Letting in fresh air: Internationalising the National Theatre of Bulgaria
Letting in fresh air: Internationalising the National Theatre of Bulgaria
On the recent reinvention of the Ivan Vazov National Theatre of Bulgaria and their first international showcase.
Welcome to Café Europa, a weekly newsletter dedicated to European theatre.
Last week I was in Pirot, in southern Serbia, watching Patrik Lazić’s moving and funny play Our Son for a piece in the Guardian about the way audiences across the country and beyond are embracing the show. (You may remember I profiled producing company Heartefact in a previous edition). After that I went to Sofia, to see how the Ivan Vazov National Theatre of Bulgaria has impressively reinvented itself over the last couple of years, more of which below.
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What is the role of a national theatre? What should its function be? Its responsibility? Since Vasil Vasilev took over as General Manager of the Ivan Vazov National Theatre of Bulgaria, the theatre has gone through a significant shift. A series of internationally renowned artists have been invited to direct work on its stages and between 27th February and 2nd March, the theatre hosted NT Mini, its first showcase for international guests during which it was possible to see work by Robert Wilson, Jernej Lorenci and Timofei Kulyabin.
Founded in 1904, the Ivan Vazov National Theatre, named for one of Bulgaria’s most celebrated writers, known as the “patriarch of Bulgarian literature”, is housed in an opulent building in the centre of Sofia. It has three spaces - a 780 main house, a flexible chamber space capable of seating up to 125, and a small 89-seat studio. It has a permanent ensemble of 70.
Up until relatively recently, explains Vasilev, the theatre had not evolved much since the communist era. It remained, he says, secluded and set in its ways. He wanted to change that. “The idea is to get away from our past as an institution,” says Vasilev. He wants to place the theatre “within the European theatre frame” and make work that rather than looking back to the past, “reflects the present moment.”
In 2010, the Bulgarian government introduced a new model of subsidy which was tied to ticket sales, but this led predominantly to a period of increased commercialisation in theatre. Artistic quality was deprioritised.
Since Vasilev, himself a director, was appointed, he has set out to revitalise the institution. He has brought on board a team of people with long experience of working on the independent scene, and embraced new forms, including the theatre’s first promenade production by young director Boyan Kracholov, which starts outside and takes the audience into the theatre’s backstage areas including down into the space housing the theatre’s 100-year-old, still-in-use stage machinery.
And he has created a new international department, headed by Mladen Alexiev. Having previously worked on the independent scene as director and producer, Alexiev has pre-existing international connections. “When you work independently, you learn many things: how to manage projects, how to apply for funding, how to work with people differently.” He, in turn, has brought other people from the independent scene onto his team, striving for a “critical mass within the theatre.” Alexiev and his team have been tasked with opening up the institution “both in terms of inviting international directors, and touring, making connections and creating co-productions. We want to open a window and let in fresh air.” The Ivan Vazov National Theatre is, he says, “the oldest and most prestigious theatre institution in the country. We wanted to show that a contemporary way of working and programming is possible.” Later in the year audiences can expect to see work by artists including Javor Gardev, Declan Donnellan and John Malkovich.
The theatre has also put out an open call for creatives from various disciplines (more info here) to create work for the studio space, which received 70 applications from which three were selected, including the Bulgarian choreographer Galina Borisova. “We are open to new ideas. If you surprise us, you are welcome,” says Vasilev.
It's fair to say that the reaction to these changes have not been universally well-received. The theatre has faced harsh criticism from some quarters. There's a feeling that this process of internationalism is taking them away from being a true national theatre for Bulgaria, one that centres Bulgarian texts by Bulgarian directors. The showcase was similarly criticised for only featuring one Bulgarian director. (Galin Stoev doesn’t count apparently because he lives in France).
Vasilev Identifies two parallel reactions to the changes he’s implemented. There are people who have worked in the National for a long time, he says, who are not pleased with the fact "they have lost their privilege to work there." It’s natural to face some resistance, says Alexiev, but “we're not there for the internal power games, rather to make change happen.”
On the other hand, the audience numbers have grown, and actors’ salaries have been increased. (While ensemble members had a steady income, they used to be paid at the minimum rate). Alexiev also stresses that internationalising the programme doesn’t mean “Bulgarian directors suddenly don't have access to the stage.” It is, he says, a question of balance. There’s also a pedagogical aspect, he adds, to inviting “masters of theatre” to make work at the National. “It’s about raising the bar higher and inspiring new ways of looking at theatre and theatre-making in new generations.”
The Hague - a pageant of grotesques
What of the work? The showcase opened with Robert Wilson’s The Tempest, a commission of the previous leadership. I did not see this production but heard several people say that if you’ve seen Bob Wilson’s work before, you’ll know exactly what to expect from it, so take from that what you will. (Here is a gallery of images, if you’re interested).
However, I did see the rest of the programme, starting with The Hague by Ukrainian playwright Sasha Denisova, directed by Galin Stoev, a play which deals explicitly with the current war being waged by Russia with Ukraine. Denisova’s play envisions a future trial against Putin and his lackeys in the Hague tribunal for war crimes, as imagined by a young Ukrainian girl (played with incredible composure by Kremena Deyanov, a young actor still completing her studies).
The play features caricatures of prominent Russian figures – Vladislav Surkov, dead Wagner Group mercenary Yevgeny Prigozhin, Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov. They are played in a uniformly cartoonist fashion - a pageant of grotesques. Putin even puts in an appearance, played by Radena Vulkanova. Good as she is, it does feel like this was done to undermine him (just as the surtitles never capitalise his name) and as such feels clumsy.
Surkov goes around ranting about ‘Ukrainization’, which he defines as the Ukrainians’ false belief they are a nation, and claiming he is the mastermind of the conflict. A limbless soldier is reassured that his sacrifice will not be in vain, and he will be looked after by the Motherland before being booted unceremoniously off the stage.
Its mode of satire comes to feel grinding after a while, though this is somewhat relieved by more daft/fantastical aspects, like a group of Russian strongmen in orange prison boiler suits bedecked with feathers, dancing to Swan Lake. But the crucial tonal shift comes towards the end, where the young Ukrainian girl shows us her apartment where food and water are scarce, and they risk death every time they go outside. Denisova’s play invites us to think about what's it's like to hear the muffled screams of a loved one trapped under rubble, unable to help them, waiting for the screams to stop. It's a harrowing moment and a necessary counterweight to the brash, black comedy that came before. While the production was a bit sledgehammer-y (to the point it resulted in conversations about whether or not it constituted propaganda), when a country is being devasted by war, what other tools can you use?
Moby Dick – the wine-dark sea
Diana Dobreva’s production of Moby Dick has a hypnotic quality. It is wave-like in structure and also very visually striking, almost monochrome, with a moonlit beauty. Dobreva’s production makes significant use of projections to show us a deck full of whale blubber or the ink-dark ocean. Each tableau is beautifully composed, like a Japanese woodcut. An enormous whale heart looms into view like a planetoid. A model ship drifts across the stage. We even glimpse the great white whale, Moby Dick himself, digitally rendered like a constellation of stars.
The costuming (by Marina Raychinova) are similarly magnificent, all flowing black leather coats, skirts that shimmer like oil, capes studded with mussel shells, and tentacled appendages; Hristo Petkov’s imposing Ahab stomps around the stage with his ivory leg, which sometimes doubles as a mask, the mythic and spiritual elements of the text woven together as we shift from the deck of the Pequod to scenes of women waiting for the sea to claim their men or in, one of the few moments of levity, calculating a widow’s pension – which is not much when you have to deduct your husband's drink money (it may not sound funny, but it was in context).
The production’s episodic approach is akin to reading Herman Melville’s dense novel, in that some of these episodes are fascinating, some rather more challenging. There are some thrillingly percussive and propulsive moments and many others that might best be described as meditative. Throughout the production walks a line between the atmospheric and oppressive, occasionally veering towards the latter. The reliance on digital imagery, while often strikingly beautiful – particularly the shots of the crew plunging into water – detracts from its visceral potential. But even so, it casts an undeniable spell.
Orpheus – myth and meat
Jernej Lorenci, one of Slovenia’s most prominent directors, makes work that interlaces the mythic and the human. That’s very much the case here with his production of Orpheus, a commission of the previous artistic leadership but produced by the current team, premiering in 2022.
The back of the theatre is visible, the stage populated by a few chairs, a piano, a moveable platform and a small projection screen. The actors are dressed in black and some carry instruments of which they will make frequent use.
The first section hurtles through the Trojan war at a gallop, death following death following death. To illustrate the carnage, a piece of what looks convincingly like meat, is taken from a cool box, placed on an actor’s chest, and has arrows driven into it, until it looks like a kind of glistening porcupine. Meat, or something meat-like is also fed through a grinder, a very literal metaphor and an image that, with so much conflict taking place globally, feels horribly resonant.
Then the mood shifts. For the wedding of Orpheus and Eurydice, the house lights go up, the women strip off their mourning attire to reveal colourful dresses and the cast start reflecting on their own weddings. Later, in much the same way they will discuss family members they have lost. This interlacing of personal material into the text is very typical of Lorenci, a director who always foregrounds his process in interesting ways. These more personal sections are heavily improvised (the surtitles frequently gave up trying to follow the cast), and peppered with in-jokes, the actors clearly relishing them.
The wedding sequence continues with a rambling best man’s speech, a surprisingly emotive rendition of 1980s banger Felicità and lots of blue confetti.
After Eurydice succumbs to a serpent’s bite – a dot of red marker pen on her ankle – we are treated to a very long description of what happens to the body after death, the process of putrefaction, the lividity and rigor mortis, the drying of the humours of the eye.
Eurydice is pregnant in Lorenci’s adaptation – a microphone is used as an ultrasound wand and we hear the infant’s heartbeat.
Orpheus’ descent into the underworld is turned into an ordeal for the performer, who is obliged to walk on the spot on a plank of wood throughout the intermission before being dusted with ash and splashed with stage blood, his mouth gagged with tape and his hands bound to a speaker. Only afterward do I discover that the actor playing Orpheus, Plamen Dimov, was replacing an indisposed colleague and had stepped in to the role with only a few hours rehearsal, which given the physicality of the role, makes his performance doubly impressive.
Lorenci’s work is heavily intertextual, so we are treated to beautifully sung arias from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice and verse from Rainer Maria Rilke. Could the production benefit from being a little dramaturgically tighter, a little shorter than its current three hour running time? I mean, yes, perhaps. But I found the whole thing so exhilarating in its imagery, so layered, so rich, that I did not mind when it meandered and its final moments, in which Orpheus’ disembodied head is coated in clay and left to rotate slowly, while still calling out across time for his Eurydice (the only time he speaks, I think) is one that will linger with me.
Nora – screen time
Russian director Timofei Kulyabin’s Nora, his intensely contemporary take on Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, takes place on a specially constructed set on the National Theatre main stage, with the audience restricted to 50 per performance. This playing space has been divided horizontally with the actors performing behind a screen and under a display on which we can see the phone screens of all four characters. The vast majority of the communication between characters takes place via WhatsApp and Messenger with the occasional voice note thrown in for good measure.
Nora (Radina Kardzhilova) lives a comfortable life with a nanny to help with the kids. Her banker husband Torvald calls her his chipmunk and her biggest concern is learning the Tarantella in order to perform in front of his friends, much like a child playing dress-up.
Because the characters are frequently separated from each other – whether in cafes, in barber shops or offices - the bulk of communication takes place via smart phone. Torvald and Nora exchange smiling selfies and squirrel GIFs. Nora browses Amazon for Christmas decorations and the first thing she does after being contacted out of the blue by old friend Christine is check out her profile photo, zooming in on her face to see how time has treated her. Later Christine will post a selfie of her trying on a new suit on Instagram, deleting the first couple of pics before choosing the one that best presents the version of herself that she wants the world to see (#newlife #newjob etc). Frequently, the only sound we hear, except for tinny music through phone speakers, is the ping of notifications.
Torvald and Nora rarely talk outside these cutesy text exchanges, which are in contrast with the increasingly desperate and aggressive messages Nora is receiving from Krogstad. The stress of this manifests in a frenzied outburst during dance rehearsal where a yoga-panted Nora dances to the point of exhaustion all the while videoing herself for Ivan Yurukov’s Torvald.
He eventually reveals himself to be a coolly controlling creep far more concerned with his reputation than Nora’s feelings and needs, with her being, and, well, you know the rest.
In this, as in all the productions in the showcase, I was impressed by the skill and versatility of the ensemble and their ability to shape-shift from night to night. I know that’s the point of the repertory system, but it was still something to behold. Having said that, the fact that the actors in Nora do much of their emoting to their phones in this show, either typing or receiving messages, makes for an oddly dislocating experience as an audience member (and presumably for an actor too). The production is simultaneously incredibly technically sophisticated and immensely distancing - watching it sometimes feels like sitting opposite someone at dinner who won’t stop scrolling - and to keep track of the action you have to constantly bob your head up and down from the phones to the scenes beneath. And yet, frustrating as it was at times to experience, Kulyabin’s production inventively and accurately captures how we communicate today, our increased atomisation and how it impacts on relationships. In the end, Nora announces she is leaving Torvald via WhatsApp when he is standing in the room with her – the only way to reach him.
This week in European theatre
A round-up of festivals, premieres and other exciting upcoming events over the next seven days.
Dark Noon - Innovative Danish company Fix+Foxy, never ones to shy away from making audiences uncomfortable, bring their 2019 exploration of the myth of the American west - performed by a company of South African actors - to Manchester’s Aviva Studios from 6th-10th March. I wrote about the show in the very first edition of Café Europa.
Strawberry Field - The new play by acclaimed Finnish-Estonian writer Sofi Oksanen will be directed by her frequent collaborator Mika Myllyaho at the Finnish National Theatre, where the show premieres on 6th March. Audiences are promised “edge-of-your-seat twists."
The Laws – Eline Arbo directs an adaptation of Connie Palmen’s 1991 debut novel, now regarded as a modern Dutch classic. The novel depicts a woman’s seven encounters with seven men over seven years. Arbo’s adaptation opens at Internationaal Theatre Amsterdam on 10th March.
Thank you for reading! If you have any tips, thoughts or feedback, you can contact me on natasha.tripney@gmail.com