Zoltán Balázs began as a student theatre performer and went on to become a theatre artist of European stature. Everything related to theatre interests him—he acts, directs, designs sets and visual concepts, runs a company, and teaches. His fundamental concern is the relationship between the individual and power, and he believes that artistic sovereignty is liberating.

— The Hungarian theatre profession is not exactly in a rosy situation, and this is particularly true of independent companies. The Maladype Theatre, which you have led for twenty-one years, is nevertheless constantly travelling around the world, and as a director you also spend more time abroad than at home. Do you have to keep moving in order to survive?

— You see it correctly. During the first half of the season, I travelled with the Maladype company to Montenegro, Greece, Serbia, Poland, and Ukraine. I prepared my productions in Romania and Poland. At the Odeon Theatre in Bucharest, I will direct La Fontaine’s Fables, while at the Jaracza Theatre in Olsztyn I will stage Mickiewicz’s “light” classical dramatic poem Forefathers’ Eve. In December, we finally premiered Fear Seekers with the graduating acting students of the University of Arts in Târgu Mureș, and I will soon be able to make up for some of the international projects that were cancelled because of the pandemic.

— So you also teach in Târgu Mureș?

— In the form of individual courses. I do not undertake to lead a class, because given my lifestyle, that would be dishonest...

— Fortunately, audiences in Hungary can also see your work. What will be your next production in Hungary?

— Last June, with the Maladype company, we premiered in Kisvárda our production based on Tankred Dorst’s play Merlin, or The Wasteland. Its Budapest premiere will take place on January 28 at Eötvös10.

— You are not averse to traditional genres either, since last year you directed the musical Nine at the Operetta Theatre. It was successful, and then it disappeared from the repertoire for two months. Why?

— At the Operetta Theatre, newly premiered productions are performed fifteen to twenty times and then put on ice for two or three months. That is the theatre’s programming policy. Nine will be back on stage in February.

— This musical is not a conventional musical, since it was adapted from Federico Fellini’s cinematic classic 8½, and the way you staged it certainly cannot be described as operetta-like either. Did you have any battles over the direction?

— Not at all. Those who know my productions know what to expect. I had already held talks with the previous management, but at the last moment I always proved too radical. I never imagined that I would make it to the finish line with Attila Kiss-B. Somehow, we and the company found one another at exactly the right time and in exactly the right state.

The artists of the Operetta Theatre are deeply committed to their profession and their genre. They have preserved their childlike spirit; they are playful, curious, creative, and, of course, perfectionists. I did not have to open any cans of preserved habits, and old ingrained patterns did not obstruct our collaboration either. They immediately gave their trust to my directorial ideas and adapted easily to the unconventional perspective that characterises my work.

— They weren’t even surprised?

— Perhaps a little. After I was invited, several of them called me back and asked, “Are you really that Zoli Balázs? Are you actually coming here?” I had the opportunity to work with wonderful artists. Each one is crazier than the next. The kaleidoscopic possibilities of performance created by the triple casting, together with the many different creative personalities, were enormously inspiring to me.

— How did you use this diversity while directing?

— It is a productive game for me, because I can formulate instructions tailored to individual personalities. That way, we can approach the character of the Mother in completely different ways with Zsuzsa Ullmann, Zsuzsa Kalocsai, or Ildikó Bánsági. I work in the same way in any theatre in the world, and I find it tremendously enjoyable.

— Because of the triple casting, did you essentially direct three different productions?

— In many respects, yes. The three male leads, who are of different ages, represent three different perspectives, different personalities and temperaments. Their individual personalities are the most important points of departure.

— A stylistic exercise?

— We could call it that. The diversity of content and form is not alien to Fellini’s spirit. If you try to rise to the level of a giant of cinema like Fellini, you also have to take seriously the cultural diversity, genre fluidity, and variety of characters that are so characteristic of him.

— How would you define the essence of the three productions individually?

— In my heart, I would have them all perform together, because for me the three leading actors collectively represent Fellini’s alter ego. In this musical, which places the anatomy of the creative individual at its centre, the manifestations characteristic of Guido Contini are best understood as a series of developmental snapshots.

In the acting of Attila Dolhai, Zsolt Homonnay, and György Szomor, which is rooted in their personal experiences, different creative stages and degrees of development emerge, and they energise their surroundings in different ways.

— Are you suggesting that everyone should see the play three times?

— It would be wonderful, but even critics don’t do that. The productions represent autonomous worlds, each with its own spirit and independent emotional structure, although certain motifs resonate with one another.

During the design process, Anikó Németh and I also made sure that the artists could wear costumes tailored to their individual personalities and would not feel like clones. On the one hand, this creates a stimulating form of play; on the other, it allowed us to avoid having the performers copy one another’s gestures and reactions.

The strength of individual characterisation and the particular impulses of the actors’ presence can only be fully appreciated by a spectator who sees Nine more than once. It is a sad fact that today very few people are capable of seeing and presenting different things in relation to one another, as parts of a larger whole.

— You travel, and the company travels, a great deal. Is this also what keeps Maladype Theatre going?

— Above all. Unfortunately, touring is not easy during a global pandemic, because every country has its own regulations, its own Covid laws. Right now, what we need most is our company’s ability to react quickly and adapt.

Thanks to Maladype’s constantly renewing spirit, we have become sufficiently experienced in various techniques for recognising and handling different situations.

— Is it this flexibility that has enabled you to remain afloat for more than two decades?

— What keeps us viable is our artistic island-like existence, which is difficult to fit into the current overall picture of theatre; our exploratory, investigative approach to theatre-making; and the sense of authenticity expressed through our creative work.

— What is the secret of your financial viability as well?

— First and foremost, our international presence. Secondly, sound financial management.

We were in the most difficult situation during the first and second waves of Covid, because we could not travel. We had countless festival invitations and had become accustomed to constantly travelling around the world, so when we suddenly had to stop, our future became uncertain and impossible to plan.

Fortunately, our theatre’s reserves were sufficient to cover the actors’ monthly salaries, and we were also able to travel to the International Gombrowicz Festival in Poland, where we won every award with our production of Yvonne.

After that, another long pause followed. Since the borders have reopened, we have been travelling a great deal again, and I very much hope we will be able to continue...

— What accounts for the willingness of foreign theatres and festivals to receive your work?

— The popularity and mobile nature of our productions. The theatrical language characteristic of our work reaches audiences in many different ways in different parts of the world.

Our distinctive solutions in content and form, the personal and everyday tone based on interaction, and the complex skills of our actors all contribute to the positive overall image of Maladype.

From my foreign masters, Robert Wilson and Anatoly Vasiliev, I learned that “a company is worth as much as it travels.” The more often it can test itself on the international theatre scene, the more artistically mature and balanced it becomes, and the more easily and generously it can exist within its own environment as well.

If a company always performs for the same audience, there is a danger that it will receive the audience’s affection and recognition even without genuine achievement or renewed artistic energy. Familiarity and old friendships can make an audience more forgiving.

The Maladype company has to win over audiences in Iran just as it does in Vietnam or America. The only measure of these encounters is human and artistic authenticity.

The plasticity of our actors’ talent is also evident in the way they adapt to the particular cultural environment, the particular performance space, and the reactions of the audience.

— How do you overcome language barriers?

— There is no problem with our non-verbal productions, while our text-based performances give our artists the opportunity to speak in English or in the language of the country we are visiting. Audiences always greatly appreciate this personal gesture.

At the request of the host organisation, we also provide surtitles and simultaneous interpretation for our performances.

— So what you do can be understood regardless of national borders?

— That is part of it. But the most important thing is the ability to redesign and renew ourselves.

If, over the past twenty years, we had not been able to renew ourselves and adapt to constantly changing circumstances, Maladype would by now be nothing more than a stray footnote in the book of theatre history.

As company director and director, I have lived through almost four creative eras with different creative partners, but I have always had to be ten steps ahead of them.

— Ahead of whom?

— Ahead of the current company, the permanent members. But the same is true of my creative partners, supporters, and festival organisers.

— How do you make sure you are always one step ahead?

— I train a lot. In any case, for me the addiction to theatre-making is a kind of “genetic injury.”

— Does being constantly one step ahead mean that you can see into the future?

— It is more the result of not feeling compelled to conform. Artistic sovereignty is liberating.

I do not choose the next pieces for our repertoire according to whether they will be festival-friendly. Nor is my aim to process fashionable subjects in a trendy way.

— Do you follow your instincts?

— Not only. I try to follow the artistic strategy I formulated at the beginning of my career, and I try to set myself professional challenges that require fresh thinking, a distinctive approach, and new forms of interpretation.

I work on a particular subject or story because it interests me—the writer’s universe, the way the characters think, and the network of cause-and-effect relationships contained within the work.

I think I am guided by a kind of intuition that has not let me down so far.

— What really interests you?

— Robert Wilson says that every director repeatedly directs the fundamental theme that had the greatest impact on them before the age of twelve.

I am interested in the relationship between the individual and power. In the question of determinism and free will.

— You were thinking about determinism at the age of twelve?

— It was part of my childhood. As a twelve-year-old boy in Transylvania, I still experienced the final period of communism. I saw up close what it meant when the black car would occasionally appear, take my grandfather away, and my grandmother would beg for an amnesty.

— Why was he harassed?

— He was Hungarian and the manager of a grocery store. He was easy to make a scapegoat. It was enough for someone to pour water into the oil during a “random inspection.” They manipulated events however they wanted.

— Do you still carry that anger with you?

— No. My family was never resentful. They did not instil chauvinism, nationalism, a sense of superiority, or a victim complex in me.

But at the age of twelve, I nevertheless lost a homeland, my family, my first love, and my first friendship...

— Where did you live as a child?

— In Sighetu Marmației. It was a truly Edenic world.

When I had to leave the place where I had grown up from one moment to the next, I did not yet understand the long-term thinking behind my parents’ decision. I felt that I had nothing left to lose.

I hitchhiked extensively around Europe, met all kinds of people, and gradually developed the adaptable personality that would continue to evolve later on.

I do not panic at all when something does not turn out the way I planned. In fact, I am even happy when things take a different direction.

In America, after a performance of our Ubu Roi, the audience told us during the post-show discussion that the actors’ performance had seemed as if their stage actions had been organised by a series of “happy accidents.”

Perhaps my life is like that too.

A series of joyful collisions.

György Víg, Index, 2022

translated by Zsuzsanna Juraszek