The hunger for ideas on the glutted theatre market

Save for a few remarks, the polemical article on contemporary Lithuanian theatre by the Polish theatre critic Lukasz Drewniak, published in Kulturos barai 11/2005, has received hardly any response. The problem, as it were, has “sunk into the sand”. There was a cultural programme on television, in which several interlocutors tried to provoke a debate regarding “the crisis in Lithuanian theatre” – without success, as each of them spoke in monologues. In general we tend to speak in monologues and find it difficult to strike up a dialogue. Even these monologues have recently become somewhat petty, fragmented, limited by personal interest and artistic taste. They lack the sense of the whole and a wish to look for partners in dialogue, thus making a productive discussion hardly possible. We live closed in our shells and communicate with each other from inside these shells. Some appreciate one artist, others another, some prefer to experiment, others simply to live in abundance.

It has been a long time since our critics carried on polemics about more distinct productions, let alone the everyday cares of our theatre. Even more general issues of contemporary theatre have ceased to arouse interest. For example, when the competition for the position of managing director of the National Drama Theatre was announced, did anybody discuss in public the vision of this theatre and the means of putting it into life? The topic of discussion was focused solely on personalities, as we have already reconciled ourselves to the fact that the artistic programme of a theatre is an abstract thing that can be adjusted on demand. Nobody asks theatre artists their opinion, and if somebody does, it is only incidentally, as their opinion has no influence on the decisions taken. Another example is the Theatre Law. It is impeccable in the legal respect, but ineffective and even faulty in practice: state theatres transformed into budgetary institutions are restricted in their activity, and the independent ones have no guarantee of survival. Theatre managers discuss these problems only behind the scenes, and critics avoid them. However, to talk about contemporary theatre and leave out this issue is short-sighted. Not because the quality of art is determined by money or legal status, but because the conditions of existence influence any theatre and even censure its artistic activity.

To raise the problems and try to analyze them by discussing a wider context – this is what our theatre critics busy with reviewing or announcing productions lack most of all. The author of the article mentioned above, Lukasz Drewniak, deserves respect not because he said something that we have not been aware of, but because he has thrown down the gauntlet to our critics. We should try to take it up.

I do not agree with Drewniak’s statement that the image of Lithuanian theatre on the European theatre market has declined. Patriotic ambitions aside, objective assessment of the situation says that this interest is relative in principle, as it depends on who is interested and in whom. For example, Eimuntas Nekrosius firmly occupies the leading positions in Italy and Russia. On the other hand, Nekrosius has never been and probably never will be the focus of attention in Germany or France, let alone Great Britain. Conversely, Oskaras Korsunovas is quite successful in selling his shows on the markets of France, Germany, and some Scandinavian countries. The New Theatre Reality prize due to be received by Korsunovas in Italy this spring will probably consolidate his positions there too. Rimas Tuminas attracts the interest of theatre people not only in Russia and Poland, but also in Great Britain. This is to name the most important countries in which Lithuanian theatre has been and still is highly acclaimed.

The Lithuanian theatre market formed during the last ten years has literally been flooded with quality production, which was successfully exported to foreign countries. Then came the period of the division of territories. Having “assimilated” them, directors now spare no effort to keep them. When any of them is invited to produce a production abroad, normally it is in “their own” territory. International recognition helped each director to create his trademark, which, once on the market, should be properly maintained. It is common both to Nekrosius’ archaic visions and to Korsunovas’ innovations, which at first aroused surprise and contradictory opinions, and now are eagerly bought as artifacts of theatrical culture.

The division of the inner market was taking place simultaneously. Like in other countries, in Lithuanian theatre the “highs” and “lows” were separated, with the only difference that in this country the gap between them turned out to be larger than elsewhere. Thus Drewniak is right in asserting that “the minor league of theatre does not exist in Lithuania”, a league in which professional directors would produce productions guaranteeing the normal artistic level of theatres. It does not exist, because in fact the profession of theatre director is not taught here. During the last decade, the creators of Lithuanian theatre have been self-taught directors, managers, playwrights. Actors’ productions try to compensate for the lack of professional directors. Particularly state theatres, most often led by actors, fill their repertoires with this kind of production. They have their own audience and satisfy its needs. However, under the management of actors, the outdated system of work relations keeps functioning as a kind of shelter. Though everyone understands perfectly that the system itself has degenerated and that companies that cannot be restructured and renewed have no future, nobody ventures to change the situation, as the heads of the theatres and culture politicians lack courage and will. Theatres led by actors live as if in the nineteenth century, though Lithuanian theatre itself is famous as a citadel of the art of directing.

The system of our theatres is reminiscent of a cramped boxing ring, where the contestants fight without rules. The number of theatres (to be more exact, venues) in the Lithuanian capital is inversely proportionate to the number of theatre people. Thus all theatres fight for their place under the sun. Those that have power win, enjoying a chance to present their productions. Other theatres have to “squeeze” their shows into the gaps of the repertoires of state theatres, paying a considerable price. Most often independent representatives of the “major” league are compelled to act this way; their status and name come in handy for state theatres that profit not only from the inflated rent, but also from the attention of the audience. Today, we can assert with confidence that it is only thanks to the efforts of Oskaras Korsunovas’s theatre, the Vilnius Small Theatre, and Meno Fortas, whose productions at the National Drama Theatre have been gathering full houses, that the most important venue of Lithuanian theatre has not deteriorated for good. It was the theatres that appeared in the first decade of independence that indirectly taught the state theatres to plan their repertoire and build their advertising strategy. In “reward” for their “lessons” they were gradually ousted as undesirable rivals. The term “private theatre” appeared in the theatrical vocabulary, implying that the fate of such theatres, regardless of their activity, is their “private” business. It has also been legitimized in the theatre law: the categorization of theatres according to their founders accounts for disregarding the nature of their activity. It resulted in a situation where state theatres hunting for larger profits do not avoid commercial productions of dubious value, while “private theatres” maintain the high professional level and artistic reputation of Lithuanian theatre.

Sometimes we like to boast that Lithuania is represented in the world by basketball and theatre. Basketball does not lack the attention of the authorities and society. Theatre is another thing. During the first decade of independence, not a single theatrical venue was built, and none of the culture ministers has even considered if there was any demand for it. Rimas Tuminas is the only director who, thanks to his ingenuity and political backing, managed to build his own theatre, which has already become a symbol of contemporary facade culture. The condition of stage equipment is deplorable as well. So far, only the National Drama Theatre has updated its equipment in the big hall. In some venues, shows are sometimes cancelled due to the failure of the worn-out equipment. And if a foreign production is invited to Lithuania, quite often the large part of the equipment must be rented, as theatres cannot provide it.

It is also high time to begin to talk about the “republics” of the production departments that have been formed in some state theatres. They have their own laws and prices for services and rental of equipment, about which the theatre management is (or prefers to be) ignorant. The most powerful “republic” of this kind exists at the representational National Drama Theatre, and so far none of the heads of the theatre have succeeded in eliminating it.

The approval of the reduced tax rate for tickets to cultural events has caused a strong reaction. However, it is only one more political show, since the reduced tax rate will mainly be advantageous to the organizers of commercial cultural events. Obviously it is not going to make tickets any cheaper, as their prices are determined by demand, and commercial events cannot complain about the lack of it. Unfortunately, theatres, not being payers of VAT, have been deceived this time as well. Such state solutions only increase the economic gap between profit-oriented and non-commercial culture. I agree that the prices of tickets, particularly to the shows of foreign and independent theatres, are rather high. But it is because these theatres or festivals have to cover out of their revenue expenses not compensated by the partial support of the state or sponsors. A considerable part of these expenses consists of the rent of venues and the payment of artistic fees. State theatres do not have to pay them, if they present their shows on their own stages and do not invite actors from elsewhere. Thus state theatres may invest their revenue in new productions, while hardly anything is left for the independent ones. Minimal tax reduction is not going to solve anything until the question about the spread of non-commercial culture is not solved in principle. So far, independent theatres have to rely on international tours as the basic source of their existence, as well as a kind of “revenge” to the state theatres, whose staff actors are taken away on tours.

The system of Lithuanian theatres is distorted, and to bring it back to the normal would be like cleaning the Augean stables.

Quite often theatre people from abroad are surprised that our best directors do not put on productions in state theatres. I will not go into explanations about the fault of the management of these theatres – it is a subjective issue. Yet, as far as I know, state theatres do not invite them. Certainly, these directors do not complain about it, as they have to maintain their own structures; besides, it is always better to work with their own creative team. The gap between the state and “private” theatres that appeared during the last decade seems to be unsurpassable. However, there are certain forms of collaboration of different theatres, mutually advantageous, which have not been practiced here. For example, Korsunovas offered to give his Master and Margarita to the National Drama Theatre almost for free, along with the financing of its production and the right to present this production in Lithuania. The offer was rejected. I have just seen the latest production by �rp�d Schilling in Budapest, staged by his independent Kretakor theatre in collaboration with Katona, one of the most respectable theatres in Hungary, on the initiative of the latter. It is an experimental production, which looks provoking on the main stage of Katona, but the theatre management is happy, and the majority of the audience enthusiastically supports this experiment.

The world practice shows that the profit of co-production is not only financial. It may pave the way for cooperation with an interesting director or increase the international prestige of the theatre. Yet destitute state theatres most often think only about the practical profit, not about prestige. Besides, they find it undignified to bow down in front of a “conceited” director. The former management of the National Drama Theatre took an overtly hostile position: those who are not with us are against us. We have plenty of bitter experience with personal ambitions shaping the policy of theatres.

It will not be improper to recall that the New Drama Action gave not only ideological, but also financial assistance to some theatre companies for producing very diverse productions, such as Shopping and F******, The Distant Country, Madagascar, and others, though the festival itself did not seek any financial profit and only aimed to incorporate new dramaturgy into the repertoires of theatres. It is nice that theatres themselves took up this process, and today we no longer feel the lack of new dramaturgy.

I am talking about the process rather than personalities. In Lithuania till now this process has been determined by personal ambitions and interests. Long-term management ideas are in great demand.

It is often said that Eimuntas Nekrosius represents Lithuanian theatre, and, sometimes, even world culture in general. What conditions for creative work does this director have in Lithuania? Several rehearsal rooms and partial funding for a production assigned annually. If foreign co-producers did not give twice as much, his productions would not be staged at all. Once they are staged, the managers have to think hard where to present them, even with a financial loss. One has an impression that if Nekrosius did not produce and present productions in Lithuania, nobody would even notice and would probably say, “Well, the man grew tired…”. In the words of the highest official of the Ministry of Culture, The Seasons is not performed, as Nekrosius himself “might not really be satisfied with it”. Then perhaps Nekrosius is not satisfied with his Macbeth either, and Korsunovas with his Oedipus Rex. These productions also are on the verge of extinction. But not because their artistic level is doubtful – presenting them brings losses due to the high rent of the venues.

All that is conditioned by a new priority of our cultural politics: building the culture market. Yet this market is being built according to the principle that the value of a product is dictated by consumers’ demands. For all the encouragement to create marketable culture, it is often forgotten that the value of such culture is relative. While trying to meet market criteria, culture turns into a short-lived product of consumption. Market fluctuations depend on fashion, which has a growing influence on the system of values of contemporary consumers of culture. It refers not only to the phenomena of entertainment culture. Such dependence affects all spheres of culture, unfortunately, one-sidedly. In theatre, this process manifests itself in two ways. On one hand, alternative phenomena of theatre in a way are also subject to the market, which neutralizes their polemical passion and turns them into merely fashionable. While adoring social criticism and authentic artistic innovations, the market manages to multiply them and adapt to various contexts, whose differences are rapidly disappearing. On the other hand, theatre overtaken with the paranoiac fear of losing the audience chooses the tried-and-tested marketing strategies. Theatre is becoming pragmatic and predictable, and the phenomena that cannot adapt themselves to the market and do not meet its criteria are doomed to disappear. “Everything unusual will be lost”, one of the leaders of contemporary European theatre Johan Simson sadly stated at a colloquium held by Theaterfestival 2003, adding that theatre “cannot be estimated by economic profit only”.

In contemporary Lithuanian theatre, a “full house” rather than ideas becomes the top value.

During the last decade, our theatres turned their backs on reforms. The beginning was marked by the ambitious, though unsuccessful experiment by Ruta Vanagaite to renew the Youth Theatre, followed by Jonas Jurasas’s reformatory attempt to return to the Kaunas Drama Theatre. The cycle was ended by the ostensive expulsion of Jonas Vaitkus from the Academic Drama Theatre, with the apparent purpose of rehabilitating the “traditions” of this theatre, which were already floundering by that time. There were no more enthusiasts to carry on reforms.

Like in the life of the state, in the theatre the generation that reached creative maturity during the first decade of independence must still wait at the door. Korsunovas, who had “dried up” too quickly, was expelled from the Academic Drama Theatre, though he wanted to work at this theatre and also would have given it new creative impulses; now the management of the Youth Theatre did the same thing with Cezaris Grauzinis and his actors. The sole representative of this generation, Gintaras Varnas, has recently begun to lead the Kaunas State Drama Theatre. It is an eloquent fact indicating that a shift is yet to come.

Contemporary Lithuanian theatre, incapable of structural and aesthetic renewal because of a variety of reasons, has become an assembly line moving in a closed circuit.

One has to agree with Drewniak’s statement: “Lithuanian theatre is idling – it is still rolling along because of acceleration, but lacks energy for a new breakthrough.” No energy is left in state theatres focused solely on survival and adaptation to the market. Recently, the repertoires of state theatres have become assimilated to such an extent that almost none of the more distinct individual accents have been left. Without being able to choose their legal status and close employment contracts, theatres have turned into state-run factories.

The pressure of the market has had an effect on the creative form of its leading figures as well. Was it not the reason why Korsunovas grew so exhausted that his Remarkable and Sorrowful Story of Romeo and Juliet looked like the swansong of the entire work by this director? Since this production, Korsunovas has not yet found the energy to resume. Nekrosius has also experienced a similar crisis several times before. The first one coincided not only with his quitting the Youth Theatre, but also with the necessity to pull himself together after his dizzying international “flight”. The second one was marked by the peak of his Shakespearean trilogy, after which Nekrosius wisely decided to “land” at the basics of directing in his production of The Seasons and The Song of Songs. There is no sight of a new breakthrough in Tuminas’s work either – burdened by the responsibility of opening the Small Theatre, the director produced the occasional Three Sisters as a kind of collection of his earlier shows. Certainly, it would be too one-sided to assert that the creative curves of the above mentioned directors are shaped exclusively by the market, but its influence cannot be denied.

There is a different kind of pressure as well. Self-respecting directors realize that their theatres will begin to deteriorate if they do not produce productions there. To a certain extent, they are right, as there is no one who could take their place. Nekrosius, Tuminas, and Korsunovas are experiencing this pressure. Having become director of the Kaunas Drama Theatre, Varnas has also experienced it. The different status of these theatres basically does not reflect on the problem. Creative fatigue can be felt in the newest productions of our leading directors and can be predicted from their increasing “detours” to foreign theatres. This is the cause of the “hyperactivity” mentioned by Drewniak, when “directors overwork, because they must give work to their actors, fill the repertoire, go to as many international festivals as possible, and take care of themselves as well.” Theatre is deprived of the possibility to breathe normally, while the burden of responsibility and the fear of making a mistake drain the directors of the energy to search for new ideas. Such is the cost of the image, but it is hardly worth paying it.

To create something new, to my mind, is now possible only if we go to sit at the table again. Having regained our peace and having stopped fussing around in search of a quick result. We must learn to create again rather than simply stage productions. The know-how is an obstacle. Each of us has learned to do – and is doing – something well. We are shunning our normal and natural fear, which arises when we encounter new material. We send away this fear and dispose of it with the help of the craft. But natural fear (though it may not be the most suitable word) should encourage our wish for a deeper understanding and getting the feel of the material. The craft can only guarantee repetition.

These thoughts by Anatoly Efros are particularly urgent today, when “a quick result” has become the guarantee of the survival of theatres.

Talking about the necessity to “sit at the table”, Efros had in mind not merely rehearsals at the table, but creative motivation. Indifference to this motivation is obvious in many contemporary shows, including not only the bad or mediocre ones, but also those that have won international recognition. Theatre productions made out of responsibility for the market or repertoire leave out creative motivation. In general, it is unfashionable to talk about creative motivation of contemporary theatre. However, it is not a mere rhetorical or theoretical concept. It is related to the idea of renewal of theatre, as only the changing and searching theatre can be meaningful. While talking about renewal, the modernity of the theatre idiom is most often meant. However, modernity has also become a clich�, and the newness of the theatre idiom is relative. Neither new plays, nor contemporary entourage by itself, is going to renew theatre.

Today the most creative theatre artists of the new generation are not asking how to be contemporary. They are interested in a more naive question – why is theatre necessary in general?

“The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images” – this thesis by French culturologist Guy Debord1 sounds like an appeal to Lithuanian theatre, for which this kind of relationship is most needed. The majority of our productions are hermetic “collections of images”, for which spectators are necessary only as passive observers who can pay for their tickets. A true mutual relationship between the production and the audience is a rarity in contemporary theatre. This absence arouses nostalgia for the past to quite many theatre people. I am not talking about the flirtation with the audience and primitive provocations of the creative team. The kind of relationship that really matters in theatre is the one that can help the actors and the audience to become partners and understand something new about themselves and the surrounding world. No other form of contemporary culture can offer this possibility, even though they seek it. An obvious example is the sublimation of theatre on TV. Various reality shows reveal the need of contemporary individuals to communicate and participate rather than remain mere observers.

Recently I have been in communication with two directors from different countries, though both of them are close in the creative respect and both have won international recognition – the Finn Kristian Smeds and the Hungarian �rp�d Schilling. Our audience knows them quite well – the productions of Uncle Vanya and Woyzeck by Smeds and Baal, The Seagull, and The Black Country by Schilling have been presented in Vilnius. For those accustomed to the astounding conceptions of directing and radical interpretations, it may seem strange that a director does not have a preconceived vision of the production and is trying to discover it together with the actors. What the actors think and care about not only in theatre, but also in life, becomes the basis of the production, and a meeting with the audience corrects its images. The Seagull and The Black Country by Schilling were created
in this way – the actors’ collective improvisation helped to find various artistic solutions. Schilling is also looking for the means of communication between the actors and the audience in his latest production of Before and After (based on the play by Roland Schimmelpfennig). A result of the collective work of the actors and the audience is “Three Sisters” by Smeds – a many-layered production generalizing the director’s work in Finland. At present, Smeds is rehearsing quite a different production in Vilnius, entitled Sad Songs from the Heart of Europe, in which he is also looking for the ways to liberate the actors’ creativity and turn the audience into a participant of the production.

The case of Kristian Smeds may be interesting as a tandem of a playwright and a director. Smeds studied playwriting, and then took up directing. His artistic visions and writing skills help him to create a very original kind of theatre, not simply adapting well-known classical works, but creatively integrating them into a totally new dramaturgical and theatrical text. While writing his text, Smeds registers the problematic of the present time and adjusts it to the actors whom he has chosen. Anyway, everything begins from the actors’ improvisations, which contribute greatly to the form of the text.

This method of creating dramaturgy has not yet been discovered in Lithuania. Or it has already been forgotten – in fact, Nekrosius, assisted by the dramatist Saulius Saltenis, developed it in his earliest productions. The evolution of contemporary theatre has actualized this form. It has become evident in the works of not only the young directors Smeds and Schilling, but also world-famous theatre artists such as Frank Castorf, Christoph Marthaler, or Robert Lepage. It is not only one of the several means of creating dramaturgy, but also a kind of opposition to theatrical “representation”, when the audience is offered fixed images and meanings.

It is not enough to produce new plays. New ideas of the interaction of dramaturgy and theatre are needed.

Robert Lepage, one of the visionaries of contemporary theatre, asserts:

The writing starts when you perform and it’s a difficult thing to comprehend for a lot of people in this field of work because we’re used to the traditional hierarchy of the author, and then the script being put into the hands of the director who re-shapes it, or re-moulds it, or tries to squeeze or apply his concepts onto it. Then the actors, who have their own way of interpreting it, squeeze their feelings, emotions, and intuitions into the script. And once the guillotine of the opening night happens, all the creativity stops on that evening. Everything is supposed to be frozen, wrapped, sealed, and delivered to the audience, which has paid and wants to have its money’s worth. I have always believed […] that writing starts the night that you start performing. Before that, at what people usually call rehearsals, we structure and improvise. The writing should be the last thing we do. In theatre it should be the traces of what you’ve done on the stage.2

This is not to say that this form of writing undermines the significance of new dramaturgy in theatre and places the dramatist on the lower step of the traditional hierarchy. On the contrary, it opens new possibilities and actualizes the dramatist’s role in theatre, and he or she becomes a member of the creative team with equal rights. What is even more important, writing understood in this way also becomes the actors’ concern, and one of the basic tasks of the director is to be able to encourage the actors’ need for this kind of work and find the means of putting it into life. Here is an excerpt from the description of �rp�d Schilling’s project that will be carried out in Vilnius this spring:

An actor must become a well-motivated creator, rather than being an interpreter. He must muster up not only his entire talent, but also his knowledge. Everything is important: knowledge of other languages, the knack of dancing and making music, a keen sense of fine arts, historical and political knowledge, understanding of different periods and styles of theatre, communication skills.

These thoughts are not new, but as they come from one of the leaders of the new generation of theatre artists, it is worthwhile to reflect on them. What makes it even more interesting is the fact that these thoughts belong to the director who is sometimes accused of exploiting his actors while staging his visions. This accusation came through after Schilling’s productions Baal and The Black Country were presented in Vilnius at a different time; the radical Woyzeck, performed in various European countries, also caused similar comments. However, those who are more familiar with the principles of work of Schilling’s Kretakor Theatre will understand what he has in mind when he says: “It is dangerous to rely solely on your own visions in theatre. I find it important to see the shining eyes of the actors, because then I understand that, I am on the right track. The theatrical experiments of Kretakor express the general reflection of our company.”

A true experiment in theatre can only be collective. Kretakor is an excellent example – it reminds us of the early theatrical experiments by Peter Brook, when he travelled around the world with a group of like-minded friends seeking to know himself better and find new energy. Afterwards Brook made an important conclusion:

A “directorial conception” is an image which precedes the first day’s work, while a “sense of direction” crystallizes into an image at the very end of the process. The director needs only one conception – which he must find in life, not in art – which comes from asking himself what an act of theatre is doing in the world, why it is there.3

It is this “sense of direction” that serves as the creative credo of Kretakor. Schilling understands the development of his company similarly – as a search for constant renewal. He is inspired by “meetings helping us to know ourselves better”. Thus this director does not aim to create a unique style for his theatre, and his shows may be very different from each other.

It is important to understand that the concept of a group of like-minded persons is devalued when they lose their creative motivation to be together. An artistic leader alone is not enough to encourage this motivation if the work is closed in theatre. In today’s changeable life and theatre we should be able to accept other experiences, to open up for new challenges without any preconceptions. The closed and self-satisfied Lithuanian theatre seems not to be ready for this kind of challenge.

The renewal of contemporary theatre is hardly imaginable without the work with actors and the audience – it is proved by world practice. Without this work, a director’s attempts to stage new dramaturgical texts become vain. No matter what artistic trend the director practices – classical, as Schilling in The Seagull, or ultra-modern, as in Rimini Protocol – the actors’ creative existence on the stage along with their roles and the audience is a means to grasping the present time. It must be acknowledged that in our theatre the tradition of directorial dramaturgy has not encouraged the evolution of actors and creative diversity. Perhaps this could be the direction of creative search of the new generation of Lithuanian theatre artists? The beginning seems to be there – the experiments of the Cezaris Group, some productions by Agnius Jankevicius, the first work by Aidas Giniotis with his students. Valentinas Masalskis is also developing this trend in his own way, newly revealing the already familiar actors.

There is one more problem – the torpor of a creating personality. It was precisely described by one of the most original jazz musicians of our times, Keith Jarett, in his foreword to the symbolically titled album “Changeless”:

The shedding of identity complexes is one of the last things an artist thinks of when he wants to be “recognized”. In art, it seems that personality is king. But personality is something we’ve chosen (to surround our essential nature) and are attached to. We may need it when we’re young, but it becomes a habit. The fear is that we lose our way if we dispose of our personality. Actually we only lose a crutch. We aren’t free until then.4

I do not think that the problems named here are going to be solved in the immediate future. I do not have any illusions that our theatre is going to change more rapidly than it is objectively possible. Moreover, we live in the times when ideas give way to the pragmatic concern for survival. Yet I think that each attempt to put these ideas into life, even an unsuccessful one, is worth the effort. Simply because nothing valuable has been created out of fullness.