Jászai Mari award-winning actor and director, an independent person at the helm of an independent company, who believes in human-centered theater, the power of words, collective thinking, and dialogue. He says he builds consciously, moving in a designated direction, yet allows chance to sometimes overwrite his previous ideas. It was chance that not only led to the founding of Maladype, which has been running for fourteen years now, but also defines the company’s performances night after night.

- Your latest production, the stage adaptation of Raymond Queneau’s Exercises in style, presents the text in the styles of different filmmakers. He has mentioned in several interviews that he finds it important to incorporate film into theater, blending genre boundaries. Can we see Exercises in style as an experiment in this direction?

- These multi-artistic ambitions have been present in my creative strategy from the start, but film holds a special place among them, due to its unique treatment of time and space. No matter how skilled and sophisticated a theater maker is, they will never be able to create the rapid and extreme shifts in mood, image, and composition that film allows. That’s why it’s important to see the theatrical implications within filmic possibilities. I’ve used filmic solutions in several of my past works, but Exercises in Style connects to film differently: the variations of Queneau’s text are presented in the styles of different directors. This allows us to observe the worlds of individual directors and their influence on the material. Each scene has its own unique dramaturgy, spatial-temporal treatment, and directorial instructions that activate the actor’s personality and presence, along with the cultural and personal background of the director. These various cinematic worlds are translated into theater language to form a single great story, which, of course, requires the audience’s imagination. I think the visual and dramaturgical style of directors like David Lynch or Stanley Kubrick is most suitable for achieving this, because their approach expects a complex and creative viewer activity.

- If we consider this production as a milestone on a journey defined by film, what would be the preceding milestones?

- In my staging of Ostrovsky's The Tempest, I placed the action in a studio set, where the crew lit the performance in front of the audience. The actors were illuminated by spotlights mounted on movable carts and cranes, lighting them for brief moments. In Empedocles, I slowed down the passage of time, allowing the audience to watch what happens to the protagonist in individual frames. My collaborators and I created a strange, timeless world in which slow-motion revealed invisible dimensions that I couldn’t have created in real time, everyday space, with a linear dramaturgy. Other cinematic solutions included attempts to show simultaneity, which characterized several of my previous works, such as Sándor Weöres' Theomachia, Jean Genet’s The Blacks, or Maurice Maeterlinck’s Pelléas and Mélisande. In these works, the actors existed on several levels and in different genres, in sync with the story, their character’s fate, and the time of the performance—both literally and figuratively. The adaptation of Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, created in co-production with the Radu Stanca National Theater in Sibiu, explicitly incorporated film and filmmaking: scenes that took place in hidden spaces of the theater were projected onto a cinema screen for the audience.

- You often say that theater can only be a living genre if it is practiced in a contemporary way. Is that why you seek a connection with film?

- I believe it’s time for Hungarian theater to seriously embrace the successful efforts and innovations of cinema and attempt to translate these cinematic achievements into the language of theater. But this applies not only to film but to other related arts as well. We ourselves hinder the development of theater if we don’t allow it to integrate the achievements of other art forms, if we cling to the somber Hungarian small realism, to the creative existence confined in the prison of reality, lacking imagination and perspectives. However, if we incorporated the accomplishments of other art forms into theater-making, they would create new audience attitudes and reveal themes, content, and formal connections that are only found in very few creative workshops or productions. I see that most directors adhere to traditions and expectations, and that’s why they are afraid to take risks, to search for something new, different, or unknown. Hungarian theater should have long since opened its doors to genres, events, authors, thinkers, visual and acoustic impulses, and dramaturgical differences that could be fertile for its development. By the way, if I had to give priority to any related art form in my work, it would be circus. There are so many ideas in circus arts, so-called world-class acts, that could revolutionize theater.

- You’ve often mentioned that the theater profession is not open enough, and it generally seems to me that it trusts the audience more.

- The audience wants to ask questions and make statements, and they do so while being genuinely interested in the process. And if they are taken seriously—Maladype Theater takes its audience seriously—then they give long-term trust. Our audience comes back, follows us from performance to performance, and their attention becomes a resource for dialogue. I believe many in our audience are now able to distinguish the useful from the useless, the credible from the less credible, and perhaps no longer fall for every actor’s trick or every directorial cliché. I think that’s a serious achievement.

- The fact that you can report such results is the result of conscious work that dates back to Leonce and Lena—since then, you’ve explicitly opened up to the audience. Beyond this aesthetic education, in developing discerning theatergoers, is there another intention? You often talk about the willingness for dialogue, the development of argumentative abilities—these seem to touch on the socially useful category.

- I don’t have any direct intention to educate the public. However, it’s true that curiosity about the more complex layers of theater-making has become the entry card to Maladype for everyone. We’ve never made things easier for the audience. In the early period, before Leonce and Lena, we adapted works by authors who were either disliked or completely unknown in Hungary: Wyspiański, Hölderlin, Ghelderode... Authors with no recipe, so our performances couldn’t be compared to previous shows, directoral, or acting solutions. This early period was part of a “world-creating” director’s strategy, but even in these works, there was already a playful element: messing around with different genres and cultures. Over time— as the company developed—Maladype began to define this as a specific language. However, I believe that no theatrical language should wear itself out or become empty, so I’ve always consciously shifted. From ritual theater—this was how our early performances were labeled—I moved toward playfulness, and from that point on, our audience not only became observers and critics but also active participants. The next step in this concept was the open rehearsal process of King Ubu, where the audience played with us from the table read to the premiere. They could feel what it means to create something out of nothing, then lose it all and rethink it. To rejoice in a successful moment and then despair that it may never come again. By understanding the fallibility of theater-making, they increasingly learned to appreciate the successful moments. This motivated them to show interest in more complex theatrical solutions. They realized that an actor’s work is truly a profession requiring technique and knowledge, and that its all-encompassing and defining center is the human being.

- In other words, what you do—and what they do—is conscious sensitization.

- That’s right. The broader the associative field we offer the audience, the more easily they will venture with us into unknown territories they wouldn’t normally explore. Working with people, preparing for encounters, asking questions, and generating more questions is a responsible task; it’s not easy, but it’s a long-term intellectual investment.

- During one open rehearsal, you asked someone what they thought of the whole thing, and they responded that they were bored. It’s not typical, in such interactive events, for someone to say this openly.

- Moreover, this person also said that they didn’t know exactly what the point of all this was or where it would lead, but when asked why they didn’t just get up and leave, they couldn’t answer. They stayed the whole time and came to the next rehearsals too. Interesting. I think the alienation in the form of boredom may come from the fact that these events are not what most people expect. In most theaters, open rehearsals are based on prior arrangements, where the director and five or six actors do something "nice," mostly so they can tick off the theater education activities promised in applications. The Maladype open rehearsals are not like that. Our company members don’t try to present themselves as more beautiful, better, or more exciting than they are in a rehearsal without an audience. The actor is a human being, trying to concentrate with all their nerve endings, but it doesn’t always work. It happens. And sometimes, they don’t immediately understand something, or it seems like they understand it, but later they realize it doesn’t work, and so they become disappointed. These are not spectacular moments, and they might not seem too interesting at first, but those who are part of such an event usually return – because there are still enough questions and secrets – to look for more answers with us. The encounter with the audience’s truth is sometimes uncomfortable and difficult, but it is extremely valuable for the company. If someone is bored, has lost track, or doesn’t understand something, it shows what position they’ve taken in the situation, and it forces us to be more specific. Often, it’s about seemingly trivial things, but then when you poke at them, deal with them, you find out they’re not, and a lot has to be put in place for the creator and receiver to find common ground. Often, you have to subtly guide the audience to think and form an opinion. I believe in the pleasure of thinking, and I consider thought exchange essential. If we don’t think, we don’t live, and if we don’t exchange our thoughts, we don’t live at the same time or in the same space, but in separate dimensions. That’s why I would consider it harmful if we didn’t ask the audience or if they didn’t share their opinions.

- Do you feel the benefit of the open rehearsals from the company’s side too?

- The audience sees the actor as much more talented when they understand how much is needed to create a magical moment. I think we were right to deprive the actor of protection, to show them as vulnerable and human. It’s important for the general audience to understand the anatomy of the general audience. Not because they will be more forgiving of us, but because they will expect more refined solutions from us, and that’s inspiring. The audience’s demands and refinement motivate me.

- Making the actor appear human, showing them making mistakes, is a great responsibility and a difficult task. How do you condition the actors so they don’t burn out and can be present with their whole being, night after night? How do you know if someone will be suitable for this?

- A lot depends on the actor’s basic personality. If they are malleable, if they are demanding of themselves and of theater, if they are willing to mobilize their energy for instructions that are foreign to them and outside their comfort zone, then they can easily fit into this actor-pedagogical process. For this, they must trust themselves, their partners, and me. It’s very important that they’re ready for change because that spontaneous, fresh moment of the day can override everything. From this point of view, the fact that our performance space is a bourgeois apartment, where a maximum of sixty viewers can fit in the large room, matters a lot – it gives intimacy and assumes directness. The noises filtering through from Mikszáth Square can’t be ignored either; they can interfere with that day’s performance. Since the actors react to these, they can’t play it safe, and I think they’re also happy for unexpected impulses because they allow them to express the next sentence differently. For example, if one of them has already fallen into a rhythm or technique, or if they’re saying a line from routine, it’s definitely refreshing because they can hear that they didn’t think through what they just said as thoroughly as before. This all requires a lot of work ethic, the need to deal with themselves, and to continuously invest energy in expanding their knowledge. Also, the duality of learning and teaching, the act of passing knowledge, must occupy them so much that they can dissolve into the given task. This is the most wonderful acting ability: the ability to transform and melt. At the same time, the actor deals with problems written by others, becoming interested in the subject. As a director and leader of the company, I condition this path with games, various theoretical and practical tasks. It’s also important to watch the performances and discuss them afterward – to maintain a constant dialogue between us. If we grow old together, let’s grow old with content, and be able to share more and more with each other with increasing courage. The more sincerely we are, and the more we discuss sensitive topics with less discomfort, the more the company and the audience will profit from it. But this is an internal need that can’t be taught. If someone doesn’t have it, they can be a good actor, but the right place for them is not Maladype. Most actors easily burn out their talent, and neither they nor the environment they work in sees the importance of replenishing it. I hope that Maladype actors invest in their talent and develop it.

- From what you've said, it seems that you consciously guide their shared path. In previous interviews, you've mentioned that the choice of play is also influenced by the actors’ personalities and where they stand at that moment. Where does Stílusgyakorlatok fit into the company’s life and development?

- I believe that the actor is made up of four different acting selves: the seeking-researching self, the learning self, the processing self, and the performing self. The ratio of these changes constantly, and I must feel where each actor is at this moment. I also need to see where the company itself is in terms of development, and how much it can borrow from each individual and what must be integrated into the next work. Excercises in Style is complex from this perspective. The recurring story, in its many variations, is fundamentally banal, yet it is capable of asking something essential about the actor's work. It creates an opportunity to harmonize the four acting selves. They can perform, demonstrate their technical skills, but it is also an important learning process because they can observe and absorb the behaviors and patterns created by influential filmmakers with their actors.

- Finally, let’s talk about the difference between the domestic and international theater scenes. Is the foreign theater environment more receptive?

- I would say it’s more open. Abroad – especially in certain countries – the variety of genres is much broader, and the theater scene is more colorful. They are more open to initiatives that can give new momentum to already known efforts. Our company is fortunate because almost every performance in our repertoire travels a lot, so we often test ourselves abroad. This year, we’ve been to Montenegro, Slovenia, Serbia, and the USA, and next we’re going to Poland, then I will direct in Chicago. It gives me a good feeling to know that our actors feel at home in the world, that they find their place, and that the Iranian audience understands and loves them just as much as the American audience.

Natália Kovács, Élet és Irodalom, 2015

Translation by Zsuzsanna Juraszek