve, the Pont Workshop. A place where he can work under any circumstances. He viewed the whole situation pragmatically and said he didn’t want to start a fight; he had a base, and next to it, another thing: the professional theatre path, which is about survival and presence in the field. But I think your responsibility is much greater. You, Zoli, you’re building yourself professionally, and you also maintain your troupe, but as a troupe leader, it’s also a moral question for you how the people in the team experience this. So you might save one or two people and take them, say, to Bárka, but what will happen to the others?

ZOLTÁN BALÁZS: I got a little tense, to be honest, because I can’t do what you do. Half of my troupe, let’s say, are amateur actors who became professional, the other half are mainstream theatre actors, who voted for a spirit represented by this "Gypsy theatre." But they can’t survive on that. They do many other things, we can come together for productions. I train them, I invite directors I think are good, but I can’t provide them with the kind of life you can. I have a different reckoning with Maladype. When preparing for a performance, I can take responsibility for them, for ensuring that the next performance reflects the spirit I envisioned. Sometimes I take an actor when I work elsewhere, but not because I want to push Maladype into it. We don’t stand in such a way that Maladype could work as a workplace. The troupe life is, unfortunately, a luxury for us, and I can’t take responsibility for that.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: But if you saw the possibility in the future for a structure of your own, would you still leave yourself some escape points?

ZOLTÁN BALÁZS: My answer is that I’m interested in running, developing, and testing a long-term ensemble. If I had the opportunity, I would work with Maladype day and night. That would be theatre for me. But I want to explain the reason for my tension. There was a discussion here about whether there’s a problem with theatre or not. I think there are a lot of problems, but the biggest one is always with me. It’s a problem if I want to please someone, or if I’m fighting for something as if I know the solution. I don’t know the solution, I’m totally a beginner in this. But I was shocked listening to what you said, that you have to go and apply for work. Up to now, I’ve been invited. People around me don’t even understand why I don’t accept certain offers. I’ve been invited to places where many colleagues would love to go. I can’t go because my essence doesn’t fit into that environment. I’m sure I’d find six or eight people I’d be interested in, and I’d fight for my things, but that’s not my path. Not now. I think it’s not the right time for that, or I wouldn’t be able to do what I’ve done with Maladype or Bárka in that place. Now, I’m going to Düsseldorf, where I think I can walk the path I believe in. And in ancient Greek, too. Again, a task that’s an incredible challenge, but at the same time, I can still feel very free. I’ve been listening to the conversation, and I think the first thing that needs to change here – although I don’t know if this can be forced – is personality. How much you stand behind your work. I don’t believe in anything else except what I do. Can I convince people of what I think? That this is how we should stage this play I’ve been invited to. These are my conditions, and if you meet them, I’ll come; if not, I don’t need to work. I don’t feel forced to be constantly working or present. I value freedom more than fitting in everywhere. I feel that as a trap. If someone believes they’ve achieved something that now makes them see and interpret theatre in a special way, that can be very dangerous. They’ll immediately feel like a revolutionary. I think I’m not one. I can’t tear down the outdated walls of Hungarian theatre, and I don’t even think they’re that outdated. There’s a lot of value in it, and it should be used. Sure, there are things I don’t agree with, but you don’t have to do those.
I feel kind of foolish for coming here now. Especially because of the guys, I really wanted to hear them. I haven’t spoken to them yet, maybe only Viktor, occasionally at college. It’s really nice to listen to them now. I’m sorry we don’t see each other more often. So, Árpi, congratulations on Siráj.
If anything can change in theatre, it can only happen because we are different. That’s the essence. I will never be like Árpi, or like Peti, or Gábor, or Viktor. I don’t even want to be like them, they are fine as they are. We think very differently about theatre. Except, of course, for the essence; by essence, I mean striving for quality, the freedom of thought, imagination, play analysis, the development of the actor’s personality, or focusing on a personal world. We agree on that. How they do it is their responsibility. I can admire, acknowledge, argue with, accept, or deny it – that’s how I can contribute to the theatrical world. But when I’m there and working, I just have to work. I don’t want to whine; I’ll say, for example, if Jani Csányi invites me next year: "Look, do you want to? This is my play, these are my actors, and I want to do it with them. If you accept it this way, I’ll come. If not, I won’t." Of course, it’s easy to say, and it sounds good to hear, but where is such a thing? I haven’t had a negative experience yet. I’m probably lucky. Maybe it won’t last long, but I haven’t had to compromise, and if I had to, I’d probably walk away. I don’t feel tension about this, but I feel bad when I read statements saying there’s a problem, and we don’t know what to do. I rather ask: what are we doing? For example, I don’t always feel that I’m doing everything I can. I can only manage with my own strength. How that affects others, the future vision, that’s not decided now, but later. I believe in the natural development of things, but I don’t believe in force. I don’t believe that now everyone needs to be told off, everyone should be sent away, and the definitive savior speech should be delivered. It will take shape. Either this way or that way. Naturally. But that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes need to take steps, make decisions, or answer questions. I’m not suited for a position, and I don’t have the desire for one. Not even with Bárka. After Árpi left Bárka, Jani became more distrustful of everyone. He needed a long time to calm down. I don’t even know if he has calmed down. I hope so. It’s incredibly hard to rebuild trust after such breakups (e.g., troupe splits, the departure of Novák, Schilling, etc.) so that actors don’t feel that I’m leading them in this direction just to show them that, "Kids, all other directions are wrong; this is the right one." But rather because this is how I think.

GÁBOR RUSZNYÁK: Since we’re talking about cultural politics: In Romania – apart from the fact that the theatre culture is much deeper, and the aesthetic quality of theatre is better – criticism plays an incredibly important role. There’s an organization, UNITER, the critics' guild. The critics meet, and they can speak out in unison towards politicians. There, you don’t need to say, "Let Szabó Gyuri go talk," because the critics’ guild is taken very seriously by the cultural politicians. It can mediate where theatre is going, analyze how they see things, and how they should change or move. There’s a face or a form to it, and what happens there is not like here...

– In Romania, there’s a usable history of theatre and criticism. Look at how many serious theoretical Romanian critics there are – some, of course, already in Paris – and how many there are here. Every theatre gets the criticism it deserves.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I agree with Zoli. The most important thing is, of course, the work. When you mentioned earlier what you did, it reminded me of how it was back in 2000 when I tried to push people from Krétakör into Bernarda Alba's House at the Katona Theatre, and I managed to cast Annamari Láng in a role. I took advantage of the opportunity for the benefit of my virtual company. I completely understand what you're saying. Still, now that I'm over thirty, I simply have to address broader questions and general issues that the future of theatre depends on. One of these issues is the question of theatre festivals. I used the word "shame" earlier. This country does not have a regular international theatre festival, while every other East European country has at least one — and that's shameful. All I can do is speak about this everywhere. I don't have the money for it, the National Theatre does, so let them organize it, or someone else. This is fundamentally a professional issue. We need to see what's happening abroad, and that's not just fifty-year-old Two Gentlemen of Verona plays. Sure, that's probably very good, but we should have made a pilgrimage to Strehler a long time ago — they should bring something newer, fresher. It's also a shame that there is no artistic concept for what we want from the audience. I didn't just want my own theatre back in the day because I felt I had to fight for the actors assigned to me or with the director, but also because I wanted to meet my own audience. In a big institution, I can't meet the viewer who needs what I do, and I need feedback from them. I need to know what these people want. That's why we organize audience meetings: so they can debate, tell us what they like, how it should be, what we should do.

ZOLTÁN BALÁZS: We have no idea about the audience, there are no reliable surveys.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: It's work, it's also work. For instance, I knock on a door in the ministry — I don't even know which one, because there are so many little rooms — it's like something out of Kafka, this whole institution — and I should ask someone what is going on with Hungarian theatre, what surveys they've done from an artistic, economic, or audience perspective. To get a clear picture of the situation. The reason we don’t have a festival may also be — I don’t know who said it, but it was a very smart idea — because people are hiding their shame. It would be terribly embarrassing to invite interesting theatre creators, critics, and festival directors from abroad and show them the fifteen best productions of the year. It’s better to cover the whole thing up and say, "Don’t come, we’ll be burned like the Reichstag."

ZOLTÁN BALÁZS: Something will happen only if we're not just gathered for a conversation like this, but if all this tension, fake tension, and conflict build up, and then — I don’t know what it takes for it to have weight — we formulate something and say, "This is what we need." Only then can we start moving forward. But until then... Árpád says he feels ashamed. Well, I constantly feel ashamed. Fortunately, I have the opportunity to see performances abroad, and I think, "Oh my God, where are we compared to that?" In my current situation, the only thing I can do to contribute to change is to take what I see — and feel ashamed about twenty times a day because of it — try to reframe it, think it through, and represent it here in Hungary, where I mostly work. I don’t like it when people complain; it feels like energy theft to me. So many people complain around me, twenty-four hours a day, forty-eight hours a day, draining me like vampires — and maybe they’re right. I don't think they're wrong. They're right almost in everything, from the buffet to the audience, from the crowd to the structure, but if I get caught up in that wave, it just sweeps me away. I won’t even notice it, I’ll be in the flood, and I’ll feel as old and tired as that hundred-year-old director who still complains, even though he had a hundred years to do something. My power is nothing more than directing a performance with precision and preparation. I understand everything Árpád says, I support him, I just don’t know what I can do without a position. To do something, I need to be in a position. But I’m not, and I don’t even desire to be.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: The incubator house issue fundamentally affects the future of theatre culture. Why is this so important? I’m lucky because I get to work with Máté Gáspár, who helps us figure out and create the specific conditions for each production. Right now, in Hungarian theatre culture, he's the only person who can handle this, and he’s good at it. But it’s not necessary that every director and every theatre team has such a person. That’s why we need a system that helps with this. We’ve written down the operating concept. There should be a place where you can rehearse, where you can present an independent production, and where you can apply for money and tour funding as well. The support system needs to be multi-faceted. This is already a commonplace principle, and in fact, a global practice. When we went to the capital with this and analyzed the problem in a general and long-term way, neither Ferenc Körmendy, the Chairman of the Cultural Committee, nor János Schiffer, the Deputy Mayor for Culture, were willing to respond meaningfully. Up until now, the only cultural politician we could discuss perspectives with was Gábor Görgey. We sat down with him, started telling him about this ELMŰ thing. After his play was presented in England, he knew exactly what we were talking about — that it wasn’t something beautiful, shiny, or velvet-covered, but a place made entirely of concrete, a vacant space, which is the theatre space of the 21st century. He understood, and was very enthusiastic. We said we didn’t want it to be called Krétakör Theatre. Let it be called Görgey Gábor Theatre, or whatever they want, but it should have five rooms, one of which Krétakör would like to get through a grant for a defined period and with certain conditions. And there are still four other rooms. We wrote down the building and operating concept for this space and had it designed with our own money. Krétakör even had the plan made for a million forints. This plan has since disappeared. No one talks about it. Görgey Gábor was replaced by István Hiller. I think, and now I’ll be completely immodest, that this plan should have automatically ended up on his desk. Why? Because it’s not just Krétakör that has proven itself, but this whole generation. The representatives of this generation should be talked to. They should be seated around a table, like in this conversation, and they should listen to what they think about what they’ve already planned. They didn’t just talk; they made it happen. This conversation hasn’t happened. I really think this should have been initiated from above. It’s a shame not to notice that there are people thinking about the future of theatre, and even doing something about it, and not even listening to them. They’re not using them as advisors, not reflecting on what they’re saying. It’s not about Krétakör. It’s about the future of theatre. And that’s already the present, or if you look West, even the past.

– That’s why there should be three credible people from different corners of the profession, so they can explain to the new people again, from the beginning: it’s not about the 'chestnut' of the Krétakör.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: It’s a common issue. When you decide to go your own way, at some point you realize that you can only do it in a shared space. I’ve said this a hundred times, you’ll say it too. Now, someone else should say it, the person whose job this is. The one who’s in charge of this plan, which cost a million forints. That year, our theatre received twenty-five million forints in support from the alternative fund. A quarter of that went to what Görgey, the Minister of Culture, requested. We fronted it and paid with our own money. From the funds they gave us. We gave it back to them. Why won’t they cooperate with us?

- Perhaps the lobbying power isn’t strong enough. Maybe there’s an opposing lobby that doesn’t want money concentrated on one project?

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: It’s certain that when the VAT law came out, the first thing the theatre directors focused on was the two hundred million forints that had previously been allocated to the key alternative theatres. The fact that they didn’t take this money away was thanks to a couple of people in the ministry, primarily László Baán. As for the larger, multi-billion part, the theatre directors said it was too big a challenge; they would need a good suit to walk into Parliament, and some speech to sign. The Theatre Association asked for the signature of every theatre for the VAT law statement. They also asked Krétakör to sign because it would look good to have an alternative theatre among them. We signed it, the thirty-person delegation went to the ministry, and they got most of the money back that they had lost due to the VAT law. Except for Krétakör, because it’s a foundation theatre, and that doesn’t qualify. But our signature was still valuable.

PÉTER FORGÁCS: You said earlier that the theatre profession cannot express what it wants in three coherent sentences. There is no such thing as a "theatre profession." There are people — how many? A thousand, two thousand? Actors, with whom I will never work, or with whom I long to work but don’t know, theatre people whom I consider valid or not, and so on. With these people, I am in some kind of relationship, even if it's not tangible. But when I look at a decision-making process in the theatre, whether it's about the existence or non-existence of a performance, its birth, reception, actors’ fates, the troupe, or — heaven forbid — ideas, I see that the whole thing is guided by emotional and intellectual infantilism. There is no system. We’ve all worked with musicians. It’s wonderful how well they know — and need to know — their craft. How the "g" note can only be played one way, or it won’t be a "g" at all. There is relentlessness, a professional minimum. Everything else — the magic — is above that, but I’m not even talking about that. But the base, the "g," can be held accountable. My problem is that we don’t have such a "g," and we don’t have valid people to hold us accountable. It should be our job to define what this base is, what our profession is. Then we can start talking about what we want. Everything else is luxury by comparison.

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: It’s not about whether the theatre is full or not?

PÉTER FORGÁCS: No, Süsü, because I can show you performances that are full, but we still call them shameful...

ÁRPÁD SCHILLING: I have no problem with that. People go into the theatre, they sit down, and they look in one direction. I think that’s the only common ground, nothing else exists.

- Maybe today that is the least common denominator. Thank you for coming, and for sitting down together for the first time, even if this conversation seems more like five parallel monologues. It’s probably good as a report, a state-of-affairs, or a diagnosis. If you have something to say, we can continue anytime.

 Judit Csáki and Tamás Koltai, Színház, 2004 XXXVII. season 6. issue

Translation by Zsuzsanna Juraszek