Moscow Theatres for Young People: A Cultural History of Ideological Coercion and Artistic Innovation, 1917-2000 (Palgrave Studies in Theatre and Performance History)

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Moscow Theatres for Young People

“Palgrave Studies in Theatre and Performance History” is a series devoted to the best of theatre/performance scholarship currently available, accessible, and free of jargon. It strives to include a wide range of topics, from the more traditional to those performance forms that in recent years have helped broaden the understanding of what theatre as a category might include (from variety forms as diverse as the circus and burlesque to street buskers, stage magic, and musical theatre, among many others). Although historical, critical, or analytical studies are of special interest, more theoretical projects, if not the dominant thrust of a study, but utilized as important underpinning or as a historiographical or analytical method of exploration, are also of interest. Textual studies of drama or other types of less traditional performance texts are also germane to the series if placed in their cultural, historical, social, or political, and economic context. There is no geographical focus for this series and works of excellence of a diverse and international nature, including comparative studies, are sought. The editor of the series is Don B. Wilmeth (EMERITUS, Brown University), Ph.D., University of Illinois, who brings to the series over a dozen years as editor of a book series on American theatre and drama, in addition to his own extensive experience as an editor of books and journals. He is the author of several award-winning books and has received numerous career achievement awards, including one for sustained excellence in editing from the Association for Theatre in Higher Education. Also in the series: Undressed for Success by Brenda Foley Theatre, Performance, and the Historical Avant-garde by Günter Berghaus Theatre, Politics, and Markets in Fin-de-Siècle Paris by Sally Charnow Ghosts of Theatre and Cinema in Brain by Mark Pizzato Moscow Theatres for Young People by Manon van de Water Absence and Memory in Colonial American Theatre by Odai Johnson

Moscow Theatres for Young People: A Cultural History of Ideological Coercion and Artistic Innovation, 1917–2000

Manon van de Water

MOSCOW THEATRES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

© Manon van de Water, 2006. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. First published in 2006 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN™ 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 and Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England RG21 6XS Companies and representatives throughout the world. PALGRAVE MACMILLAN is the global academic imprint of the Palgrave Macmillan division of St. Martin’s Press, LLC and of Palgrave Macmillan Ltd. Macmillan® is a registered trademark in the United States, United Kingdom and other countries. Palgrave is a registered trademark in the European Union and other countries. ISBN 1–4039–7298–2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Water, Manon van de. Moscow theatres for young people : a cultural history of ideological coercion and artistic innovation, 1917–2000 / Manon van de Water. p. cm. — (Palgrave studies in theatre and performance history) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1–4039–7298–2 (alk. paper) 1. Theater and state—Russia (Federation)—Moscow. 2. Theater—Political aspects—Russia (Federation)—Moscow. 3. Children’s theater—Russia (Federation)—Moscow. I. Title. II. Series. PN2045.C6W38 2006 792’.0947’31—dc22

2005048287

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Design by Newgen Imaging Systems (P) Ltd., Chennai, India. First edition: April 2006 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America.

To Dave, Karlijn, and Max

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Contents x List of Illustrations

ix

Note on Transliteration

xi

Selected Glossary of Terms Credits

xiii xv

Acknowledgments

xvii

Introduction

1 I The Soviet Period

1. From Marxism–Leninism to Perestroika and Glasnost 2. The Historical Role and Cultural Function of Russian Theatre for Young Audiences 3. Thaw and Freeze

17 41 63

II Perestroika and Glasnost 4. The Change in Cultural Function with Glasnost and Perestroika 5. Central Children’s Theatre 6. The Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator

87 113 137

viii

Contents

III A New Millenium 7. Cultural Shifts and Theatrical Innovation 8. Shaking the Past: The Russian Academic Youth Theatre 9. Provoking Assumptions: Kama Ginkas at the Mtiuz

167 187 207

Afterword

235

Notes

241

Bibliography

267

Index

293

List of Illustrations x 2.1

A Tale about Tales. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown 3.1 My friend Kolka! 1959. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown 5.1 Pitfall Size 46, Medium. 1986. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo by B. Kravets 5.2 Dream to be Continued. 1986. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo by B. Kravets 5.3 Ivanushka-the-fool. 1988. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown 6.1 Dog’s Heart. 1987. Mtiuz. Photo credit unknown 8.1 Façade of the Central Children’s Theatre. 2000. Photographed by author 9.1 Genrietta Ianovskaia and Kama Ginkas Photo by Elena Lapina and Andrei Turusov 9.2 The Storm. 1997. Mtiuz. Photo by Ken Reynolds 9.3 K.I. from “Crime.” 1994. Mtiuz. Photo by Viktor Bazhenov 9.4 Pushkin. Duel. Death. 1999. Mtiuz. Photo by Ken Reynolds 9.5 The Black Monk: 1999. Mtiuz. Photo by Elena Lapina

61 72 115 118 123 142 188 208 210 219 225 229


Note on Transliteration x

T

hroughout the text of this book I have employed “System II,” the Library of Congress system with the diacritical marks omitted as described in J. Thomas Shaw, The Transliteration of Modern Russian for English-Language Publications. In my opinion “System II” is the most consistent system of transliteration from Cyrillic into a non-Cyrillic alphabet. To enhance the readability of the text for non-Russian speaking specialists, I omitted the cumbersome soft signs (’) in words and names in the main text (Glasnost instead of Glasnost’, Olga instead of Ol’ga). Widely used transliterations of proper names and words that are inconsistent with this system are retained in their popular form (Yeltsin instead of Eltsin, Soviet instead of Sovet). Shaw affirms that for the purpose of this study the use of two systems is not inconsistent, however: “words as words and all citations of bibliographical material should be transliterated according to System II” (4). All translations, unless otherwise indicated, are mine.


Selected Glossary of Terms x Agitprop Assitej

The Bolshoi Glasnost Glavrepertkom Gostsentiuz

KGB Komsomol Kultpokhody Lentiuz or Leningrad Tiuz Magnitizdat The Maly MKhat Mtiuz or Moscow Tiuz Narkompros New Russians

agitation and propaganda Association Internationale du Théâtre pour l’Enfance et la Jeunesse, Association of Theatre for Children and Youth The Moscow Bolshoi Theatre publicity, openness, the act of making known chief repertory committee, 1929–1953 Gosudarstvennyi tsentral’nyi teatr iunogo zritelia, State Central Theatre of the Young Spectator Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopastnosti, State Security Committee Communist youth organization for youth aged 15–27 years old cultural field trips Leningrad Theatre of the Young Spectator self-made, illegal tape recordings Moscow Maly Theatre Moscow Art Theatre Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator Narodnyi Komissariat Prosveshcheniia, Commissariat of Enlightenment Russia’s nouveaux riches, who present themselves as cultured and sophisticated, cf. note 10 in chapter 7

xiv

Selected Glossary of Terms

NEP Nravstvennost Oktiabriata Perestroika Pioneers RAMT

Samizdat

Tamizdat

Tiuz TEO Zavlit

New Economic Policy, 1921–1927, cf. note 14 in chapter 2 moral(s), cf. note 12 in chapter 4 Soviet children’s organization for youth aged 6–9 years old reform, restructuring, reorganization Soviet youth organization for youth aged 10–14 years old Rossiiskii Akademicheskii Molodezhnyi Teatr, The Russian Academic Youth Theatre “self-publishing,” the unofficial copying and circulating of underground manuscripts “over there publishing,” the publication of controversial manuscripts in the West, translated or in original language Teatr Iunogo Zritelia, Theatre of the Young Spectator Teatral’nyi Otdel, Theatre Department at the Narkompros zaveduiushchii literaturno-dramaticheski chasti, literary manager

Credits x Illustrations printed by permission of the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Mtiuz/New Generation Theatre.


Acknowledgments x

I

t has been more than a decade since I started researching and writing this book, the completion of which would have been impossible without the assistance of numerous people at various institutions, who generously lent me their time and shared their insights. I would like to thank Margaret Knapp, Michal Kobialka, and Rolf Ekmanis who early on pointed me to what became the ideological framework of this book. Roger Bedard’s encouragement and insights in theatre for children and youth kept me on track. Kathy Krzys, head of the Child Drama Archives at Arizona State University, provided me with a wealth of catalogued and uncatalogued archival material on Soviet theatre for young audiences and kept me updated on new material. During my on-site research in Moscow, I was assisted by many wonderful people. Galina Kolosova, then executive secretary of ASSITEJ/ Russia, introduced me to Moscow’s theatres for children and youth, and provided valuable insights in the contemporary theatrical developments in Russia. Ira, Lida, and Marina, working at ASSITEJ/Russia, kept me warm and sane. I thank all the people who granted me formal and informal interviews and opened the doors to the theatres for me. A special thanks to Tatiana Levanshina, Ksenia Levitskaia, Anna Mikhailova, Nika Dzandieri, Giia Kitiia, Mikhail Bartenev; the zavlit and pedagogue of the Moscow Tiuz, Marina Smelianskaia and Svetlana Platonova; the personnel of the Theatre Library on the Bolshaia Dmitrovka (formerly Pushkin) street; and, the pedagogues at the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT, Vera Khabalova, Irina Brovkina, Irma Safarova, Iuliia Farmakovskaia, and Margarita Tikhonova, as well as the zavlit of the theatre, Elena Dolgina. Genrietta Ianovskaia and

xviii

Acknowledgments

Kama Ginkas, artistic director and director of the Mtiuz, I thank for inviting me to rehearsals and productions, and for sharing their artistic insights. The company of my Slavist friends, Nony Verschoor, Katja Logger, and Petra Couvée, during my last research trips was a blessing and I am grateful for their assistance and insightful observations. Finally, I have to thank Sally Banes, who encouraged me to complete and submit the manuscript, and Don Wilmeth and Melissa Nosal for their belief in this book. The on-site research for this book was only possible with considerable grants. I am indebted to Dr. S. Rosen, previous Dean of the College of Fine Art at Arizona State University; the Graduate Student Research Development Program at Arizona State University; and the Graduate School of the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Research for this study was also supported by a grant from the International Research and Exchanges Board, with funds provided by the U.S. Department of State (Title VIII) and the National Endowment of the Humanities. None of these organizations is responsible for the views expressed. I cannot express how much I owe to Dave, whose proofreading skills, unqualified support, and technical assistance in my many computer battles were at times the only thing that kept me going. And to Karlijn and Max who remind me of life outside academe. This book is for them.

Introduction x

I

n the former Soviet Union, and especially in Moscow, professional theatre for young audiences has traditionally been an important institution. The power of theatre, and its ability to teach ideology from a political perspective, has been recognized since the early years of the revolution. Theatre for young audiences functioned essentially as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, reflecting and perpetuating the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism. However, the rapid changes in material circumstances—political, social, cultural, and economic— which started in the mid-1980s with the rise of Gorbachev and his launch of Glasnost and Perestroika, significantly challenged the traditional Soviet ideology, affecting all areas of life (Woodby and Evans 6). This book examines how the traditional ideological function and cultural position of theatre for young audiences was adapted to ideological and cultural shifts and how these changes are reflected in the repertory and practices of two of the oldest theatres for young audiences in Moscow, the Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator (Mtiuz) and the former Central Children’s Theatre, now the Russian Academic Youth Theatre (RAMT). I look at these changes through the lenses of cultural history, that is, with an eye on both phenomenological events in the theatre and the material circumstances that generated these events. Since the October Revolution of 1917, which marked the beginning of seventy-three years of a communist regime in the Soviet Union, the acknowledged purpose of theatre for young audiences (or Tiuz— “Teatr Iunogo Zritelia,” literally Theatre of the Young Spectator—as it is usually called) has been to contribute to the ideological and aesthetic education of young Soviet citizens (Shpet, Sovetskii 4).

2


Two major studies in English on theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union have, unfortunately, remained unpublished. Both studies are valuable from a historical perspective, showing how the theatre for young audiences reflected and responded to the development of the dominant Soviet/communist ideology in its various stages, from the October Revolution until after WWII. Gene Sosin, in his 1958 dissertation, gives a comprehensive overview of the development of theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union from its inception in 1917 until Stalin’s death in 1953. Sosin states that “the purpose of children’s theatre and drama in the USSR is to contribute to the cultural and ideological training of the young Soviet citizen” (1), and he distinguishes six time periods: 1) before 1925, when theatre for young audiences, like its adult counterpart, was primarily nonpolitical; (2) during the late 1920s, when the broad ideals of socialism and the struggle, both at home and abroad, of the proletariat against the bourgeoisie was emphasized; 3) the period of industrialization and collectivization from 1928 to 1936; 4) the mid-and late 1930s, a time of cultivation for the new ethics of Soviet communism—love of the fatherland and its leaders, devotion to teachers and parents, perseverance in school and work, and intransigence to enemies of communist ideology; 5) the war years which emphasized patriotism and heroism and glorified the struggle against the Nazis; and 6) the time after 1946, when the theatres for young audiences conformed more than ever to the regime’s demands to inculcate collective thought and patriotism along with a hatred for capitalist life (1–2). George Shail (1980) focuses in his lengthy study on the early development and unique contributions of the Leningrad Theatre of Young Spectators (Lentiuz) during the years 1922–1941, a period “which conveniently corresponds to three distinct and important time periods in the history of the Soviet Union and the Lentiuz” (xxii): the period of the NEP (the New Economic Policy), the period of the first five-year plan, and the prewar years. Shail states that the “Leningrad Tiuz was essentially different from all other children’s theatres in the early history of Soviet theatre for youth” (2). It was a child-centered theatre, with “a strong commitment to the concept of art and education as a unified force for the moral enlightenment and aesthetic nourishment of the child spectator” (3). Shail maintains that, by 1941, the Lentiuz,

Introduction

3

with its integrated relationship between artists, pedagogical staff, and audience, had become the model for children’s theatre in the Soviet Union (778–779). Both Sosin’s and Shail’s studies focus on a time period when the dominant ideology, guided by institutionalized control, was clearly and blatantly defined and felt in all aspects of life. Theatre for young audiences functioned essentially as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, reflecting and perpetuating the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism. From a cultural historiographical perspective their studies are limited: Sosin worked in a time when the Soviet Union was—and had been for the previous thirty-five years—a closed society, and, therefore, his study relies primarily on secondary material; Shail worked in a period of high Sovietism, when the “Soviet way of life” was exalted, indeed declared superior (Kelly and Shepherd 11), which clearly affected his rhetoric: at places his study reads as straight party propaganda, glorifying Soviet praxis. The 1980s and 1990s, however, was a period of considerable change in the Soviet Union. The rapid succession of leaders––Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev, Yeltsin––brought an unprecedented intellectual freedom. The keywords of the ideological changes pursued by Gorbachev: “Perestroika”—reform, restructuring, reorganization— and “Glasnost”—publicity, openness, the act of making known—challenged the rigidity and intellectual conformism of the official Soviet ideology. The impact of this new thinking cannot be underestimated. Sylvia Woodby points out that “In many ways Perestroika has meant a critical and destructive attack to ideology itself—or on specific doctrines and ideas . . .” and that “Glasnost has meant drastically expanded debate and discussion in the media, in elected bodies and on the streets; openness to foreign citizens and ideas is officially encouraged” (Woodby and Evans 2). The functions of ideology in the Soviet Union had been manifest: as a philosophy, as a revolutionary doctrine, as a provider of a political vocabulary and culture, and as a worldview. Ideology also served as the source of political hegemony: “ideas are both the power and prerogative of those in authority.” Thus, the “[v]alues derived from the ideology affect all areas of life” (6). Evidence of the collapse of the communist value system can be found in Matthew Wyman’s informative work on Public Opinion in Postcommunist Russia

4


(1997). Public opinion surveys under the Soviet regime were heavily politicized and limited. After the first three years of Perestroika, however, the ideological shifts also affected the sociological institutions, starting with an article in Pravda, “Perestroika and Sociology” by Tatyana Zaslavskaya (Wyman 6), and resulting in the creation of the All-Union Center for Public Opinion Research. This evidential rise of, and shifts in, public opinion supports Alfred B. Evans’s definition of ideology as “a system of interrelated beliefs about politics and society that is directed at a large popular audience” (3–4). Evans asserts that Perestroika challenged the basic functions of the official Soviet ideology twofold: 1) the function of “legitimation of the official Soviet regime and the network of social and economic institutions that it controlled,” and 2) the function of “interpretation of social, economic and political reality, serving as a framework of perception of major divisions in society, trends of all spheres, and the primary tasks to be addressed by the party elite in its molding of policy” (2). In the Soviet system, contrary to classic Marxian positions, ideology had become the base that determined a superstructure of economic activity (Epstein 7), a base that could only be contested through Glasnost and Perestroika. The media, traditionally one of the most powerful ideological instruments of the Soviet regime, responded quickly to the altered material circumstances, turning into an instrument of what Claude Lefort calls, “the invisible ideology,” which through its discourse imposes “an image of reciprocity” as “the image of social relationships itself ” (“On the Genesis,” 79). Although still regarded with skepticism, the media produced several mirror structures, functioning side by side and in complex combinations in the post-totalitarian society. Together, the press, literary critics, and the theatre reacted to the candidness of Gorbachev on the economic stagnation, waste, inefficiency, bureaucracy, corruption, and shortcomings of Soviet life, and on the misrepresentation of the past (Mondry, Woodby, Wyman, Zlotnik). Mikhail Shatrov’s historical plays, Anatolii Rybakov’s novels and Abuladze’s movie Repentance “stunned a people into a state of awareness” (Remnick, Lenin’s Tomb 42). Public opinion surveys, which were previously unheard of or were gross misrepresentations, began to appear with increasing frequency in Soviet publications (Yanowitch 66–67; Wyman xiii). Thus, Glasnost and

Introduction

5

Perestroika opened up new avenues for the study of the processes of cultural reception and practice, the hallmarks of cultural studies. A definition of ideology that had stood over seventy years was finally contested, in all facets of life. The stable definition of ideology as inculcated by Marxism-Leninism was clearly illustrated by the repertory of the theatres for young audiences in the former Soviet Union. The change in ideology raised, in theatres for young audiences as well as theatre in general, new questions about the exact nature of their missions and their role under the new material circumstances. At stake was the official purpose of theatre for young audiences as a cultural institution: the aesthetic and especially the ideological training of young Soviet citizens. One problem was that Soviet theatre for young audiences was so intrinsically connected with Soviet ideology. Thus, by 1987, an important question came to the fore: “Tiuz today: to be or not to be?” (Dmitrievskii, “Tiuz segodnia”). A 1989 publication of the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Republic, The Repertory and Activities of the Theatres for Young Audiences in the Russian Republic, 1986–1988, indicates the need for change in the theatres for young audiences in Russia: The problems of the children’s theatres were and remain the subject of close attention of the press, voluntary organizations and government organs. In discussions over the future of these theatres it is repeatedly emphasized that an ongoing development in the traditional directions and familiar forms is not realistic. Today it is imperative that the theatres for children are multivaried and have the possibility of internal self- development. The contemporary spectator of children’s theatre is waiting for new, more profound, original and interesting performances. (Repertuar 3)

Intrinsically related to the problems of the theatres for young audiences was a change in conception of the social function of “youth” in society. In the first period of Perestroika (1985–1986), the concept of youth as constructors of communism (the Soviet citizen of tomorrow) who have to be protected from the diversions of Western consumerism prevailed. By the 1990s, however, the material circumstances of contemporary youth, including “youth problems,” such as alcoholism, drug abuse, and juvenile crime, defied the idealized image, and repositioned youth as an

6


object of social policy (Pilkington, “Future” 374–381). Thus, the theatres faced the grand challenge of drastically reassessing and repositioning their target audience: no longer was Russia’s youth the vanguard of the construction of communism, it had become a “ ‘lost generation,” whose present and future were unknown. The change in the traditional role of the pedagogue also illustrates the changing positions of the theatres for young audiences in the former Soviet Union, as well as the changing concepts of children and youth. Since the early years of theatre for children and youth in the former Soviet Union, each theatre for young people has had “an obligatory education division headed by an experienced pedagogue whose purpose it is to maintain close links with schools and the teaching community in order to draw the theatres into the overall process of helping young people to form their world views and raise their cultural level” (Sats, “Union” 323). However, the secured position of the pedagogue as the obligatory savior of the young drastically altered under the new material circumstances and ideological shifts. Mandatory field trips were abolished, singular interpretations of productions shunned. In the late 1990s the Moscow theatres for young audiences had effectively terminated their pedagogical sections. This book is based on two premises: 1) that theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union functioned explicitly as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, legitimizing and perpetuating the official dogma of Marxism-Leninism; and, 2) that the change in ideology brought about by Glasnost and Perestroika is one of pluralism, including (“restructured”) old ideological structures and mirror structures produced by the media as the material ideological state apparatus, what Lefort calls the “invisible ideology.” Glasnost and Perestroika have opened, in Mikhail Epstein’s words, a “transcultural world”: a collective state of awareness involving a plurality of cultural expressions. As such, culture in post-totalitarian Russia has become a site for self-reflection—“a realm of active, objectified, and multifaceted freedom, which characterizes the individual’s attitudes as well, in terms of freedom to accept or reject various cultural forms, to participate or to decline participation” (285–286). Within this theoretical framework, I focus on how the traditional ideological and cultural function of theatre for young audiences has been changed and how these changes manifest themselves in repertory and practice.

Introduction

7

While a culturological approach could disclose the gaps between ideologically colored portrayals of life in Soviet society and the actual material circumstances that people experienced (see Epstein’s analysis of conceptual poetry), this is not my specific aim. Nor do I focus here on the subversive theatrical elements that attempt to undermine the dominant ideology in both content and practices.1 For the purposes of this book I limited references to the perceived subversive elements in SovietRussian theatre to the extent that they pertain directly to theatre for children and youth. Hence, I discuss the playwright Evgenii Shvarts, whose fame in the West stems from his controversial fairy tales for adults, throughout the book as his plays for children have been on the repertory since the early 1930s. Likewise, I pay more attention to the (often neglected) vanguard role of the Moscow theatres for young audiences during the Thaw period in subverting the dominant paradigms (see chapter 3). The same holds true for the leading role of the Moscow Tiuz at the onset of Glasnost and Perestroika (see chapter 6), and the subsequent consolidation of this position (chapter 9). Although subversive elements are undoubtedly present throughout the Soviet period, they have also been commodified by some of the Russian intelligentsia itself (cf. Fitzpatrick 14–15), as well as, more blatantly, by the West from the vantage point of its own ideological paradigms. Thus, Soviet-Russian cultural life is from a Western (particularly United States) perspective often perceived in a binary framework; with dissident, subversive, “positive” trends on the one hand, and conformative, “negative” praxis on the other. In this book I attempt to give an “insider-outsider” perspective, avoiding the rhetoric of these particular binaries. Nevertheless, by placing the phenomenological occurrences in the Moscow theatres for young audiences in a material context, situating cultural production and perception in the contextual framework of the material conditions under which they emerged, inconsistencies and contradictions will necessarily, albeit incompletely, reveal gaps, confirming both the complexity and subjectivity of a culturological-historiographical approach. It is impossible for theatre—whether it operates under a totalitarian regime, adheres to a “bourgeois ideology,” or is subject to “invisible ideology”—to be free of ideology. Nor is it possible to discuss ideologically charged phenomena outside of the cultural and material context under which they emerge. Thus, in writing this book I also

8


examine the relationship between the cultural and the political to the extent that “politics is one of the constitutive parts of culture and is itself subject to culturological analysis and justification” (Epstein 284–285). My theoretical framework is influenced by the works of the French philosopher Claude Lefort. Lefort is credited as being one of the most original political theorists and perceptive political analysts in France today (Thompson 1). Taking post-revolutionary Russia and Eastern Europe as a reference point for political reflection, Lefort developed an original account of the political forms of modern society. His theories are based on a critical interpretation of the works of Marx, an interpretation that acknowledges not just the strengths, but also the weaknesses and inconsistencies in Marxian theory. “[W]hat attracted me about Marx was the ambiguity of his thinking and, more than that, his opposition to himself . . . ,” he writes in The Political Forms of Modern Society (294). Lefort sees “ideology” as a discourse of the social, a certain type of discourse which prevails in particular types of society, and he distinguishes three principle forms of ideology in modern society: bourgeois ideology, totalitarian ideology, and invisible ideology. Lefort’s concept of an “invisible ideology,” which, perpetuated through the media, imposes an “image of reciprocity [ . . . ] as the image of social relations itself ” (“On the Genesis” 79) is useful in observing and analyzing the multifaceted ideological trends in post-totalitiarian Russia. In addition, I found the cultural theories of Mikhail Epstein (one of Russia’s most prominent theoreticians of cultural studies and postmodernism) illuminating and intriguing, particularly since they are formulated from a Russian cultural position, rather than an outside Western academic point of view. Epstein’s theories have not been available in English until 1995, when After the Future: The Paradoxes of Postmodernism and Contemporary Russian Culture was published. I discovered his work well into the research of this book, and realized that I found a hitherto missing connection. Epstein’s concepts of “culturology” (see chapter 1) have been criticized as “totalizing” (Kelly and Shepherd). Still, the idea that in post-totalitarian Russia a plurality of ideologies creates an ideological environment, which incorporates all possibilities of ideological thought, points to the complex notion of ideology that dominates Russian society, and underscores the premise of this study. Although the use of both materialist and culturalist theories may sit

Introduction

9

unhappily with some readers, its separation in a discussion on ideological and cultural changes in post-totalitarian Russia, may turn out to be a false construct. No scholar of Russia’s social, cultural, and political changes denies the multifarious trends, unstable ideologies, and unpredictable events (e.g., the rise of Putin) that dominate Russian contemporary life. Therefore, I consciously chose to use seemingly incompatible theories to theorize and describe the ideological and cultural changes of one facet of Russian society: its theatres for young audiences. In the course of my research and writing of this book, I had to deal with several historiographical issues, such as the causes, motivations, and purposes of the initiating agents; the encompassing conditions under which the theatre had to operate; the way theatre for young audiences communicated; the partiality of the documentation and the reliability of the sources; the historian’s ideas of change, and her rhetorical tropes and narrative schemes; and, the conditions under which the audience perceives meaning(s) of the events (see Thomas Postlewait, “Historiography and the Theatrical Event: A Primer with Twelve Cruxes”). These historiographical issues influenced the development of theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union in several aspects and are interwoven in the text. While the purpose of this book is to show how Soviet totalitarian ideology shaped the practices of Soviet theatre for children and youth, as exemplified by two theatres for children and youth in Moscow; and how Glasnost, Perestroika, and their aftermath affected these theatres and their audiences up to the present day—many of the developments in this particular form of theatre also apply to a wider theatrical context. Thus, for example, not only the theatres for children and youth had lost their direction by 1987 (see chapter 4), but the established adult theatre also lost its sense of purpose, the idea of a “theatre church” as Anatoly Smeliansky puts it (The Russian Theatre after Stalin). Likewise, adult theatre, too, was affected by the shifts, however subtle, in leadership and interpretation of the official ideology (see chapter 1); by the doctrine of socialist realism (see chapter 2); by the temporary relaxation during the “Thaw” and the subsequent period of stagnation (see chapter 3); and, by the cultural and ideological shifts that took place during and after Glasnost and Perestroika (see Part II and III). Indeed, the developments described in the last chapter vividly illustrate the move away from a limited

10


theatrical institution with the specific function of ideological and aesthetic education for children and youth, toward a broad cultural “art” institution that offers performances for children, youth, and adults. Nevertheless, the focus of this book is the cultural history of theatre for young people, and while parallel developments with the adult theatre are implied, these developments are not discussed in-depth. Rather vice versa, I used available adult theatre sources to illustrate how the developments in theatre for children and youth, which are traditionally marginalized in the leading theatre history works, parallel, and in some cases even significantly precede (see chapter 2, 3, 6, and 9) similar developments in adult theatre. One of the most useful “adult” theatre histories in English for my purposes was the relatively new work of Anatoly Smeliansky, The Russian Theatre After Stalin (1999), which gives the personalized, yet erudite account of the insider. A History of Russian Theatre (1999), edited by Robert Leach and Victor Borovsky, is rather general and has to be read with a critical eye, but contains some informative essays that go beyond the traditional historical account of theatre developments. Other works in English consulted were Russian Theatre in the Age of Modernism, edited by Robert Russel and Andrew Barrat (1990), Harold B. Segel’s Twentieth-Century Russian Drama: From Gorky to the Present (1979), Gleb Struve’s Russian Literature Under Lenin and Stalin 1917–1953, and Spencer Golub’s The Recurrence of Fate: Studies in Theatre History and Culture. For the broader cultural context Catriona Kelly and David Shepherd’s Russian Cultural Studies (1998) has been most helpful. In addition, the reviews and articles of John Freedman in the Moscow Times, and in two publications, Moscow Performances and Moscow Performances II, were invaluable in keeping me updated on the latest developments in Moscow theatre, for children and adults (with increasingly diminishing distinctions), and enabled me to place the contemporary developments in context. Many additional sources consulted—books and articles for adults and children—were in Russian. For the purpose of this book, I limited my research to selected theatres for young audiences in Moscow for two reasons. First, Moscow, although in stiff competition with Leningrad, (now St. Petersburg), has traditionally been the cultural capital of the former Soviet Union and, as such, contained more theatres for young audiences than any other

Introduction

11

major city in Russia. Although their dominance is rapidly decreasing, Moscow and St. Petersburg are still considered to be the cultural capitals of Russia. In addition, Moscow houses the headquarters of ASSITEJ/ Russia (Association Internationale du Théâtre pour l’Enfance et la Jeunesse [The International Association of Theatre for Children and Youth]) and two of the oldest theatres for young audiences in the former Soviet Union: the Central Children’s Theatre (now the RAMT, Russian Academic Youth Theatre) and the Mtiuz (Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator). The Central Children’s Theatre and the Mtiuz came to the fore as focal points for this research during my first research trip for this study to Moscow, May–June 1994, during which I saw numerous performances, conducted interviews, and spent many hours in the archives of the Theatre Library. After a few weeks, I became aware of an interesting dichotomy between the two main and oldest theatres for young audiences in Moscow: the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT takes refuge in the “humanistic ideology” of classical literature, while the Mtiuz takes a more political, avant-garde direction. Two more research trips (February 1996, May 2000) confirmed that, despite shifts in ideological and cultural circumstances, affecting both theatres’ repertoires and practices, this dichotomy remained. Within this division, then, these theatres seem to represent primary cultural images of theatres for young audiences in a post-Perestroika Russian society. Initially, I also considered Nataliia Sats’s Moscow State Children’s Musical Theatre, founded 1964 as an opera theatre for children, for inclusion in this work. Sats, who has been active in Soviet theatre for children and youth until her death in 1993, was instrumental in the inception of theatre for children and youth as an institution shortly after the revolution (see chapter 2), and was involved in the formation of both the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Mtiuz. Because of the Children’s Musical Theatre’s focus (music and dance) and its lack of any development with Glasnost and Perestroika, however, I did not include an in-depth discussion on Sats’s theatrical endeavors beyond Part I, The Soviet Period. While the book encompasses the period of 1917–2000, I concentrate on the change in repertory and production practices of the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Mtiuz from 1985 to 1992 (Part II).

12


This is the period when the most significant changes took place, which in essence mark the end of Theatre for Young Audiences in Russia as it was promulgated by the Soviet regime and emulated by many theatres worldwide, including the United States (Ward 19–20; Swortzell, Six Plays 8–10). In this period Gorbachev came to power, launched Glasnost and Perestroika, and left again. In this period both theatres consolidated their new directions, missions, and ideology(s). The aftermath of these changes is felt to this day (Part III). Thus the book is divided in three parts, moving from general to specific, chronologically ordered. Part I introduces the theoretical paradigms and discusses the Soviet Period. In the first chapter I historicize the concept of ideology; introduce the premises that guided my work, and explain the cultural paradigms that I applied (Epstein). The theoretical concepts, including Marxism, Marxism-Leninism, and the changes in Soviet ideology under the various Soviet leaders are discussed in some length. My primary aim here is to provide the necessary background in order to place the developments discussed in the subsequent chapters in a cultural-political context. Readers already familiar with the cultural and political developments in the Soviet Union and Russia may want to go directly to the part that explains the ideological and cultural paradigms referred to throughout the book (subheaded “Ideological Shifts in Post-Totalitarian Russia”), or may chose to skip ahead to chapter 2. Chapter 2 deals much more specifically with the effects of the dominant ideological and cultural paradigms on Russian theatre for young audiences. It describes the institutionalization of theatre for children and youth by the Soviet regime shortly after the October Revolution, and its subsequent developments until the death of Stalin in 1953. Chapter 3 discusses the heyday of Soviet-Russian theatre for young audiences (indeed, theatre in general) during the Thaw period, emphasizing the contributions of Russian theatre for children and youth to “adult” theatre, in both content and production practices. This chapter ends with the stagnation and deterioration of content and practices under Brezhnev. Part II focuses on the changes with Glasnost and Perestroika, from its beginnings with the rise of Gorbachev (1985) to the end of the Soviet Union in 1991. Analogous to the previous part, Part II starts out with a

Introduction

13

general discussion on the changes in ideological function and cultural position of the theatres for young audiences with Glasnost and Perestroika, both practically and philosophically. Chapters 5 and 6, then, scrutinize how Glasnost and Perestroika affected the two oldest theatres for young audiences in Russia, the Central Children’s Theatre, and the Moscow Tiuz respectively. These chapters contain detailed discussions on repertoire and practices as well as personal interviews with the pedagogues of the respective theatres. Part III leads this study into the year 2000. Here I discuss the cultural shifts and accompanying theatrical innovations as the theatres are consolidating their direction and leadership. As in Part II, a distinction is made between the, now former, Central Children’s Theatre, the RAMT, and the Moscow Tiuz: the first vigorously attempts to shake its past while still adhering to old paradigms (chapter 8); while the second contests all assumptions on what theatre for young people could and should be, following a somewhat ephemeral, but highly successful “artistic instinct” (chapter 9). Indeed, one could hardly limit the Mtiuz to the context of theatre for young audiences, as its productions are among the most popular in Moscow (and abroad) and director Kama Ginkas is hailed as one of the most prominent and original directors in Moscow. Finally, the book ends with an afterword and some conjectures. Starting a book with the self-conscious knowledge that the aim will always be unfulfilled, the picture incomplete, is perhaps the most challenging epistemic experience for a scholar. Nevertheless, I am in a rather unique position to conduct this study. My perspectives are framed by operating in three languages (Dutch, my primary language, and Russian and English, secondary languages), and by my experiences of living, studying, and working in the Netherlands, the (former) Soviet Union (prior to, during, and after Glasnost and Perestroika), and the United States. My European perspectives and training color my particular slant on periodization and taxonomy, as well as my interpretations and conclusions. While this does not grant me objectivity, it helped me to circumvent Russian-American polarization, both in conducting my research (on-and off-site) and interpreting the findings, enabling me to bring alternative perspectives to the American side.


I

The Soviet Period x


1. From Marxism–Leninism to Perestroika and Glasnost x

I

n the former Soviet Union ideology penetrated all facets of life, functioning both as philosophy and practice. Indeed, to the Western world (and to a certain extent also to the Soviet citizens themselves), ideology and ideological indoctrination manifested themselves so clearly in the former Soviet Union that it was often considered the hallmark of communism, contributing to a historical perspective of ideology that was connected directly with the Soviet Union, communism, and Marxism-Leninism. Contemporary perspectives of ideology have affected and expanded our views on the workings of ideology in society. These perspectives contest a presupposed definition and manifestation of ideology both from a philosophical and political perspective (Althusser, Baudrillard, Foucault, Habermas, Lefort, etc.). As this book discusses the ideological function in, and resulting cultural position of, theatres for young audiences in Russia, some background of the history of ideology in general, and in the former Soviet Union in particular, is essential for a meaningful discussion on the importance of the historical role of theatre for young audiences in Russia. This is especially true since the political, economic, and cultural changes in Russia resulted directly from ideological changes. Or, as Mikhail Epstein puts it, following Jean Baudrillard’s theory of simulacra: “[T]oo much in this culture [Russia] came from ideas, schemes, and conceptions, to which reality was subjugated” (191).

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IDEOLOGY Since Destutt de Tracy and his friends coined the term ideology in the seventeenth century the meaning ascribed to it has undergone significant changes. The original term is understood to refer literally to the metaphysical world of ideas (cf. Althusser 158). “Nothing exists for us except by the idea we have of it, because our ideas are our whole being, our existence itself ” (Destutt de Tracy, qtd. in Bauman 114). Twentiethcentury philosophers added to this general definition some interpretative nuances of their own. Bauman, for example, takes Destutt de Tracy’s concept of ideology as “a meta-theory of the moral and political sciences and the ‘great activities which immediately influence the prosperity of society.’ ” The significance of ideology would consist solely in its practical implications, hence “power would be the content and the consequence of all tasks [of ] ideology” (112, cf. Foucault). Claude Lefort points out that the current conception of ideology is almost contrary to its original meaning: from “a logic of dominant ideas, concealed from the knowledge of social actors and only revealing itself through interpretation and in the critique of utterances and their manifest sequences, [ideology] has been reduced to a corpus of arguments, to the apparatus of beliefs, which provides the visible framework of a collective practice [liberal, Leninist-Stalinist, fascist]” (“On the Genesis” 47). In these definitions ideology obtains a political dimension through a tendency by which ideas substitute for reality, in a process that Jean Baudrillard calls “simulation.” Based on this notion of ideology Mikhail Epstein argues that throughout Russian history ideas have been “routinely” substituted for reality, appearing more real than reality itself, beginning with the adoption of Christianity by Prince Vladimir in 988 AD, through the forced Westernization process by Peter the Great in the eighteenth century, to the totalization of society under the Soviets in the twentieth century (190–197). After Glasnost and Perestroika, post-totalitarian Russia emerged as a no less ideological environment, unleashing a myriad of “invisible” ideological trends which were in constant flux because, as Epstein asserts, “no particular ideological position remained consistent or comprehensive” (159).

Marxism–Leninism to Perestroika and Glasnost

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The influence, or dominance, of ideology(s) in society is increasingly accepted as a given, rather than a variable, and consciousness raising has become an epistemological task in academe. The workings of ideology are obviously not limited to the twentieth century: however, the abundance of theories on the mechanisms of ideology, particularly toward the end of the century, do make the recognition of various ideological positions, and the inevitability of an ideological stance, a twentiethcentury phenomenon. Many theorists and philosophers use classic Marxism as a referent for their theories, which suggests the importance of Marx’s theories for the development of general theories of ideology. In addition, Marxism-Leninism formed the ideological base and legitimating force of Russian theatre for young audiences from its inception in 1917 until the late 1980s, which are illustrated in detail in chapters 2 and 3. MARXISM–LENINISM Marx gave a radical twist to the original metaphysical meaning of ideology, as a “theory of ideas,” by insisting on a material foundation. He maintained that “it is not ideas which make or transform history, because ideas are mere sublimates of material life activities in the heads of the individuals” (qtd. in Markus 88). Marx’s ideas were influenced by German, especially Hegelian, philosophy; the French socialists, Fourier and Saint-Simon; the English socialist Robert Owen; and, the research of the classic economists Ricardo and Smith on the causes of the industrial revolution. In formulating his own philosophy, however, Marx adapted, altered, dismissed, and combined the ideas of his predecessors. In contrast to the idealistic utopic socialists, Marx attempted to give his ideas a scientific character. He adopted Hegel’s dialectical concept of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, but, contrary to Hegel, he did not believe that ideas were the determining factor in the dialectical process. Marx believed that the material circumstances determined the dialectical process: “To Hegel . . . the process of thinking, which, under the name of the ‘Idea,’ he even transforms into an independent subject, is the demiurge [the creator,

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Moscow Theatres for Young People the maker] of the real world. . . . With me, on the contrary, the idea is nothing else than the material world reflected by the human mind, and translated into forms of thought.” (Das Kapital 1: 27)

Reality is not a product of ideas (idealism), but ideas are a product of reality (materialism). Thus, “[i]t is not the consciousness of men that determines their existence, but their social existence that determines their consciousness” (Marx, Contribution 21). Marx maintained that there is also a dialectical relationship between people and the reality itself. On the one hand the human being creates his or her own material reality, while this reality in turn determines the thinking and acting of people. Marx concluded that if you want to change the world you have to start with changing the material practice, that is, the economic relationships of society. This led him to the concept of historical materialism: the basis of history is the production of material goods. Without human existence there is no human history, but without the production of the basic means of existence life is impossible. “The mode of production of material life conditions the general process of social, political and intellectual life” (Contribution 20–21). The development of the production forces, then, led to the transformation of primordial communism (with collective ownership) of the most primitive society, to the slave society of the Romans, to the feudal system, to the capital system and will eventually lead to the end phase of human society: communism. According to Marx “[T]he history of every society to date is the history of the class struggle”: Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild master and journeyman, in a word oppressors and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes . . . . (The Communist Manifesto 9)

The state and its institutions were the instruments of the ruling class as well as the place where class relationships and the class struggle manifested themselves. Eventually, the state would lose its class character (that is, in the end phase of communism) but before that there would be a transition phase: the dictatorship of the proletariat.1


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The revolution, or transition, is a direct result of the material, economic conditions of capitalist society. The “surplus value,” which flows to the capitalist owners of the production forces, will increase the misery of the exploited, creating a source of revolutionary action: Along with the constantly diminishing magnates of capital, who usurp and monopolize all advantages of this process of transformation, grows the mass of misery, oppression, slavery, degradation, exploitation; but with this too grows the revolt of the working class, a class always increasing in numbers, and disciplined, united, organized by the very mechanism of the process of capitalist production itself. The monopoly of capital becomes a fetter upon the mode of production, which has sprung up and flourished along with and under it. Centralization of the means of production and socialization of labor at last reach a point where they become incompatible with their capitalist integument. This integument is burst asunder. The knell of capitalist private property sounds. The expropriators are expropriated. (Das Kapital 1: 790–791)

In addition, Marx believed that periodic economic crises are inherent in the capitalist system of production. Capitalism has the tendency to increase production more and more, which can lead to a decrease in sales potential. This will cause an economic crisis, including cuts in labor, prices, and profits, until a certain point of recuperation. Marx maintained that in the capitalist society these crises will intensify, and eventually cause the fall of the capitalist system. The resulting transformation (i.e., a social revolution) will affect both the economic and the ideological levels: In studying such transformations it is always necessary to distinguish between the material transformation of the economic conditions of the production, which can be determined with the precision of natural science, and the legal, political, artistic or philosophic—in short ideological forms in which men become conscious of this conflict and fight it out. (Contribution 21)

As it turned out, in the Soviet Union “men” became more than conscious of the conflicts—they invented them, reversing the classic Marxist hierarchy of economic base and ideological superstructure. It is evident that Marx’s philosophy is much more complex and profound than the above summary may suggest. It should be equally

22


clear, however, that although Marxism is promulgated as the ideological base for Soviet communism, (or Soviet Marxism, or Marxism-Leninism, all terms used to identify the same political system) Marx’s ideological framework became increasingly subjugated to “necessary adjustments,” which eventually distorted essential notions of Marxism, such as the concept of historical materialism, and replaced them with the particular Soviet notions of communism as we understand them today. One of the first contributors to the modification of Marxism is Lenin, influential to the extent that the dominant Soviet ideology was soon reidentified as “Marxism-Leninism.”2 Lenin’s importance consists mainly in the fact that he, working from Marx’s philosophy, tried to solve the practical problems of the revolutionaries in Russia. Early on, as in What’s to Be Done, he occupied himself with the organizational principles of the revolutionary movement. Later he also wrote economic treatises, in which he, among other aspects, explained the absence of the worsening of the position of the workers and the collapse of capitalism.3 One of the main problems from a Marxist point of view was that Russia had no developed capitalist system, a prerequisite for revolution according to Marx. As a primarily agricultural society, Russia hardly had a proletariat, not to mention a revolutionary one. Lenin, basing his theories on his interpretation of Marx’s teachings, saw the solution to this problem in a coherently organized political party that should lead the weak and underdeveloped revolutionary masses to a revolution and to a socialist state: “It [Marxism] made clear the real task of a revolutionary party: . . . to organize the class struggle of the proletariat and to lead this struggle, the ultimate aim of which is the conquest of political power by the proletariat and the organization of the socialist revolution” (Lenin, Introduction 14). “[T]he role of vanguard fighter can be fulfilled only by a party that is guided by the most advanced theory,” in effect, Marxism (21). Revolutionary awareness should be induced from the outside by intellectuals who take upon themselves the perspectives of the proletariat. The proletariat should be politically educated to socialist (political) awareness. Educated, revolutionary leaders and organizers would supervise the process and keep the goal in focus. These, then, would form the revolutionary party.4 Because of the lack of a proletariat in a Marxist sense, Lenin dismissed the “pure” proletarian revolution, as Marx viewed it, and chose the


23

alternative of an alliance between farmers and the proletariat. They should form a revolutionary dictatorship, take over the state institutions, the suppressive instruments of the bourgeoisie, and destroy them. “The words ‘to break the bureaucratic-military state machine,’ summarize the main Marxist theory on the task of the proletariat concerning the state during the revolution” (Lenin, “Gosudarstvo i Revoliutsiia” 38). The new type of state would be based on the idea of the Paris communes of the French Revolution. The essential aspect would be the “proletarian democracy,” the mass participation of the people in ruling the state. In practice Lenin altered this position quite significantly. In 1919 he indicated that the dictatorship of the proletariat should be understood as the dictatorship of a strictly organized core of workers—the most progressive, class aware, and most revolutionary part of the proletarian class. The idea of mass participation in state affairs was replaced by the idea of the party, which controls all state affairs in the name of the proletariat. The Marxist concept of ideology, with its material base, was the starting point of ideology in Marxist-Leninist philosophy. However, Lenin’s adaptations altered the concept vastly: the material base became a springboard, a legitimation for the ideas of the Communist Party. It is here, where we see the Soviet definition of ideology fall into place: “a system of views and ideas within whose framework people perceive and evaluate both their relations to reality and to each other” (Great Soviet Encyclopedia 10:120). In the Soviet Union, the system of the ideas became the practice of the “Communist Manifesto” represented by, and perpetuated through, the state and its institutions. The classic Marxist model of economic base and ideological superstructure tilted and eventually reversed, ideology became the base, and economics its superstructure. In the decades after Lenin came to power, the basic function of ideology in the Soviet Union remained virtually the same: the function of “legitimation of the official Soviet regime and the network of social and economic institutions that it controlled,” and the function of “interpretation of social, economic and political reality, serving as a framework of perception of major divisions in society, trends of all spheres, and the primary tasks to be addressed by the party elite in its

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molding of policy” (Evans 2). In practice, the social, economic, and political reality was frequently reinterpreted, always with the same goal: to legitimize the actions and ideas of the Soviet regime and its official state institutions. As Mikhail Epstein asserts, Soviet-Marxist ideology became “the underlying force of all economic, political, and aesthetic movement in the USSR, relating to them as a whole relates to its parts” (157). The next two chapters will exemplify how the repertory and practices of the theatres for young audiences reflected this frequent reinterpretation of Soviet-Marxist ideology. Thus, the official Soviet ideology penetrated all facets of life. The spiritual, cultural, educational, and communicative state institutions functioned primarily as instruments of the totalitarian regime—and their impact and grip on daily life in the Soviet Union was inescapable. For young people this meant that they should be “brought up, taught and educated . . . according to communist ethics” (Lenin, Polnoe 41: 309). This included their cultural education. Dorothy Meek’s 1957 (reprinted in 1998) volume Soviet Youth, compiled from materials taken from the Soviet press, illuminates Soviet concepts of “youth” by allowing “the country to speak for itself.” She asserts that albeit the Soviet press is not completely uniform, the majority of the articles share a Marxist approach to the question they are dealing with, and reveal the educational purposes: the “positive” articles are intended as examples to be emulated by the reader, while the “negative” articles illustrate what the reader should not do (v–vi). These messages were perpetuated and reinforced by the educational and cultural institutions, including the theatres for children and youth. LEGITIMATION AND PERPETUATION OF SOVIET COMMUNISM According to most Soviet scholars the official doctrine of Soviet communism altered but slightly in essence in the years of the communist regime; but did change focus analogous to circumstances and demands of time, and shifts in interior politics, foreign relationships, leaders, and dictatorship. In general, the era of Soviet communism can be divided into the following political periods: the Bolshevik Revolution; the New Economic Policy; the consolidation of Stalinism, including the


25

war years and the postwar years until the death of Stalin; the Khrushchev period and the “Thaw”; the period of stagnation under Brezhnev; and, the post-Brezhnev period of reform under Gorbachev. This periodization is based on a combination of changes in leadership and degrees of totalitarianism and consequent changes in ideology. The evolution of communism into totalitarianism is an important aspect of Soviet communism, and it contributed in a major way to the longevity of the regime. Claude Lefort points out the dangers of a totalitarian ideology, which in its discourse acts as if it is imprinted on reality: “it is entirely political discourse, but it denies the particular fact of the political and attempts to achieve the dissolution of the political in the element of the pure generality of the social reality” (“On the Genesis” 71). Totalitarian discourse denies all opposition, using the masses to spread the general norm, presenting it as a reflection of society itself. The agent of this totalitarian ideology—the Soviet leader, or “the militant type” as Lefort calls him—”completes the full expression of the attempt to efface the difference between individual and society, between the particular and the general, between the private and the public” (“On the Genesis” 72). Similarly, Mikhail Epstein conceives of a totalitarian ideology as all-embracing, incorporating all aspects of reality until the reality becomes indistinguishable from the ideology that transforms it: “[i]n a totalitarian society, ideology cannot be but a faithful reflection of reality because reality itself is a faithful reflection of ideology” (155). Thus, in the Soviet Union the party became the essence of social reality and the center from which social life is arranged. Under Stalin this totalitarian ideology led to horror. After Stalin’s death it led to a bureaucracy, functioning to support the power of the rule exerted in and by the state institutions. In an attempt to explain over seventy years of Soviet communism, many turn back to the causes and outcome of the revolution and the years immediately thereafter in general, and the role of Lenin in particular. Geoffrey Ponton, in The Soviet Era (1994), looks at the periods from the perspective of hindsight against the development of Perestroika and Glasnost. He points out some similarities between issues and discussions concerning the future of Russia during the revolution and the beginning of Glasnost. First, the immediate cause for the revolution was the need for reform, and whether this reform should come gradually or

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should be pursued vigorously. Second, the parties that developed after the Russian-Japanese war under the tsar expressed the same alternatives and became a standard reference for the parties that came up during the reform of the 1980s.5 Third, Lenin’s idea of democratic centralism— initiative from the top, then full and free discussion, followed by absolute obedience to decisions once taken—undermined, in a debased and corrupted form, the political system of the Bolsheviks. It was the same idea of “reforms from the top” which eventually brought down Gorbachev in his path to democracy. Fourth, both the consolidation of the revolution and Gorbachev’s Perestroika depended very much on sustaining a sufficient food supply to the urban areas. To enforce a thorough economic reform under desperate economic conditions proved to be a herculean task for both Lenin and Gorbachev. Ponton sees Lenin’s success in his ability “to establish a pragmatic but effective link between ideology and the existing reality in which they found themselves,” an ability which “enabled the Bolsheviks ultimately to prevail in the struggle for power” (29). Lenin was able to consolidate power by ruthlessly overwhelming all opposition. In 1921, at the Tenth Party Congress, internal party disputes were outlawed, and criticism had to be communicated to the whole membership. The Bolshevik monopoly was further consolidated by the Red Army and the Cheka, the secret police. Thus the foundation for a totalitarian regime was laid. The Soviet regime has always used Lenin as a symbol of their political legitimacy. Gorbachev tried to bring him back to human proportions, but at the same time used those aspects of his character and writings that fitted his policy of Perestroika. True to the tradition, Gorbachev himself was a highly ideological leader, setting the tone for the use of ideological Soviet-Marxist tropes and idiom to various (ideological) ends.6 In 1990, when the 120th anniversary of Lenin’s birth was celebrated, one of the slogans was “Perestroika is the rebirth of Lenin’s conception of socialism.” Gorbachev frequently talked about Perestroika as the return to the pure socialism Lenin had in mind before it was perverted by Stalin and Brezhnev. Nevertheless, Lenin himself came under scrutiny, and the questions of whether or not he laid the foundation for Stalinism, by rejecting a multiparty system, believing in a particular kind of democracy, and ruthlessly pushing his ideas through, are much debated.


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However, although Gorbachev might have wanted to turn back and purify the ideology of Marxism-Leninism, it seems that the evolving, dialectical nature of ideology does not allow for a turn back. The premise of Alfred B. Evans’s book, Soviet Marxism-Leninism: The Decline of an Ideology (1993), is the constant adaptation of Soviet ideology in interaction with changing political and social conditions. Evans maintains that the radical changes in ideology, which seemed to come to a sudden outburst with the rise of Gorbachev, “were in fact the result of pressures in thinking that had been built up for a long time . . .” (1–2). He contests the notion that there has been virtually no change in Soviet ideology since Stalin consolidated it in the 1930s. According to Evans, two of the functions of Marxism-Leninism, legitimation and interpretation, had contradictory implications. He notes “the paradox of a political system in which ideology was presented as the source of authority and the guide to decision making” (2). Ideology as a tool of legitimation discourages revisions in its teachings; however, if it remains unchanged, it will ultimately prove irrelevant to contemporary society. Thus, the ideology needs to be adapted to maintain its credibility as a means to interpret reality. On the other hand, revisions in the doctrine will raise doubts about the inherent quality of the doctrine as a guide for decision making. This, then, required “the political elite to maintain a delicate balance between the demand for continuity and the need for change in its exposition of the official Soviet ideology” (2–3). The Soviet leaders in common, each endorsed the view that the Soviet Union was in the socialist phase, or the “first phase of communist society” as seen by Marx, on their way to full communism, or the “higher phase of communist society.” It was only at the beginning of the 1990s, that is, after Gorbachev’s decline, that the attempt to explain and point out the path to communism was written off as a hopeless effort. At that point the Soviet Union ceased to exist, and the official ideology was openly denounced. Evans sees the changes in ideology in the former Soviet Union in the following stages. The first is the socialist construction of Lenin, who laid the foundation for the single party state under proletarian dictatorship. Second is the consolidation of Stalinism, starting with his thesis of the possibility of socialism in one country followed by mass collectivization and industrialization. Evans points out that the concept of socialism in

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one country was a significant innovation in theory, with few practical implications. Collectivization and industrialization on the other hand required no fundamental change in Soviet-Marxist theory, but represented a sharp turn in policy (33). Stalin justified his position by revising the interpretation of existing conditions in the Soviet Union. In 1936 Stalin proclaimed the victory of socialism in the USSR. From then on, until his death in 1952, Stalin emphasized the need for the continuity of socialist development, but he avoided ideological discussion of the details of a transition to the higher phase. To this end, he also revised the dialectical interpretation of change in socialism, which was envisioned by Marx and Engels as periodically interrupted by bursts of discontinuous transformation. In Stalin’s theory socialist development was continuous. In effect, he negated the laws of dialectics as presented by Engels. Connected to this was Stalin’s overall reinterpretation of Soviet society as a society of “non-antagonistic contradictions,” a society in which contradictions are based on a fundamental unity of interest, not prohibiting mutual cooperation. This, in particular, had major consequences for Soviet-Russian theatre, including theatre for children and youth, leading to plays and productions without dramatic conflict that emphasized patriotism, collective thought, and the ideal Soviet way of life (see chapter 2). The third stage of ideological change, as seen by Evans, is the full-scale construction of communism under Khrushchev. Khrushchev was convinced that the danger of capitalist restoration in the Soviet Union was ruled out, and that “the triumph of socialism is not only complete but final” (qtd. in Evans 59). The next step, thus, was full-scale communism, which, according to Khrushchev, would be reached by 1980. Khrushchev insisted on the transitional nature of socialism— socialism was but immature communism—and thus the perfection of socialism had no function apart from its transformation into communism. A major priority in the construction of full-scale communism was the removal of social class distinctions toward social homogeneity. In general, Soviet ideology under Khrushchev shied away from the Stalinist coercive methods of repression and compulsion, and replaced it with ideological persuasion and material incentives. The values and conduct of the citizens themselves had to be reshaped to completely eliminate the disreputable remnants of the capitalist past, such as


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parasitism, dishonesty, careerism, and money-grubbing. The principles of conduct to be expected of all members of the communist social order were identified in “the moral code of the builder of communism,” in the 1961 Program of the Communist Party.7 In this new climate the state would eventually wither away, and most of its agencies would “lose their political character” and “become agencies of self-government” (qtd. in Evans 96). The Soviet state would become a state of the entire people, the Communist Party would become a party of the entire people, “the vanguard of the whole Soviet people, expressing the interest of all strata and groups of the population, with its ideology accepted by all groups in society” (97). The ideological struggle had changed, indeed: while under Stalin old capitalist beliefs had to be banned and new, socialist ideas established, the struggle between old and new under Khrushchev was one within socialism itself, and the task of the party became to purge old Stalinist beliefs from the system. The Khrushchev period coincided with “The Thaw,” a period of relative freedom from censorship and experimentation in form and content, particularly in the arts. While little has been written about the Thaw period in connection with Russian theatre for children and youth, it is proclaimed to be its heyday. During this period, prominent theatrical figures, Anatolii Efros, Maria Knebel, Oleg Efremov, Viktor Rozov, Georgii Tovstonogov, Lev Dodin, Adolf Shapiro, Kama Ginkas, and Genrietta Ianovskaia, among others, started their careers in children’s theatre. These early beginnings are traditionally merely mentioned as a stepping stone for their later “adult” work (if mentioned at all), but it is no coincidence that the theatres for children and youth attracted, motivated, and inspired these artists. During the winter of 1962–1963, a campaign was launched to reinforce the Communist Party’s authority and reign in writers and artists (see Johnson, Khrushchev and the Arts: The Politics of Soviet Culture 1962–1964). The period of relative freedom was over in theatre for children and theatre for adults. The moral code of the builder of communism became a guiding axiom, reflected in the plays and practices of the theatres for young audiences until Glasnost and Perestroika. In chapter 3, I elaborate on the contributions of theatre for young audiences to the “adult” theatre world during this period, as well as on the stagnation and deterioration under Brezhnev.

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The fourth phase, “developed socialism,” is reached with Brezhnev. The concept of developed socialism was a marked departure from traditional Marxism-Leninism, in that it saw socialism as a historical phase in and of itself, rather than a stage in the path to full communism.8 Thus the transformation into communism was no longer central but rather the improvement and ultimate perfection of the existing socialist institutions and conditions (Evans 110). By the end of the 1970s it had become clear that economic prosperity would not come as rapidly as promised. At that point Brezhnev linked the raising of the living standards to the “socialist way of life,” which he characterized as “an atmosphere of genuine collectivism and comradeship, solidarity, the friendship of all the nations and peoples of our country, which grows stronger from day to day and moral health which makes us strong and steadfast” (see also the moral code, note 7). This marked a move away from emphasis on material improvement of the Soviet citizens toward an emphasis on the protection of their moral values. In these years, also referred to as the period of “high Sovietism,” the “Soviet way of life” was exalted to be the source of superiority of the socialist system. Cultural achievements, measured by the amount of newly emerging cultural and social institutions and by emphasizing improved ethnic relations among the Soviet republics, took precedent over economic gains (Kelly, Pilkington, Shepherd, and Volkov 7–8). The difference between facts and ideas was in this period virtually erased. According to Epstein, ideology was “gradually transformed from a system of ideas into an all encompassing ideological environment that retained all possible alternative philosophical systems as latent components within itself ” (159). While this can be seen as the apotheosis of dominance of the cultural over the economic (Kelly, Pilkington, Shepherd, and Volkov 9), these latent components were also, in Epstein’s theory, the source for the plethora of ideological trends that emerged indiscriminately after Glasnost and Perestroika (159). All these ideological shifts clearly impacted the repertory and practices of the theatres for children and youth, as the following chapters illustrate. GLASNOST AND PERESTROIKA The fifth phase is Gorbachev and his politics of openness and restructuring. Andropov and Chernenko, the successors of Brezhnev, were both in


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too poor health and in power too briefly to make any significant impact. However, they paved the way for Gorbachev, who changed the Marxist-Leninist ideology more radically than any of his predecessors. Andropov and Chernenko sought a more sober and realistic assessment of the problems and prospects of Soviet society, although they still endorsed the concept of developed socialism. With Gorbachev the question whether the Soviet Union had even entered the stage of developed socialism was raised. His politics of Perestroika, Glasnost, democratization, and economic reform eventually led to the collapse of the Soviet Union—a result he, probably, had not envisioned himself. In his 1995 Memoirs Gorbachev recalls, referring to his speech at the Central Committee plenum in February 1988: It truly seemed to us then that the country’s misfortunes were not in any way connected with any inherent properties of the system and that the contradictions that had built up in the economy, in politics and in the spiritual sphere could be resolved without going outside its original framework. . . . [w]e were not yet aware of the scale of the impending changes, or that the crisis involved not just some aspects of the system, but rather all of it. (250)

Gorbachev regarded technological advancement and social equilibrium as goals for the Soviet Union. Contrary to his predecessor, he did not seek this goal in the improvement and perfection of the institutions of society but in a radical restructuring (Perestroika) of all these institutions. He attacked the conservatism of previous leaders who wanted to reform without changing. He traced the sources of stagnation back to the emergence of Stalinist institutions. Ideologists turned back to the late writings of Lenin for guidance, reformers focused their criticism on the institutional and ideological heritage of Stalinism (Evans 170). Alienation, a concept previously reserved exclusively to describe the working relations in capitalist society, was now conceded as one of the main causes for economic stagnation and one of the central problems of society (“K gumannomu”). Power had been taken away from the masses and given to the bureaucracy—a minority of the population. Gorbachev pointed to the need for a radical restructuring of the superstructure itself—which he considered the main cause for the economic stagnation,

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thus incidentally confirming the reversal of the hierarchy of base and superstructure. The system of management under Stalin had become increasingly inappropriate and eventually had become a hindrance to economic growth. Gorbachev wanted to empower the masses again “to restore to the working people a real sense of proprietorship over the means of production” (Evans 179). He asserted that wages would remain the main source of income for the Soviet citizen, as opposed to his predecessors who saw wages gradually replaced by distribution of material benefits according to need. He sought to stimulate the human factor in production. The concept of “social justice” was reinterpreted as reward according to labor, rather than economic security for all members of society (Evans 182). A main consequence was that the privileges of the Soviet elite came under critique. Another was that Gorbachev encouraged competition, and this implied wages that differentiated in accordance with individual skill and effort. Related to this was Gorbachev’s assertion that the homogeneity of the socialist society was oversimplified, that, in fact, society had become increasingly complex and differentiated. This marked a significant departure from Marxist Leninist ideology. In a 1987 essay in Kommunist, “October and Perestroika: The revolution goes on,” Gorbachev described socialism as “a society of growing diversity in people’s opinions, relations and activities” (“Oktiabr’ ” 23). The theory of social homogeneity was thus implicitly refuted. The notion of a “single truth” gave way to notions of “socialist pluralism,” albeit within a socialist framework (Strayer 101). “We must treat diversity normally, as the natural state of the world; not with clenched teeth as in the past” (Izvestia, qtd. in Strayer 101). One step further was that social ills of society were now also attributed to the process of acquisition of socialism, rather than just identified as “survivals of the past.” Notions such as “non-antagonistic contradictions” were recognized as real problems in and of society, and most importantly, recognized as “inherent in the logic of its own development.” They “represented the clash of interests of groups whose existence was derived from the basic character of socialist society” (Evans 176). The concept of “socialist pluralism,” coined by Gorbachev in 1987, was based on the following beliefs: first, participation of the masses should be motivated by individual and group interests to ensure their enthusiasm, and, second, the interest of the masses could only be


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satisfied by significantly more independent political participation and economic activity (Evans 193). Gorbachev began to advocate the “democratization” of the Soviet political system, which he saw as the antidote to the bureaucratic control. The Soviet citizens needed to be revitalized and encouraged to voice their opinions and take initiatives. Gorbachev advocated a law-governed state, contrary to the arbitrary rule and abuse of power executed by previous leaders. However, Gorbachev did not want to totally abandon democratic centralism—albeit “restructured,” guidance would still come from the party elite. But he underestimated the depth of the underlying grievances of the Soviet citizens, and, although he was quite successful in discrediting the established ideology, he failed to replace it with a credible ideological vision of the future (Epstein, Evans, White). By 1990 the idea of full communism was openly referred to as a “utopia” and even as the source of all negative phenomena in Soviet society (“Obnovlenie” 46–59, “Tak kakaia” 10). The new focus became the development of “humane, democratic socialism,” in an attempt to bridge the ideological gap with the West (Evans 200). At the same time Gorbachev reached his “conservative phase,” switching emphasis from restructuring to stabilization, and from expansion of Glasnost to Soglasie (civil harmony or concord) (Evans 205). Gorbachev refuted the traditional idea that socialism and capitalism were in eternal struggle and advocated instead the development of human welfare in “joint development” and “joint creativity.” The notion of “peaceful coexistence” became superfluous, and, in fact, the whole concept of superiority of the Soviet Union over capitalist society was abandoned. The “new thinking” of Gorbachev asserted that many problems were common to both communist and capitalist society and should be jointly tackled and resolved. The underlying idea was that for a restructuring and revitalization of Soviet society the relationship with the West had to be reconceptualized. In 1991 Gorbachev’s power was contested by a coup. This coup, and the ideology from which it sprouted, has been very differently interpreted. Some saw it as the polarization between two ideologies: a nationalist conservatism emphasizing the need to keep the Soviet Union intact, and the ideology that sought to fill the vacuum left by the collapse of communism, favoring decentralization, but up to a certain point. Others saw it as an attempt to maintain Perestroika in the

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framework of the old system, which was seen as necessary for order and stability. Significant, however, was the failure of the coup, which can be seen as the final blow to traditional Soviet ideology and its mechanism. Significant, too, was that contrary to what it might have looked like from media reports, the great majority of the people in Moscow (and elsewhere) did not take part in the resistance. They just went about their own business, following the events with concern, indifference, or cynicism. Ironically, the consequences of the coup were exactly what the coup leaders tried to stop: the disintegration of the Soviet Union and its ideological institutions. All major institutions of the old regime, such as the KGB, the interior ministries, the party Politburo, the Central Committee, and the party newspaper Pravda, were affected. The participation of those people resisting the coup was one of the first open manifestations of popular involvement in politics in Moscow, the center of the Soviet government. Scholars, like Geoffrey Ponton, interpreted this as a clear indication “that, for many, a significant shift in political consciousness has taken place which would make any return to the authoritarianism of the past virtually impossible” (8). The most important consequence of the coup is that it accelerated the forces already working toward the dismantling of the Soviet Union and the discontinuation of the dominant role of the Communist Party. The Gorbachev era had been a transitional phase in which reforms were dictated from above. He attempted to implement ideological changes with the help of the existing state institutions without changing their inherent structure and function. The coup forced a more radical direction which was spearheaded by Yeltsin, and which ultimately led to the breakup of the Soviet Union as such. The change of ideology in the Soviet Union was no sudden phenomenon, but a gradual process of efforts by subsequent leaders to reconcile a dogma with changing conditions. There is no doubt, however, that Gorbachev’s Perestroika and Glasnost were the most blatant and radical attempts, and, although we may assume that this was never Gorbachev’s intention,9 they eventually led to the demise of the Soviet Union and its ideological foundation (see also “Reviving Soviet Socialism: The Gorbachev Experiment” in Strayer 86–131). The attempts to reconcile the functions of ideology and the legitimation and interpretation of the social reality by Stalin, Khrushchev, and Brezhnev


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led to an increasing postponement of the ideal of full communism until this ideal was eventually recognized by Gorbachev as utopian and unrealistic. (By 1991 the ideal of full communism had disappeared from the most recent party program and shortly thereafter the Soviet Union itself was dissolved.) The growing number of “legitimate” conflicts,10 a trend already started with Khrushchev, was another important effect of Gorbachev’s Glasnost. However, this recognition was not matched with solutions on how to manage these conflicts. Glasnost, thus, being instrumental in unmasking the traditional ideology, was equally instrumental in undermining Gorbachev’s power. By August 1991 it was clear that the attempts to update Marxism-Leninism by all Soviet leaders, including Gorbachev, had failed. As Evans points out, it is significant that neither coup leaders, nor resistance leader Boris Yeltsin appealed to Marxist-Leninist ideology or the guiding role of the communist party to gain support (218). Although Gorbachev, until the end of his career, did not completely write off the potential of the Marxist-Leninist ideology and kept insisting on a leading guidance role of the Communist Party, he took away, with his politics of Glasnost and Perestroika, both the idealistic and the pragmatic basis for the legitimacy of the regime. The ideological, philosophical basis for the regime had been openly criticized, the economic improvements promised did not materialize, and both structure and superstructure were in disarray. The discredited traditional ideology seemed beyond rescue. Glasnost and Perestroika profoundly impacted the theatre (see also Smeliansky Russian), and especially the theatres for young audiences, whose official and primary function was to perpetuate the official ideology. Spearheaded by a series of articles in Teatr, “Tiuz Today: To Be or not to Be?” Russian theatres for young audiences appeared to be in crisis, struggling to legitimize their very existence. Part II of this book illustrates how the theatres for young audiences survived under Glasnost and Perestroika and adapted to the rapid ideological and cultural shifts. IDEOLOGICAL SHIFTS IN POST-TOTALITARIAN RUSSIA Mikhail Epstein characterizes the late Soviet years (under Gorbachev’s reign) as a “continuous, complete ideological environment that was

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transparent, transcollective, transparty, and ultimately, transideological, because no particular ideological position remained consistent or comprehensive” (159). This was a time when ideology became the reality, when there were no material goods but plenty of ideas on how to get them, how to feed the country, how to clean the air. For the people, one of the most visible consequences, and maybe the main asset, of Glasnost is that it abolished fear. Where Soviet citizens once were afraid, or simply forbidden, to express their alternative opinions and ideas, they now freely expressed themselves, sometimes with a vengeance, to foreigners and correspondents. Maybe even more important is that Soviet correspondents started to print and broadcast their own and others’ opinions. Matthew Wyman’s informative work on Public Opinion in Postcommunist Russia (1997) offers, aside from numerous tables and figures, a historical overview of the development of Russian public opinion. He states that “the socialist system had no room for public opinion” (3). If any survey research was done under the Soviet regime (and it was, as an indispensable element for legitimizing the practices of the regime) the results were heavily politicized and limited. In 1988, after the first three years of Perestroika, the circumstances had changed enough to create the All-Union Centre for Public Opinion research (VTsIOM), headed by the prominent sociologist Tatyana Zaslavskaya. Initially, poll questions cautiously focused on noncontroversial issues, but by late 1989 the popularity of individual leaders could be questioned. Newspapers, too, started to print polls showing support for social change and opinions on the Communist Party. After the collapse of the Soviet Union a profusion of survey organizations emerged, eager to become a vital part of the process of social transformation that took place in Russia (6–7). While Wyman acknowledges that the system has its problems, he asserts that the major Russian survey organizations in the mid-1990s were highly professional and aware of inherent problems. Most importantly, “they provide an insight into attitudes which would otherwise remain uninvestigated” (19).11 Claude Lefort sees the media as the instruments of the “new” ideology of social communication (“On the Genesis” 78–86). Lefort perceives this “invisible ideology” as the fusion of “bourgeois ideology” and “totalitarianism.” Bourgeois ideology is subject to the idea of positive knowledge,


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its discourse on social reality necessarily distinguishes between the subject and the other (63–64). In totalitarianism “the process of occultation of the institution of social reality seeks to complete itself” and its “discourse acts with the conviction of being imprinted on reality” (70–71). Through the discourse of the “invisible ideology” an “image of reciprocity is imposed as the image of social relations itself” (79). Perhaps it is the “invisible ideology,” perpetuated through the media, which became, paradoxically, the most tangible ideology in Russia. The mass media (radio, television, newspapers), as well as the cultural media (literature, film, and theatre) quickly responded to the candidness of Gorbachev on the economic stagnation, waste, inefficiency, bureaucracy, corruption, shortcomings of Soviet life, and the misrepresentation of the past (Mondry, Woodby, Wyman, Zlotnik). Mikhail Shatrov’s historical plays, Anatolii Rybakov’s novels and Abuladze’s movie Repentance “stunned a people into a state of awareness” (Remnick, Lenin’s Tomb 42). So did Dog’s Heart, a sophisticated adaptation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s novel by the Mtiuz (Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator), which toured internationally as an example of “Perestroika Theatre” (see chapter 6). Where the media used to be mistrusted and consequently ignored, they now became the main source of information. During 1989–1990, when the media were pushing the boundaries of Glasnost, they constituted one of the most trusted institutions of Russian society (Wyman 108). In combination with Epstein’s theory of the plethora of unstable ideological trends unleashed with Glasnost and Perestroika, the media, traditionally instrumental in perpetuating the dominant ideology, now gained unprecedented power in perpetuating all possible alternative ideological systems, creating an ideological environment that was “transideological” (Epstein 159), an environment where no other reality existed except that of ideology. Thus the “image of reciprocity . . . imposed as the image of social relations itself,” as Lefort states it, became a reality. Another useful concept for understanding the changes in ideology with Glasnost and Perestroika can be found in the influential essay of the neo-Marxist Louis Althusser, “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses” (1971), where he discusses the means by which ideologies are perpetuated.12 According to Althusser, “[t]he existence of the ideas of his [the individual’s] belief is material in that his ideas are his material actions inserted into material practices governed by material rituals which

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are themselves defined by the material ideological apparatus from which derive the ideas of that subject” (169). “The ideas of a human subject exist in his actions” (168). Althusser maintains that the subject is central in the functioning of ideology. In turn, ideology interpellates individuals as subjects (170). “The existence of ideology and the hailing or interpellation of individuals as subjects are one and the same thing” (175). The actions of interpellation and the subject are reflected in the structure of all ideology by the (free) submission of the (free) subject to the dominating, unique, absolute, other Subject (God, King, Fatherland) (178–182). In this theory, the structure of every ideology is a mirror structure which secures the interpellation of the individual as subject, its free submission to the omnipresent Subject, the universal recognition of subjects and Subject, and the absolute guarantee that this is the way it is and if you behave accordingly everything will be all right (180–181). According to Majumdar, in Althusser and the End of Leninism? (1995), Althusser’s main point is to stress that ideas do not exist in a vacuum, that they “are not the product of an individual subject’s consciousness, but are closely associated with the (material) actions, practices and rituals that are part and parcel of any (material) ideological apparatus” (111). It is in this sense that one could argue that the “restructured” state institutions (including education, family, religion, communications, political system, and culture) in post-totalitarian Russia start to function as ideological state apparatuses. Althusser’s concept of ideology as discussed in “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” provides a useful way to illustrate the workings of ideology in a society in transition, such as the former Soviet Union. Lefort’s theory, purporting that in the former Soviet Union, and particularly in Russia proper, the actions of the individual, which reflect his or her ideas, are primarily derived from the media as the material ideological state apparatus, complements this idea (“On the Genesis”). Which Subject the media adheres to is variable, or “invisible,” thus producing several mirror structures, which function side by side and in complex combinations in the post-totalitarian society (Russia). A discourse of social reality is reproduced which is taken for the image of social reality by the individual. Mikhail Epstein’s theories support this notion of a plurality of ideologies that create an ideological environment, incorporating all


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possibilities of ideological thought.13 It is this complex notion of ideology, in its various manifestations, that dominates contemporary Russian society. Just as Glasnost and Perestroika unleashed myriad ideologies, it also opened up, what Epstein calls, a “transcultural world”: a collective state of awareness involving a plurality of cultural expressions. “True” culture, according to Epstein, is a site for self-reflection—“a realm of active, objectified, and multifaceted freedom, which characterizes the individual’s attitudes as well, in terms of freedom to accept or reject various cultural forms, to participate or to decline participation” (286). Epstein sees culture as embracing society; culture is “the totality of objectified relations of human beings among themselves . . . a text whose sender and receiver is humanity” (288). One of the hallmarks of culturology,14 the discipline that studies culture as the integral system of various cultures, is the capacity for self-reflection, a capacity that was clearly lacking in Soviet Russia, where culture was by definition associated with artifacts and propaganda. Culturology arises when a society is able to take a detached view of itself, analogous to Bakhtin’s concept of “vnenakhodimost’ ” (extralocality): “[I]n order to understand it is immensely important for the person who understands to be located outside the object of his or her creative understanding—in time, in space, in culture” (Bakhtin 7). From this Epstein derives his concept of “transculture,” which, rather than a field of knowledge is a mode of existence at the crossroads of culture; a site of interaction among all existing and potential cultures (294–299). Transideological and transcultural post-totalitarian Russia has much to offer to a scholar of cultural studies and theatre for young audiences. The transition from a society dominated by a singular totalitarian ideology, where the official concept of culture was limited to cultural artifacts and propaganda, to a society with a plurality of ideological thoughts, operating side by side in complex combinations, contributing to the creation of a transcultural world involving a plurality of cultural expressions, affects all areas of life. In Russia, this transition took place at an accelerated speed, first dictated from above in a restructured and reconceptualized Soviet-Marxist framework, then crossing those ideological boundaries and following new avenues. After more than 15 years of post-totalitarian reign this transition is by no means complete,

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albeit a whole new generation of youth, and whole new ways of living, have clearly emerged. Under Soviet Marxism, Russia’s youth was seen as the vanguard of the construction of communism. Theatre, as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, played an important role in educating future protectors of the fatherland, loyal to the Communist Party and the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism. Under the totalitarian regime, youth had no voice, no opinion, and no rights except for those dictated by and in the interest of the Communist Party. Glasnost and Perestroika made it not only possible for youth to claim their rightful position in society, but also for sociologists and anthropologists to document evolution of youth culture in Russia in ethnographic studies (Pilkington, Markowitz). The changed image of youth from constructors of communism to “victims of Western influence” to a “lost generation” had to impact youth cultural institutions, including the theatres for young audiences. Prior to discussing the changed conditions and cultural position of theatre for youth after Glasnost and Perestroika, however, the effects of the dominant ideological and cultural paradigms of Marxism-Leninism on Russian theatre for young audiences will be discussed in the following two chapters.

2. The Historical Role and Cultural Function of Russian Theatre for Young Audiences x PRIOR TO 1917 “In the very first months after the victory of the Great October Socialist Revolution, the first theatres for children in the history of world theatre were organized in the Soviet nation,” wrote Aleksandra Gozenpud, one of the leading historians of theatre for young audiences, in the 1950s (“Teatry” 421). Soviet rhetoric1 insists that professional theatre for children and youth, performed by adults, was a Marxist idea which came to full realization after the 1917 revolution, ignoring similar developments in Europe and America and denying any groundbreaking work in imperial Russia that led up to theatre for young audiences. However, theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union emerged not entirely in a vacuum. As in the rest of Western Europe, school drama had been part of the educational institutions since the seventeenth century. At the turn of the nineteenth century theatre was used as a tool to enlighten the poor in the rough equivalent of the American settlement houses, the “narodnye doma” (people’s houses). Nikolai Bakhtin, the first director of the pedagogical section at the Leningrad Theatre of Young Spectators, was an admirer of Alice Minnie Hertz’s Educational Theatre in New York City (1903) and promoted the use of drama for educational activities as early as 1907. In addition to these primarily educational theatrical activities, mostly done by nonprofessional children and adults, regular theatres

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offered matinees for children in the late nineteenth and twentieth century, “with commercial goals in mind” according to another eminent Soviet theatre for youth scholar, Lenora Shpet (Sovetskii 5–10). Shpet acknowledges the influence of the early educational theatre activities in pointing out the educational value of theatre, which became the pedagogical objective of Soviet theatre for young audiences in later years (13). However, the educational setting and amateur status of most of these theatrical activities, clearly differentiated this theatre from what became known as Soviet theatre for children and youth: that is, state supported, professional theatre by adults for children and youth.2 The need for special theatres for young audiences was recognized in 1915, at the All-Russian Conference of People’s Theatre Artists, when a special section was devoted to the question of children’s theatre and drama in education and the development of special theatres for children and youth in the larger cities of the Russian empire (Bakhtin, qtd. in Shail, “Leningrad” 25). The keynote speaker for this session, O.I. Galakhova, an educator from Kharkov, pleaded for a special children’s theatre, separated from adult theatre, under the joint control and direction of paid professional artists and educators and subsidized by the state. For repertory she recommended the best available plays for children as well as adaptations of fairy tales, and appropriate classic literary works (Shail, “Leningrad” 23–25). Unknowingly, Galakhova articulated some of the main characteristics of what would become the Soviet theatre for children and youth. THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THEATRES FOR YOUNG AUDIENCES Although Shpet did recognize early contributions and influences3 she too states that: Theatre for children was born in Soviet Russia in the time of the October Revolution. . . . [O]nly in the Soviet Union did the idea of such a theatre [for children] find its real incarnation, setting the scene of the theatrical culture of the nation and becoming one of the links in the general state educational system. (Sovetskii 4)

In January 1918, Anatolii Lunacharskii, head of the newly established Commissariat of Enlightenment or Narkompros (Narodnyi Komissariat

Russian Theatre for Young Audiences

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Prosveshcheniia), created a special department for theatre, the TEO (Teatral’nyi Otdel), with a subsection for children’s theatre (Sosin, “Children’s” 34). Shpet calls Lunacharskii the “good spirit” of children’s theatre, who not only understood and recognized the importance and possibilities of children’s theatre, but also took an active part in the founding and sustaining of children’s theatre in those early years (Sovetskii 18). In the booklet Igra [Play], a kind of handbook for children’s theatre and drama in education issued by the children’s theatre division of the TEO, Lunacharskii points out four focus points for the children’s theatre division: (1) the use of drama as a teaching tool; (2) the performance of school plays by students; (3) matinee performances of plays for children and youth by professional theatres for adults; and (4) the establishment of special theatres for children and youth (qtd. in Shail, “Leningrad” 34). In 1918 the children’s theatre section of the TEO established the Petrograd Children’s Theatre, a touring company for the children of Petrograd and surroundings, which offered a program of fairy tales, children’s songs, and pantomimes. The leader of the theatre, N.A. Lebedev, introduced the performances, and the audience filled out questionnaires at the end. For unknown reasons the theatre did not resume after the summer season, but “from that moment the attempts to create a special theatre for children follow each other in persistent succession” (Shpet, Sovetskii 21–23). At the end of the same year the children’s theatre section of the TEO initiated a special four-month course of study in children’s literature and school drama for teachers and other persons concerned with the education of children and youth. The program was conducted by Nikolai Bakhtin, a leader in pedagogy; N.A. Lebedev, the director of the Petrograd Children’s Theatre; director Vsevolod Meyerhold; and Aleksandr Briantsev, the future leader of the Leningrad Theatre of the Young Spectator (Briantsev 80–81; Shail, “Leningrad” 36–37). Lunacharskii considered play an important educational element in dramatic activities. In his introductory article in Igra 14 he states: Schiller considered play to be the basis of all art. But we can take this concept much further. To a significant degree, play is the basis of all human culture. Freed from direct need, from work (slavery), man begins to think, feel and create freely, to make progress in accordance with the dictates of his

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Moscow Theatres for Young People inner self and to satisfy the innate striving of every part of his body to selfrealization. (Qtd. in Shail, “Leningrad” 40)

In this way, Lunacharskii links play directly with ideology and stresses the educational significance of play for the building of the new Soviet state. In 1918 Moscow became the new capital of the Soviet Union, and all government offices, including the Narkompros, moved to Moscow. There Nataliia Sats was already active as chair (and only member) of the children’s department of the Theatre-Music section (Temusek) of the Department of Public Education of the Moscow Soviet of Workers’ and Peasants’ Deputies. Sats—at that time reportedly a very energetic 15-yearold, capable of grasping the opportunities that emerge in tumultuous times—had a natural affinity for organization and some good connections: her father was a composer who wrote, among others, the music for Stanislavsky’s Blue Bird, a very popular show for young audiences in the early 1900s, and her aunt married Lunacharskii in 1922. As head of the children’s department of Temusek, Sats organized a series of programs for children, from children’s plays to music concerts to circus acts (Sats, Deti 35–39). In October 1918 she helped to establish the Children’s Theatre of the Moscow Soviet, a state-subsidized children’s theatre for puppets, ballet, and marionettes. Lunacharskii visited one of the performances, Maks i Morits [Max and Moritz], and was reportedly appalled by the quality of the production and the vulgar slapstick. At the same time, he was impressed by the enthusiasm of both Nataliia Sats and the performers: “We have to use all this energy and love for the cause and create an experimental children’s theatre, under the control of the pedagogical section of the TEO and the school department of the Narkompros” (qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 45). Lunacharskii appointed a special commission to plan and organize a state-subsidized theatre for children and youth under the auspices of the Narkompros (Shail, “Leningrad” 48). Nataliia Sats was one of the six members of the directorate of the theatre, which had Lunacharskii himself as permanent chair. Lunacharskii also appointed an artistic committee, which included, among others, Konstantin Stanislavsky. The theatre was to be housed on the premises of Sats’s Children’s Theatre of the Moscow Soviet,5 which itself was to be absorbed in the new children’s theatre.


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The rapidly emerging leader of the First State Theatre for Children was Henriette Pascar, member of the directorate, and ideologically diametrically opposed to Sats. In an interview with Gene Sosin in 1951, Pascar calls Sats “an ambitious little girl” and “l’enfant russe” who “did little things to please the government” (“Children’s” 42). Sats, on the other hand, accused Pascar of being “very much in love with power,” and criticized her lack of political direction and the religious elements she introduced in her plays. Indeed, Pascar’s ideological views seemed to be completely alien to the newly established Soviet state. Pascar wanted to create a “festive corner of comfort and beauty, a world of bright colors, and happy sounds, a world of fairy tale heroes” which would direct “a radiant beam into the soul of the contemporary child.” Pascar maintained that in these harsh times [the time of the civil war, immediately following the revolution] “children left their enchanted kingdom” and needed to be returned to that world (Shpet, Sovetskii 46–47). She considered fairy tale plays, filled with music, dance and magic, perfect to offer the children a chance to escape from reality and delve into a world of fantasy and imagination.6 Although Pascar, in 1921, became the sole director of the First State Children’s Theatre, her essentially escapist concept for children’s theatre could not endure in the new Soviet state. At the Twelfth Party Congress in 1923, a resolution was passed which urged all Soviet theatres, including the theatres for children and youth, “to formulate in practical terms the question concerning the use of theatre for the systematic mass propaganda of ideas related to the struggle of communism” (qtd. in Shail, “Leningrad” 683). Pascar was dismissed after she refused to accept the concept of children’s theatre as a tool or instrument for the education of children and youth in the principles of communism. She had to flee the Soviet Union to escape retribution and lived in exile in Paris. Iurii Bondi, a student of Meyerhold, took over. With the dismissal of Pascar, the official ideological direction of theatre for children and youth had been made clear. Theatre for young audiences in the broadest sense had to educate the young Soviet citizen in the principles of Marxism-Leninism. This marked the start of ideologically correct plays, be they based on fairy tales, folk tales, classical literature, or newly written contemporary plays.

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Bondi believed in theatre for children with a political mission. The first play he directed, Kolka Stupin, dealt with the homeless children in Moscow, who tried to make a living by selling cigarettes and committing petty crimes. In this play, Kolka Stupin turns out to be a forerunner of the “positive hero” of socialist realism.7 He refuses to join a street gang, travels to America where he works in a factory (personally experiencing capitalist exploitation), and helps American longshoremen to plot a Marxist style revolution against their bosses. He returns to the Soviet Union just in time to prevent a capitalist plot to blow up an electrical tower. The message this play conveys is that no matter what the circumstances, communism is highly preferable to capitalism. Kolka learns this lesson first hand, having experienced and witnessed the exploitation of the American workers. If he was at first cynical about the new Soviet regime, after his return he is ready to fight for it and dedicate his life to it (Sosin, “Children’s” 70–78). This play is an early example of the genre of Soviet plays with a positive child hero, whose main virtue is his (or sometimes her) unconditional surrender to the communist regime. The play is deceptively realistic; apart from a pair of winged shoes and a talking statue, there are no fantastic elements or magical events. The world is unambiguously divided into “good” and “evil”: communism and capitalism. Bondi’s idea of children’s theatre clearly served the ideals of Soviet communism, and his mission statement clearly opposed the one of Pascar: I affirm, that the one and only form of theatre necessary for children at the present time is the theatre of agitation. Every other form of theatre is a compromise, is pedagogical NEP [New Economic Policy] . . . our first task is a relentless fight with the old ways, the old beliefs, the old ethics. (Qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 54)

Bondi was not the only one who advocated and made political theatre for children. In the winter of 1922 Grigorii Roshal, also a student of Meyerhold, opened the State Workshop of Pedagogical Theatre, the most politically radical and experimental Soviet theatre for children and youth in the early twenties (Shail, “Leningrad” 72). Roshal was committed to political activism in theatre for children and youth and


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openly imitated Meyerhold in trying to find new forms of expression for the ideals and values of the new world order. As he said, “We meyerholded to our utmost” (qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 96). Frequently he adapted classical drama, such as Molière’s The Doctor in Spite of Himself, to his own objectives. It became, essentially, a play about the persecution of art and theatre under the autocratic rule of the cruel Louis XIV in seventeenth century France (Shail, “Leningrad” 73). Roshal described the production as full of playful and open theatricality. The space was a basement shared by actors and audiences and the actors wore clown-like costumes. The staging was emblematic, only the materials at hand were carried on stage (Roshal 25–27). The company’s second play, Engineer Sempson, was overtly political in that a scientist saves the human race from destruction by a deadly weapon in the hands of an evil capitalist cartel. The basic set for this play was a Meyerholdian constructivist arrangement of ramps, platforms, and ladders. During the intermissions performers held short meetings with the audience to ensure that the political meaning of Engineer Sempson—which ends with the announcement of a new communist world order, free from the destructive exploitation of capitalism—came across (Shpet, Sovetskii 97–98). In 1925, on the orders of Narkompros, the Workshop of Pedagogical Theatre merged with Bondi’s First State Theatre for Children (Shpet, Sovetskii 102) and was renamed the First State Pedagogical Theatre. In 1931, it was again reorganized as the State Central Theatre of the Young Spectator, or Gostsentiuz (Gosudarstvennyi tsentral’nyi teatr iunogo zritelia8). The Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator, or Mtiuz, was founded as a touring company in 1924 by O.V. Rudakova. In winter they performed on improvised indoor stages, in summer they toured the city and the regions with a specially constructed van that could be converted into a simple outdoor stage (Shail, “Leningrad” 80). Like Roshal’s Workshop of the Pedagogical Theatre, the Mtiuz was dedicated to political theatre for children and rejected the escapist world of fantasies and fairy tales. The Mtiuz concentrated on short colorful musical reviews with titles such as Keep Your Eyes Open, The Day of the Pioneer, and Let Us Grow with October. Through music, songs, dance, and acrobatics they conveyed simple, political messages to their young audiences (Shail, “Leningrad” 81). In the early 1930s they established a second

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company, the Moscow Regional Tiuz, specifically to serve the regions. This became an independent theatre company in 1931, and is still operating. In the meantime, Nataliia Sats, after the dismissal of the directorate of the First State Theatre for Children, founded a new theatre for children and youth under the control of the Department of Education of the Moscow Soviet, a different department than the Narkompros. The Moscow Theatre for Children opened in 1921, in temporary quarters, with a fairy tale production, Zhemchuzhina Adal’miny [The Pearl of Adalmina]. Sats and her partner Sergei Rozanov,9 advocates of theatre for children that served the political goals of the new Soviet state, favored a repertory of fairy tales as the most appropriate material for children. Each play had to convey an important political message or “social idea” (Shpet, Sovetskii 65). In The Pearl of Adalmina this message is hard to miss. The play deals with a sensitive young princess who flees the cruelty and stupidity of the court to embrace the simpler and nobler life among “the people.” “Not everyone is sated, because not everyone works,” she tells the audience, and, “the country does not need a king; the people must rule the country” (qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 66). In those early years of their theatre Sats and Rozanov also tried to reconcile their repertory with the theories of Stanley Hall, thus from the outset linking children’s theatre in the Soviet Union to drama in education as advocated by the progressive educators in America and England (Shail, “Leningrad” 42). Hall emphasized the “dramatic instinct” of children, theorizing that children acquire values and ideas of modern civilization by instinctive play. Basically they replicate the activities of primitive people in the evolution from the simple to the complex. According to Hall, children go through a number of stages, such as the animal stage, when children play a lot of games with hanging and climbing and the like; the nomad stage, when they keep pets and build outdoor houses and sometimes run away from home; and, the tribal life stage during which they start to work and play in teams (Courtney 36–38, 66–67). Following these theories, Sats and Rozanov developed stories about animals, nomads, tribal life, and the like which they tried to incorporate into plays about the culture of the folk art of people in many lands and places. Eventually Sats and Rozanov abandoned the concept, considering it too limited (Shpet, Sovetskii 72).


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In 1924 they produced Bud’ gotov! [Be Prepared!], with which they “clearly embraced the lead of Iurii Bondi at the First State Theatre for Children” (Shail, “Leningrad” 66). Instead of politicized fairy tales this was a theatre of agitation and propaganda. The new hero was the young Soviet pioneer—always prepared—the “child patriot of the new world order” (Shail, “Leningrad” 67).10 Be Prepared! was the first of a new genre called “igro-spektakl”, or game-play,11 in which the audience was invited to participate in several scenes. Besides active participation on stage, the audience was frequently urged by the actors to “be prepared,” to which the audience responded by shouting the pioneer slogan “vsegda gotov” or “always prepared” (Sosin, “Children’s” 78). The game-plays were staged according to the following corresponding rubrics: Material—contemporary life, work and struggle for socialism in the USSR. Characteristic style—constructivism. Dramatic form—play of a utopic character. Social idea—by tireless work and struggle we obtain socialism. Production form—game-play. A revolutionary feast. Decorative solutions—basically the expediency of machines. Propellers, wheels and movement. [sic] Music—revolutionary hymns, music of a heroic character. (Qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 73)

Game-plays were taken over by other theatres (the traveling Mtiuz was for a while famous for them), and they remained popular in the Soviet theatre for children and youth until the early 1930s.12 By the end of the 1920s state-supported theatre for children and youth was firmly established, not only in Moscow but also in other cities throughout the Soviet Union.13 The production practices reflected the general atmosphere of experimentation and innovation that was typical of the Russian theatre in the 1920s, encouraged by the spirit of freedom from the NEP.14 The plays evolved from fairy tales, to politicized fairy tales, to Marxist propaganda plays with the main objective being the ideological education of the young Soviet citizen.

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PEDAGOGY The pedagogical practices of the tiuzes under the Soviets were also established in those early years. According to Shail, Nikolai Bakhtin, the first director of the pedagogical section of the Leningrad Tiuz, is the father of Soviet theatre pedagogy. Although Sats, Rozanov, Roshal, and others experimented with audience research, Bakhtin created a systematic program, which was soon adopted by theatres for young audiences throughout the Soviet Union (Briantsev 82; Shail, “Leningrad” 353, 735–748).15 Bakhtin developed his program around two essential elements: a full-time professional educational staff of “pedagogues” and the “Delegate Assembly,” a body of child representatives, who assured communication between the theatre artists and their audience. The pedagogical staff had several duties: (1) directing service to the child audience during performances, including maintaining order, and answering questions; (2) establishing and maintaining contact with teachers, students, and administrators at the local schools; (3) developing and preparing informative programs, curriculum guides, and other printed material for the use of teachers, parents, and youth leaders in preparing children for attendance of the productions; (4) observing, studying, and analyzing child audience reactions; and (5) developing and implementing follow up studies and techniques for the enhancement of the child’s theatre experience (Shail, “Leningrad” 357, 736). Bakhtin’s audience preparation was, in the beginning, closely associated with his ideal of creating a “teatral’no-gramotnyi zritel’, ” or theatrical-literate spectator, an idea which came out of his concept of children’s theatre as essential in the moral, aesthetic, and ethical education of young people (Shail, “Leningrad” 737). All visits to the theatre should be a learning experience. Bakhtin wanted his audience to understand at least the plot, character, and themes of the company’s productions. Ideally, he also wanted them to have a thorough knowledge of all aspects of the theatre, including the role of director and actor, theatrical elements such as lighting, sets and costumes, and principles of dramatic criticism (Shail, “Leningrad” 361–362, 738). In the 1930s, Bakhtin was accused of “bourgeois liberalism” and “apoliticism.” The concept of the “theatrical-literate spectator” came under particular attack as “elitist” and against the party’s aim of creating


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a classless society (Shail, “Leningrad” 760). The concept of “the informed theatre goer” (as Shail, translates the term) did not disappear, though, it merely took on a new direction more in line with the party’s ideology. Instead of emphasizing the aesthetic education of young people, as the term “theatrical-literate spectator” implies, the ideological education took over (which might be why Shail translates the term as “informed theatre goer”). Audience study became an important element in theatre pedagogy. In the mid-1920s a vogue for quantitative studies captured the Soviet Union, and not only Bakhtin but also Dikanskaia at the First State Children’s Theatre, Sats, Roshal, and others tried to come up with quantitative techniques to measure audience responses. They used, among others, a combination of anecdotal reporting and statistical graphic analysis, and a chronometer set at one minute and one minute and a half intervals to measure a variety of child audience reactions. The latter measure led to the elimination of background music in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, because the uncontrollable weeping of the majority of the audience diverted their attention from the political message (Avdeev, Lentiuz pedagogue, qtd. in Shail, “Leningrad” 496). In the mid-1930s quantitative research came under scrutiny, and the theatres for young audiences started to rely more on other research methods—already in use—such as: written responses, questionnaires, interviews, child art, and dramatization. The latter was considered suitable only for the very youngest. After 1930, one of the main concerns, and thus an important subject of examination, was whether the political and ideological content came across. To ensure this, pedagogues went to the schools after the performances to help teachers during evaluative classroom discussions. Nevertheless, the previous belief that there was a direct cause and effect relationship between theatre visits and subsequent behavior was impossible to prove because of the many other ideological influences in the lives of the young students (Shail, “Leningrad” 625). Perhaps one of the most widespread activities in theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union was Bakhtin’s concept of the Delegate Assembly, consisting of two or more student representatives from each school, who were the main links between the company and their audience. The delegates participated in a variety of activities: they helped during performances by passing out programs, maintaining order, and

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the like; they participated in the preparation of wall newspapers (including news about the tiuz, short reviews of Lentiuz productions, and articles of general interest to young spectators) and other publications of the assembly; they executed in-school services on behalf of the theatre, such as organizing excursions, leading post-performance discussions, writing about the theatre in school publications; and they attended the regular monthly meetings of the assembly. In the beginning these meetings consisted more of an extra-curriculum course in theatre arts (analogous to Bakhtin’s concept of the theatrical-literate theatre goer), later, following the changing political climate in the Soviet Union, they consisted more of group discussions on ideological content and its significance (Shail, “Leningrad” 745–746). Another contribution of the Lentiuz that was employed by virtually all theatres for young audiences in the Soviet Union was the division of the audience into three different age groups: between 5 and 9; between 10 and 13; and between 14 and 17 or 18. Briantsev soon started to concentrate on the two older age groups, with a special emphasis on the middle one, restricting the younger group to puppet and marionette performances (Shail, “Leningrad” 693–694). The age groups were strictly observed. Except for chaperones, only students of the right age could attend the performance for their age group (Morton, “Theatre” 11–12).16 THE 1930S AND BEYOND By the 1930s, the practice of theatre for young audiences as a statesupported institution was firmly established in the Soviet Union, and the number of “tiuzes” was rapidly increasing. In the 1930s the ideological objectives also became more apparent. This emphasized the importance of the pedagogical section, despite the condemnation of “pedology” as a science (see later). In terms of ideology, the development of the theatres for young audiences in the 1930s is characterized by increased state control and increased emphasis on ideological content and practices. Theatres for young audiences were, in this respect, no exception to the general increase of state control and ideology in the daily lives of the Soviet citizen during the consolidation of Stalinism. In 1930 all Soviet theatres


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for young audiences were placed under the jurisdiction of a newly established Council on Children’s Theatre at the Narkompros. In the spring of that year they convened the first All-Russian Conference of the Workers in the Theatre for Children. In connection with this conference, the chair of the Council, V.I. Smirnov, published an article in Art in the School, in which he warned against “forces that are ideologically hostile to the proletariat” used by the theatres, which distracted youth from the class struggle and the building of socialism. He called for the transformation of the Soviet theatres into “instruments of war, which would strengthen the elements of class conscious education”: “We don’t need a theatre of psychological realism, we need an ideological theatre,” with new plays that artistically express “questions of collectivization, the dispatching of children’s brigades to the kolkhozes, the breakdown of the production plants, the gathering of waste, etc.” (qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 199–200). The ideas of the conference itself are summarized in an official publication, Theatre for Children as an Official Instrument of Communist Education, by Sofia Lunacharskaia, in which she essentially outlines how to make the Soviet children’s theatre a tool for propaganda, agitation, and indoctrination of Soviet youth in the principles of Marxism-Leninism: Art as an amusement, a diversion of attention away from life is not for him [the Soviet child]. He comes to the theatre with many disturbing problems, with a host of needs and misunderstandings. The Theatre must consider all those needs, must shed light on those dark thoughts, disturbing the mind. It must develop and strengthen both love and hate. It must give him sustenance for the struggle, an optimistic attitude toward the surmounting of all difficulties and obstacles, and a faith in the strength of the collective and in the glorious life of emerging socialism. (Lunacharskaia 21)

Lunacharskaia also gives a list of appropriate themes for plays for young audiences in the Soviet society. Among them are: the conflict between the modern Soviet child and the bourgeois attitudes of his parents; the life and work of the Soviet child in school and the pioneer organization; the relationship between pioneer leaders and members of the pioneer organizations; the evils of religion and the necessity of atheism; the events of the October Revolution and the civil war, emphasizing the

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achievements of the Bolshevik Party; the revolutionary struggle of workers in capitalist nations; and the goals and objectives of the five-year plan for the industrialization of the Soviet Union and the collectivization of agriculture (26–30). Fairy tales and “detective drama” were condemned. “Detective drama” was thought to directly instill criminal behavior through imitation of representation. Fairy tales were in fact already discredited in the mid-1920s as anti Marxist-Leninist. They were believed to “arouse mystical and religious feelings, a belief in supernatural forces, and to hamper the development of the materialistic thought process of a child” (Shpet, Sovetskii 114). Kings, queens, princesses and other elements of the traditional fairy tales were now “elements of a class-alien ideology” (Shpet, Sovetskii 14). Lunacharskaia added to these objections that the fairy tales “confuse children,” interfering with their understanding of everyday reality and hindering psychological development. They “contribute nothing to the development of a communist attitude toward the world and a materialistic understanding of reality” (24–35). In 1934, at the first Congress of Soviet Writers, the theory of “socialist realism” was launched, which became the official doctrine for all the arts, literature and theatre, including theatre for young audiences. Zhdanov, the official party spokesman, described the Soviet artists and writers as “engineers of the human mind” who had to “depict life in its revolutionary development.” Soviet literature “must not shun romanticism, but it must be romanticism of a new type, revolutionary romanticism” (qtd. in Struve 261–262). Under the doctrine of socialist realism all Soviet artists had to conform to certain principles: strict adherence to the party line in the presentation of social and political issues; the portrayal of contemporary Soviet life under socialism in a positive light; the representation of historical events in terms of accepted Marxist-Leninist theory; the vilification of all enemies of socialism, the Soviet state, and the world wide communist movement; and, the glorification of the Marxist-Leninist utopian ideal for the future happiness of all mankind under communism (Shail, “Leningrad” 522–523; Struve 253–285). In the theatre this led to an endless stream of ideologically predictable plays with a mandatory “positive hero” who battled against national or international odds, only to succeed in a socio-realistic happy conclusion, in which it is once again proven that the party knows best. Some of the


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stereotypes created by socialist realism in theatre for young audiences include: “the endlessly patient and understanding party-minded teacher,” “the steely-eyed young Pioneer who fearlessly and relentlessly ferrets out enemies of the party line for the Soviet school,” “the school hooligan who bullies weaker children and abuses youngsters from ethnic minorities,” and “the arrogant dissembler who hides his antisocial behavior (card-playing, wild parties, drinking, and the like) behind a hypocritical mask of overzealous commitment to the cause of party-sponsored in-school activities” (Shail, “Leningrad” 524). With the institutionalizing of socialist realism, a war against “formalism” began. The term “formalism,” or “bourgeois formalism” originally pointed to art that relied on form instead of social content, but soon it became “a catch phrase for any form of artistic experimentation antithetical to official support for the realistic representation of life and reality in all the arts” (Shail, “Leningrad” 520). At the end of 1934 the political terror of Stalin matured with the assassination of Kirov, chairman of the Leningrad Soviet. Stalin used this as an excuse to persecute, ban, and kill thousands of Soviet citizens. Two genres were “rehabilitated” in the spirit of socialist realism in the mid-1930s: the classic and the fairy tale. The rehabilitation of classics “from the position of socialist realism” (Shpet, Sovetskii 247), basically meant the staging of classical drama in “a conventional realistic manner, free from avant-garde experimentation, and in terms of strict adherence to the Marxist-Leninist interpretation of history” (Shail, “Leningrad” 549). The rehabilitation of the fairy tale was born out of a lack of suitable plays for young children. Fairy tales in general were already given new legitimacy by scholars who made them the object of serious study as part of the national folklore and as outlets for the creativity of the common people (Shail, “Leningrad” 552). At the first All Union Congress of Writers in 1934, poet and playwright Samuil Marshak called for the creation of a new fairy tale, expressing the Soviet ideology (Shpet, Sovetskii 267). The resulting “Soviet fairy tale” was basically an old fairy tale in which contemporary values and ideas were imposed (Shpet, Sovetskii 273). Evgenii Shvarts became the master of this genre. In Krasnaia Shapochka [Little Red Riding Hood] (1937), for example, Shvarts takes the framework of the traditional tale, but changes Little Red Riding Hood to a modern Soviet pioneer who mobilizes the animals

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in the forest to defeat the wolf. Although fantastical elements are not eliminated, anachronistic elements, such as a contemporary Soviet forest ranger operating a phone from a tree trunk, relate the story to contemporary life (P’esy 95–134). Evgenii Shvarts (1897–1958) is perhaps the most well-known Soviet playwright for children in the West, although, rather ironically, this fame stems mainly from his highly ambiguous and suggestive “fairy tales for adults.” Shvarts wrote about a dozen plays between 1925 and 1958. Three of these, The Shadow (1940), The Naked King (1934), and The Dragon (1943), are discussed as controversial plays for adults in several English sources (cf. Glenny Golden, Golub, Metcalf, Segel). According to Spencer Golub these plays confront totalitarianism by “a defamiliarization of utopian reality [which] captures the moral opportunism of ideological posturing” (Golub 160). Shvarts’s protagonists are “real” characters who are often politically naive and shortsighted, which makes for some hilarious situations and dialogue. Shvarts highlights the totalitarian illusion by juxtaposing real and fantastic elements, intensifying the literal meaning of the fairy tale cliché to point out that “real society and people are not easily led into abstract evil as in fairytales” (Golub 160). The absence of unambiguous “good” and “evil” (especially in The Dragon) and the implication that the people are complicit in their submission to totalitarian rule is unsettling, and disrupts the familiar fairy tale structure and its allegorical perception. It is likely that Shvarts would have faced far more serious consequences than “mere” censorship and criticism, had he not equally emphasized his second “ love” theme as “the most powerful and most magical expression of life” (Glenny, Golden 137), and had he not been an established playwright for children already. In addition, upcoming fascism gave the opportunity to posit these fairy tales for adults as a critical and satiric commentary on the developments in Nazi Germany, rather than a critique on Soviet totalitarianism, which indeed may have been Shvarts’s original intent (cf. Pyman). Given all this, Shvarts’s own commentary on the fairy tale as a genre, whether for children or adults, as quoted in Avril Pyman’s introduction to Three Plays: Yevgeniy Shvarts is both telling and disarming (as he was, reportedly, in real life). In the fairy tale . . . the everyday and the extraordinary mix very conveniently and are easy to understand so long as you look on the story as a story. As in


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childhood, you should not look for hidden meanings. The fairy tale is told not to disguise but to disclose, to speak your mind at full strength, at the top of your voice. (Shvarts, qtd. in Pyman xix)

Shvarts’s fairy tales for children have been in the repertory of almost all theatres for young audiences in Russia to this day (see parts II and III); his fairy tales for adults—the “inadequate” plays—have only been sporadically performed, mostly in periods of political relaxation such as the Thaw (see chapter 3), and Glasnost and Perestroika (see chapter 4). In 1936 the increasing tension between the artistic and pedagogical staff of the theatres for young audiences was resolved by the condemnation of “pedology” (Shpet, Sovetskii 209–211). Pedology was the official term for the scientific study of heredity and environment as factors in child development. Pedology relied heavily on quantitative study. By the mid-1930s, the belief in determination through heredity and environment, as well as quantitative “fact” studies in general, was considered to be anti-Marxist, because it refuted the idea of dialectics, progress, and chance inherent in the ideology of Marxism-Leninism. The condemnation of pedology ended the “excessive influence of pedagogues in the schools, and at the same time all studies of audience perception in the children’s theatres stopped. . . .” This weakened the role of the pedagogues in the theatres for children “to this day [1971],” and ranked them second after the artistic staff (Shpet, Sovetskii 211). In the same year, the party removed the Soviet theatres for young audiences from the jurisdiction of the Narkompros (the Commissariat of Enlightenment) and placed them under the control of the newly established All-Union Committee of Art Affairs (Vsesoiuznyi Komitet po Delam Iskusstva)—a move that also indicated a renewed emphasis on arts affairs and a downgrading of pedagogy (Shail, “Leningrad” 531). The condemnation of pedology and the administrative shift of control did not lead to the elimination of the pedagogical sections, but more to a change in hierarchy and a confirmation of the idea that pedagogical sections stood in service to, or operated on par with, the artistic direction of the theatres. In March 1936, the Central Committee of the Communist Party and the Council of People’s Commissars established a new theatre in Moscow that was meant to be a model for the artistic, pedagogical, and

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political functioning of Soviet theatres for young audiences (Shail, “Leningrad” 534, 768). The theatre was housed in the newly renovated theatre on Sverdlov Square (now Theatre Square), a theatre that formerly housed the Second Moscow Art Theatre, adjacent to the famous Maly and Bolshoi theatres (Gozenpud, Tsentral’nyi 25). Nataliia Sats was named director of the theatre, which received the name Central Children’s Theatre [Tsentral’nyi Detskii Teatr]. Although it was officially hailed as a new theatre (Komsomolskaia Pravda, qtd. in Shpet, Sovetskii 221), “the core consisted of the troupe of the Moscow Theatre for Children [Sats’s theatre, see pages 48–49], taking along its earlier established tastes, principles, and traditions” (Shpet, Sovetskii 221). Nataliia Sats herself seemed convinced it was an endorsement of the practices of the Moscow Theatre for Children (Sats, Deti 279–284). The theatre opened with a production taken directly from the repertory of the Moscow Theatre, Serezha Streltsov, by V. Liubimova. Serezha is a lonely boy of 15, suffering from depressions, despite the love and kindness of his father, with whom he lives after his mother abandoned them. When he is unjustly accused of stealing, he tries to commit suicide by catching pneumonia on purpose, but is saved by his anemic teacher, who donates her blood. Serezha’s attitude, then, changes drastically: he learns to accept the love of his father, friends, and teacher, and even develops a sense of patriotism. “How fine it is to live in this country,” he declares at the end of the play (Sosin, “Children’s” 173–176). Despite the ideologically correct patriotism in the play, and its emphasis on discipline, respect, and conformity (Sosin, “Children’s” 178), the play was taken from the repertory in 1937. According to the administration of theatres of the All-Union Committee on the Arts, the play contained “slander against the Soviet school and schoolchild, and a perverted interpretation of the feeling of duty and comradeship among youth” (qtd. in Sosin, “Children’s” 178). Shortly afterwards Nataliia Sats was exiled as an “enemy of the people.”17 In the short time she was director, though, she attracted some famous people, such as Aleksei Tolstoi, whom she persuaded to write a Soviet version of Pinocchio, The Golden Key; and Sergei Prokofiev who composed the music for Peter and the Wolf, which had its premiere in the Central Children’s Theatre on May 5, 1936. The theatre employed 375 people, with an orchestra of 28.


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In 1939 the first round for the first All-Union Review of the Theatres of Young Spectators was held, in which fifty out of the sixty-two Soviet theatres for young audiences took part (Shpet, Sovetskii 299). In November 1940 eleven theatres, including the Mtiuz, the Gostsentiuz, and the Central Children’s Theatre, were chosen for the final review in Moscow by the Committee of Arts Affairs. The consequences of the review were significant. First, it was a recognition of the significant place of children’s theatres in the system of the ideological, moral, and aesthetic education of youth. Second, it showed the high artistic standards of theatres for young audiences, not only in Moscow and Leningrad but also in the provinces. Third, it showed the variety of plays (contemporary, classical, historical, and fairy tales) offered in the repertories of the various theatres for young audiences (Shpet, Sovetskii 299–300). Briantsev’s Lentiuz was chosen as the most influential and outstanding theatre for young audiences, having functioned as a model for a great many of the other “tiuzes” that participated in the review (Shail, “Leningrad” 548; Sosin, “Children’s” 225).18 By 1940, theatre for young audiences was not only established as a major institution, but its basic organization was also more or less fixed. Every theatre for young audiences consisted of an artistic and a pedagogical section, with the latter in service to the former. Every theatre had a varied repertory consisting of contemporary plays, classics, historical plays, and fairy tales. Every theatre geared its productions toward three age groups: seven to nine, ten to thirteen, and fourteen to seventeen years old. The very young were to go to the puppet theatres. The main variables, then, were within the repertory, mainly caused by ideological shifts. Thus, in the prewar years, which were characterized by Sosin as the period of “love of the motherland and its leaders, devotion to teachers and parents, perseverance in school and work and intransigence toward the enemies of communist ideology” (2), the heroes taken from folklore, fairy tales and history were “so different in their appearance and character, that they stirred up a feeling of patriotism and national pride in their audience” (Shpet, Sovetskii 335). The official ideology was especially emphasized in the contemporary plays, which directly reflected the official stance on contemporary events. The war years generated plays such as Timur i ego kommanda [Timur and his Team] an adaptation of a story by Arkadii Gaidar, which deals with the

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heroic deeds of Timur, who, with his team, helps families of Red Army men at the front. After the war, patriotism and collective thought remained a dominant theme in the repertory of theatres for young audiences, which led to two basic problems: a lack of conflict and an absence of comedies (Sosin, “Children’s” 333–334), problems that were closely connected to Stalin’s theories of the “non-antagonistic contradictions.” The insistence of portraying Soviet life as ideal led to uniform plays in which the basic conflict was no more than a clash between two good Soviet people, one of whom was temporarily mistaken in his behavior and attitude, or the manifestation of the clash between “good” (communist) and “evil” (capitalist) ideals. During the occupation of Moscow the theatre companies had to leave, but remained, for the most part, in operation. Upon their return the Gostsentiuz merged with the Mtiuz, adopting the latter’s name: Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator, or Mtiuz.19 They occupied the premises on 10 Sadovskii Alley, the same place where Sats started the first marionette, ballet, and puppet theatre in 1918. CONCLUSION The Central Children’s Theatre and the Mtiuz became the only Moscow based theatres for young audiences that survived the war. Operating on the basic principles of theatres for young audiences which were institutionalized before the war, they were two of the main proponents of theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union. As such they perpetuated the official ideology, which was reflected in their repertory and production practices, as well as in their educational practices. The emergence of theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union, the conditions under which it had to operate, the way it communicated, and the ways the audience perceived meaning from the performances, was all directly connected with and greatly influenced by the dominance of the Marxist-Leninist ideology. The “freedom” of choice of repertory and production practices was dictated from above. The pedagogues’ primary task was to ensure that the audience perceived the ideologically correct message. Because the theatres dealt with “the education of future Soviet citizens,” they were generally under close scrutiny. The discourse of the theatre for young audiences became the


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discourse of a totalitarian ideology: “entirely political discourse” that “denies the particular fact of the political and attempts to achieve the dissolution of the political in the element of the pure generality of the social reality” (Lefort “On the Genesis” 71). By requiring teachers to include mandatory field trips (kultpokhody) in the curriculum, every Soviet child was exposed to the theatre. While this was generally hailed as one of the most progressive feats of Russian cultural life, the ideological function of the theatres was essentially repressive, and one of the first features abandoned with Glasnost and Perestroika (see part II). In this context, the rise in popularity of particularly the Central Children’s Theatre during the Thaw period is striking and proves to be an under-researched and ignored topic in Russian theatre history. With famous directors like Anatolii Efros, Oleg Efremov, Maria Knebel, Georgii Tovstonogov, and playwright Viktor Rozov trying their creative talents on theatre for children and youth, and a number of playwrights deliberately using the fairy tale format to contest and subvert dominant ideological paradigms, theatre for young audiences in Moscow during the Thaw period becomes one of the most sought after and exciting ventures of Russia’s cultural life.

Figure 2.1 A Tale about Tales. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown.


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natoly Smeliansky, Russian critic and theatre scholar, concurs with what has been noted in the previous chapters: Russia’s theatrical art “is very closely linked to events in the sociopolitical sphere personified by a particular ruler” (Russian xxii). The Thaw and the Freeze coincide with the rise and fall of the two leaders after Stalin’s death in 1953: Nikita Khrushchev and Leonid Brezhnev. As was the case in the previous periods of change in leadership, the coinciding periods of cultural change are not absolutely defined and did not happen overnight. While the Thaw, for example is generally connected to the reign of Khrushchev and his de-Stalinization politics (1953–1964), signs of a cultural Thaw were already visible before Stalin’s death. Similarly, after Khrushchev was removed from power several events foreshadowed the upcoming Freeze, but the clearest sign did not come until the 1968 invasion of Czechoslovakia. THAW Upon the death of Stalin in 1953, a series of changes took place in the Soviet Union. The period of terror had ended and instead of one leader the initial leadership was collective, including Nikita Khrushchev, head of the Communist Party in Moscow, Georgii Malenkov, Stalin’s closest assistant, and Lavrenty Beria, head of the KGB since 1938. Gradually Khrushchev took over by first eliminating Beria, then forcing Malenkov to resign as prime minister in 1955.1 The most visible changes were in domestic and foreign policy. The climate of Stalinist terror faded, industrial and agricultural reforms

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improved the lives of Soviet citizens, attempts were made to reduce cold war tensions and advocate a “peaceful coexistence.” The most significant event was the 1956 XXth Party Congress and Khrushchev’s “secret speech” (see Khrushchev The Crimes of the Stalin Era). It was the first Party Congress after the death of Stalin and it indicated some significant changes in ideology. First, the theory of “peaceful coexistence” reversed the traditional view that a clash between Communist and Capitalist countries was inevitable. Second, the notion that different countries could move from capitalism to socialism in their own way and did not necessarily have to follow Moscow’s example (spearheaded by the freedom given to Tito in Yugoslavia) indicated a relaxation in intercommunist relationships. Third, the denunciation of Stalinism, including his personality cult and incompetent leadership, signaled an end to totalitarian leadership of one person. Nevertheless, in practice Khrushchev’s leadership was erratic at best. As, for example, the Soviets’ relationship with the United States improved and Yugoslavia was allowed to follow its own course, the relationship with China vastly deteriorated and the uprising in Hungary was suppressed. In the Soviet Union itself Khrushchev suffered some embarrassing failures in that the economy failed to match the goals he had set, particularly in food production. In addition, he took the unpopular measure of requiring party personnel in important committees to rotate regularly, and proposed to divide the party into two structures, one for agriculture and one for industry. These proposals threatened the privileges and sense of stability of most of the country’s party leaders. It is telling that one of the first things Brezhnev did when he came to power was to halt these proposals, thus restoring the stable positions of leaders at the top, and setting the stage for the process of stagnation that marked his years in power. In the cultural sphere, the Khrushchev period was marked by an increased freedom, usually referred to as the Thaw.2 Anatoly Smeliansky notes that the “Stalinist cancer was not just a political phenomenon, it was an aesthetic one” (Russian 1). Just as Stalinism had penetrated political and institutional life, it had affected the arts in no small way. Under Stalin, life should not be viewed in a pedestrian way, but from a “higher position”; rationalism, didacticism, clarity, and simplicity became the

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main features of the official aesthetic style for all the arts, that is, socialist realism (1–2). During the Thaw socialist realism’s dominance was contested in all the arts, albeit the official view was that the concept of socialist realism was broadened and could incorporate diversity (see later). While the Thaw (and later Perestroika and Glasnost) periods are characterized by the emergence of publications, exhibitions, and performances that were suspect and suppressed under the Stalin regime, it needs to be noted that under Stalin works of high artistic value were nevertheless produced (Lovell and Marsh 58). Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible (made in 1946, released in 1968), Anna Akhmatova’s Requiem, Mikhail Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, were all conceived in the years of high Stalinism. The art collector Nikolai Khardzhiev managed to safely maneuver a collection that included works of Malevich, Kharms, Khlebnikov, El Lissitzky, and Mandelshtam, through the most suppressive times.3 Veiled references to Stalinist repression were also found in literature and plays, ostensibly for children, such as Lev Kassil’s 1949 Povest’ o trekh masterakh [Tale of the Three Masters], and the allegorical fairy tale plays of Evgenii Shvarts. In addition, the more liberal atmosphere of the Thaw did not mean an end to all ideological, political, and aesthetic limits. Khrushchev’s liberating politics were as erratic in the arts as they were in foreign and domestic affairs, reflecting in part the opposition he faced from the old Stalinist forces in the party. In 1958, for example, the liberal Aleksandr Tvardovskii was reinstated as editor of the literary magazine Novyi Mir, while Boris Pasternak was forced to refuse the Nobel Prize for Literature. The Thaw did make room for the emergence of two new literary phenomena: the samizdat (“self-publishing,” the unofficial copying and circulating of underground manuscripts) and the tamizdat (“over there publishing,” the publication of controversial manuscripts in the West, translated or in the original language). The samizdat and the tamizdat expanded in the Brezhnev years, circulating manuscripts among Russian intellectuals until Glasnost and Perestroika. They were accompanied soon by the magnitizdat: self-made, illegal tape recordings that circulated among the intelligentsia, immortalizing in particular the chansons of the star actor of the Taganka Theatre, Vladimir Vysotskii. The magnitizdat, samizdat, and tamizdat, as well as the particular staging

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of officially sanctioned classic and Soviet plays, significantly widened the gap between what was really going on and what was officially acknowledged to be going on. As Laurence Senelick notes in his foreword to Anatoly Smeliansky’s highly informative work, The Russian Theatre After Stalin: “By the late 1960s and 1970s, Soviet Audiences were coming to the theatre to hear ‘truths’ unavailable in the Press or other media” (xvi). THE THEATRE The first few years of Thaw in the theatre are marked by changes in appointments, repertory, and policy. In the 1930s, the Stanislavsky “system” was declared the only school of acting acceptable, and naturalism as the general style for all productions. As a result, a general uniformity and stifling of creativity had become the hallmark of Soviet theatre. Stanislavsky also advocated the advantages of a fixed-company repertory system, such as practiced by the MKhat, arguing that it would give actors security and that it allowed companies to develop a cohesive repertory (Glenny, “Soviet” 101). In 1939 the fixed-company repertory system was adopted throughout the USSR. All theatres were tariff-graded into a four-level system. Each theatre was given a budget and a personnel establishment according to their grade. This did indeed create security for the actors, but the incentives were low. The system proved stifling. As troupes remained fixed in their 1939 composition no actor could be promoted up the scale, nor could an actor be fired without her or his consent. The places at the top of the scale filled up with older actors. New actors could not be recruited as long as the theatre’s personnel establishment was full. In 1956, the new Ministry of Culture ended this situation, by abolishing the grading system and declaring a unified tariff of salaries for all theatres. Although the concept of repertory companies was not abolished, directors gained more freedom in repertory choice and casting, and this opened the possibility to break free from the Stanislavsky system of acting and naturalist style of production. In 1953 Glavrepertkom (the Chief Repertory Committee, instituted in 1929 with the task to censor plays) was abolished and the functions taken over by the newly formed Ministry of Culture. Control and

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censorship were divided between several authorities, including the literary advisors and artistic councils of the theatres, the city councils, the republic and USSR ministries of culture and, finally, the central committee of the Communist Party. Theoretically this meant more democratic structures—practically it meant more bureaucracy. In 1954, the Ministry of Culture felt the liberalization had gone too far, and several plays, particularly those that attacked communist society itself were suppressed; among others Zorin’s Guests, which “misrepresented Soviet reality,” and Pogodin’s Three Went to the Virgin Lands, a realistic, but not necessarily favorable portrayal of Khrushchev’s agricultural project, staged by Efros and Knebel at the Central Children’s Theatre. Even before the XXth Party Congress in 1956, two editorials in leading newspapers openly confirmed a move toward the Thaw in the theatre arts. On April 7, 1952 an editorial in Pravda, “Fight against the backwardness of drama,” condemned the drama without conflict theory (formulated by Nikolai Virta, Boris Lavrenov and a few other writers shortly after WWII)4 and called for a truthful depiction of Soviet life: “[n]ot everything is ideal in the Soviet land; there are negative types among us; there is quite a bit of wickedness in our life and quite a few insincere people. We need not be afraid to point out our shortcomings and our difficulties. The shortcomings must be cured” (qtd. in Ruhle 516–517). The “new policy” was endorsed by Malenkov in his speech at the XIX Party Congress in October 1952. In a 1955 editorial in the party’s theoretical organ, Kommunist, the party tried a different course, to avoid “excessive” and “unhealthy” tendencies. They pointed out the “implacable struggle against uniformity and leveling in the creative process” and encouraged writers and artists to “new creative inventions.” Socialist realism should not be perceived as limiting in this respect. On the contrary ‘[it] presupposes diversity in the styles and forms of artistic creation, and also diversity in the methods of typification.” Simultaneously it warned against an “overemphasis” on representing the negative aspects of society (Ruhle 520–521). In the meantime, for all practical purposes there was already a great diversity in style: Valentin Pluchek revived Meyerhold’s productions of Mayakovsky’s satires in 1953, 1955, and 1957 at the Satire theatre, and the Vakhtangov theatre openly challenged the Stanislavsky system, by calling for a synthesis of the acting methods of “perezhivanie” (experience)

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and “predstavlenie” (representation) (Simonov, Zakhava). Several directors, such as Akimov, Okhlopkov, and Pluchek, turned to the 1920s for inspiration. Soon after Stalin’s death Western theatre companies came to the Soviet Union, including the Comédie Française, and the Théâtre National Populaire. In 1955, Peter Brook and Paul Scofield “stunned” Moscow’s theatre world with their Hamlet, hailed as “one of those productions that made an indelible impression on all who were to decide the course of Russian theatre for decades to come” (Smeliansky, Russian 7). In 1957 the Berliner Ensemble toured Moscow and Leningrad. Brecht’s epic theatre was received with mixed reviews; his move away from the theatre of illusion was regarded as suspect and exciting at the same time (Smeliansky, Russian 32–33). But the following years brought an increasing number of Brecht plays on the repertory.5 The Thaw also brought changes in leadership of the theatres. Within the repertory company system, the position of artistic director remained crucial. Artistic directors were carefully selected and appointed by the government organs in charge. One policy of the regime to outcast “formalist,” “dissident,” or otherwise suspect directors was to either appoint them as assistant directors in minor theatres or not appoint them at all. Appointments are, thus, indicative of how the regime favors the developments in a particular theatre, as well as of the regime’s attitude and position to overall theatrical experimentation and innovation in a particular time period. The Thaw witnessed a series of unexpected appointments to chief director. After his dismissal in 1949, Nikolai Akimov was reinstated as artistic director to the Leningrad Theatre of Comedy in 1955, where he staged among others the allegorical fairy tales of Evgenii Shvarts. Anatolii Efros was appointed as artistic director at the Lenkom in 1963. In 1957 Oleg Efremov was allowed to formally establish the Sovremennik studio theatre, the first new theatre in Moscow in twenty years, with himself as artistic director. Georgii Tovstonogov became artistic director of the Leningrad Gorkii Bolshoi Drama Theatre in 1956, saving it from artistic and financial bankruptcy and turning it within a decade into one of the most vital theatres of the USSR. All but Akimov had worked at the Moscow Central Children’s Theatre in one capacity or another.

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THE CENTRAL CHILDREN’S THEATRE AND BEYOND Tovstonogov’s connection with the Central Children’s Theatre is the least known. His debut at the theatre was in 1949, when he directed Somewhere in Siberia (Gde-to v Sibiri). Tovstonogov came from Tbilisi, Georgia, where he staged some productions for the Russian Tiuz (Theatre of the Young Spectator).6 Aleksandra Gozenpud calls Tovstonogov’s arrival at the Central Children’s Theatre a “turning point . . . the first step on the ladder he would climb in the coming years” (Tsentral’nyi 156). Gozenpud asserts that thanks to the two productions he staged at the Central Children’s Theatre, Tovstonogov was discovered in Moscow and Leningrad and awarded the artistic leadership of the Bolshoi Drama Theatre in Leningrad (Tsentral’nyi 156). According to Smeliansky, Tovstonogov turned the Bolshoi Drama Company into “the strongest Russian company of the post-Stalin period” (Russian 13). Some of the most successful directors in Moscow, for example, Kama Ginkas and the artistic director of the Moscow Tiuz, Genrietta Ianovskaia, were students of Tovstonogov (see chapters 6 and 9). In 1951, Maria Knebel was removed from the Moscow Art Theatre, where she worked as actor and director, and put to work at the Central Children’s Theatre. She became the theatre’s artistic director in 1955.7 Birgit Beumers writes: The importance of Maria Knebel as theatre theorist and practitioner is often underestimated. Her work as teacher and director influenced greatly those actors who adhered to the Stanislavsky tradition, but who were to modify and develop it along the lines of Michael Chekhov (whose works in the Soviet Union were not published until 1986). (“Russian” 360–361) Anatoly Smeliansky notes: “This [the Central Children’s Theatre] is actually where, immediately after the death of Stalin, the revival of the Russian stage would begin” (Russian 6). Indeed, in the ten years that Knebel worked at the Central Children’s Theatre, the theatre was among the most popular theatres in Moscow. Knebel attracted young artists, such as Anatolii Efros and Oleg Efremov. She introduced improvisation as a method of play analysis and discovery

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of character before formal rehearsals would start (Gozenpud, Tsentral’nyi 184–185; Knebel, “O deistvennom” 75). She didn’t see her work on children’s theatre any different from her work on “adult” plays: “the psychological ways to creation . . . are the same, no matter how paradoxical that may seem” (Gozenpud, Tsentral’nyi 193). Knebel pushed for an innovative repertory, focusing on the psychological struggles of young protagonists. In 1955 Knebel and Efros staged the most controversial play at the Central Children’s Theatre: Pogodin’s My v troem poekhali na tselinu [Three Went to the Virgin Lands]. The production opened on November 5. The play was inspired by Pogodin’s own trip to the Virgin Lands, and attempted to give a “true” picture of what he witnessed, not hiding the complexities and difficulties of cultivating those virgin territories. It was received with mixed reviews, criticized for its “questionable educational values,” the “hasty writing,” and “lack of observation.” Pravda called it a “big mistake” of the Central Children’s Theatre to include this play in its repertory. Pogodin himself asserted in Znamia that he wished to install a true picture “in the hearts and minds of the audience of the incredible deeds these [young people who went to the Virgin Lands] did for our Fatherland” (qtd. in Gozenpud, Tsentral’nyi 242–243). The play was banned soon after opening. More successful were the plays of Viktor Rozov. His plays for and about teens were first staged at the Central Children’s Theatre, with Efros as director and Oleg Efremov in the leading parts. Rozov’s plays featured the young protagonists Knebel and Efros were interested in; one with which both actor and audience could easily identify. The partnership between Efros, Rozov, and Efremov at the Central Children’s theatre was not only the basis for the theatre’s success during the Thaw, but also formative for the three artists’ subsequent careers. Seven plays by Rozov premiered at the Central Children’s Theatre; for many years the theatre was the only one that offered plays by Viktor Rozov. Anatolii Efros recalls that almost every year Rozov came with a “good” play. Initially, the productions were primarily viewed by young audiences, then more and more adults appeared in the audience, particularly after a review of the play Good Luck! by N. Pogodina in Literaturnaia gazeta. Efros comments on the almost unanimous praise for the play and the production, attributing this to its vitality, reality, and absence of heavy-handedness: “Of course, such a mix [of lightness

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and dramatic skill] is no novelty in literature . . . but in the times of Rozov’s play it sounded new” (Efros, Repetitsiia 70–71, emphasis mine). Good Luck! (V dobryi chas), translated by Miriam Morton in English as The Young Graduates, premiered in 1954 with Efremov as the eighteen year old Aleksei. According to Beumers the production “impressed by its natural acting and by the contemporaneity of both actors and characters” (“Russian” 361). The play deals with the choices young people have to make when they graduate from high school, and the societal, institutional, and parental pressures they face in making the “right” choice. In a time where every citizen was expected to become a productive member of society and builder of communism, the play testified of the enormous pressure of the entrance exams for the higher education institutions, the individual attitudes of the young people toward those exams and the choices-for-life they entail, and the shortcomings of society in guiding these young people in their choices, in respecting their individuality, and in the temptation to secure a desired place through connections and bribes. While years later Efros expressed surprise about the success of the play (“Directing” 137), the portrayal of a sympathetic, but not necessarily positive hero from a Marxist-Leninist point of view, next to more complex positive and negative characters, made it stand out in its time. It connected with the rise in consciousness that took place among Soviet youth, who, as will be shown below, even before the cultural Thaw became more and more aware of a non-Soviet way of life. Rozov’s plays, populated with rebellious young boys,8 matched Efros’s interest in developing the inner struggle of adolescents on their way to adulthood. In addition, Efros was able to explore his theories of combining abstract sets with psychological realism in acting at the Central Children’s Theatre, and he could further develop the “line of intuition and feeling.” In his book Repetitsiia—liubov’ moia (A Love of Rehearsals) Efros states: “I believe that in general, in any production, one cannot just talk. One has to live, move, exist. In Rozov’s plays that was particularly important” (270). His experimentations were far-reaching: “In a theatre intended for children, Efros began to destroy the aesthetics of the Soviet stage” (Smeliansky, Russian 61).

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One of the most important productions at the Central Children’s Theatre in this “new” style was My Friend Kolka! (Drug moi, Kol’ka), by Aleksandr Khmelik, which opened in 1959 (see figure 3.1). The production simultaneously marked the growth of Efros as a director over the past decade and testified to the new aesthetic he developed. “If I was to stage, say, a play like My Friend Kolka, ten years ago, I probably would have approached it totally differently than I did now,” he wrote soon after the opening of the production in the magazine Teatr (“Dostovernost’ ” 35). In Kolka Efros deconstructed the realistic box-set, creating a new sense of stage space and a new relationship of his actors to this space. In this production, Efros’s actors, the theatre’s drama students who were only a few years older than the characters they were playing, began to practice the “Brownian” or “psychophysical” movement (where movement has the function of making inner psychological changes visible) that would become Efros’s trademark. Efros taught his actors to move as though weaving a spell, which had a hypnotic effect (Smeliansky, Russian 60). His productions had a metaphysical potency, appealing to the emotional memory—“heart stopping” as Smeliansky calls Efros’s Three Sisters at the Malaia Bronnaia years later (Russian 68)—and were as difficult to describe as “good jazz”

Figure 3.1 My friend Kolka! 1959. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown.

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(Russian 60). Kolka at the Central Children’s Theatre was the precursor of Efros’s best known, and best remembered work at the Lenkom and the Malaia Bronnaia, including Chekhov’s Seagull (1966), Bulgakov’s Molière (1966),9 and Chekhov’s Three Sisters (1967). In 1963 Efros was appointed as the artistic director of the Lenkom, the Theatre of the Lenin Komsomol. Here he developed a repertory almost entirely based on contemporary drama, including plays by Viktor Rozov who had become “the principal dramatist of the period” (Smeliansky, Russian 9). However, Kolka had given him in the title character a protagonist that he would further develop: shy, unsociable, a bit rough, and absolutely honest, unable to reconcile himself with the phoniness of the pioneers.10 Parts of Kolka come back in Efros’s interpretation of the characters of Treplev (Seagull), and Molière in which he shifts his focus to the position of the artist within this society, in essence talking about himself.11 Eventually his experimentations with “Brownian movement” or “psychophysics” brought him into trouble. After his production of Bulgakov’s Molière in 1967, Efros was dismissed as artistic director of the Lenkom and given the inferior position of staff director at the Moscow Drama Theatre, later called Malaia Bronnaia—protests of his friends Oleg Efremov and Yuri Liubimov notwithstanding. Smeliansky considers it “fortunate” that Efros never was allowed to have his own theatrical home: he did not have to sell out, conform, or play the part of the first Soviet theatre director. On the contrary, Efros was entirely absorbed in the problems of his art, alien to “social gestures” or “commitment,” not a hard drinker, not accepting of the modern world around him (Russian 59). In the 1980s Efros would be appointed as the artistic director of the Taganka during Yuri Liubimov’s exile, causing in effect a break within the company upon Liubimov’s return (see chapter 7). Although he may be the least well-known of Russia’s famous directors after WWII (Liubimov, Tovstonogov, and Efremov) his influence has been enormous, as is attested by numerous accounts of his students and actors.12 Oleg Efremov graduated from the Moscow Art Theatre studio school in 1949 and began teaching there. He acted at the Central Children’s Theatre from 1949–1956, and occasionally directed. The critic N. Krymova remembers Efremov’s “remarkable” 1952 performance as Ivan in the

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fairy tale Konek-Gorbunok [The Little Humpbacked Horse] in a 1964 article in Teatr (58). Smeliansky asserts that he was, in his years at the Central Children’s Theatre, “the idol of Moscow’s youth” (19). Efremov’s directing debut came in 1955 with the vaudeville Dimka-Nevidimka [See You-Don’t See You]. Gozenpud calls it a “successful” debut, a “cheerful, synthetic production, radiating with an abundance of colors, witty findings, and mischievous tricks, that delighted the children” (262). As the artistic leader of the Sovremennik, he would, years later, stage Evgenii Shvarts’s The Naked King in the same style (see later). Efremov’s tenure at the Central Children’s Theatre is sometimes mentioned in the biographical information preceding articles or interviews on Efremov and his work. By and large his early accomplishments and training with Efros, Knebel, and Rozov are ignored. Nevertheless, his close collaboration with Anatolii Efros on Rozov’s plays had a lasting effect. Beumers asserts that the gesture of cutting into the air, as seen in Rozov’s In Search of Joy (1957), directed by Efros at the Central Children’s Theatre, became “typical” of Efremov’s Sovremennik Theatre (361).13 In 1957 Efremov founded his own studio theatre: the Studio Theatre Sovremennik (the Contemporary) with his students from the MKhAT. They opened with Rozov’s Alive Forever (which stayed on the repertory for over ten years).14 As the name indicated, the Sovremennik’s audience, actors and playwrights all belonged to the younger generation. Efremov and his acting class considered the MKhAT ossified: “if the MAT had been somewhat up-to-date, there would have been no need for us” (Efremov, qtd. in Kingsolving 110). The Sovremennik was an attempt to return to the “real” principles of Stanislavsky, to the idea of the old MKhAT theatre-home, to its artistic and ethical ideals. It was the first theatre in decades that was not dictated from above, but formed by and for the artists themselves. It attracted poets, musicians, critics, writers and painters, a conglomeration of people that would be called the “sixties generation” (Smeliansky, Russian 18). One of the keywords of this generation is acting “confessionally,” that is the illumination of the role by the actor’s own human “theme” and his personal fate. The result was a theatrical reform and a new type of performer, called the “blender,” someone who even looked like he could just have walked off the streets (19–20).

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It is of note that neither the Sovremennik, nor the sixties generation, were out to attack the current regime or question its origins. They aimed to illuminate some of the shortcomings of society, but stayed true to the ideology of Marxism-Leninism, defending its origins and the idea of the revolution. They merely wanted to purify the ideological roots. Alive Forever was the first production of a Rozov play not staged in the Central Children’s Theatre. It was set during WWII, and highlights the moral choices of those times. In talking about the war, it tells the story of the fate of the generation of the young actors. Efremov both directed the play and acted the role of Boris, the man who made the “right” choice by volunteering for the front line. Boris/Efremov’s line: “I must do it, if I am honest” entered the theatrical language of the time, and became a hallmark of the sixties generation (Smeliansky, Russian 21). In 1962 The Naked King, by well-known children’s fairy tale playwright Evgenii Shvarts (1897–1958), opened at the Sovremennik. The play was written in 1934, but not published until 1960. Shvarts’s fairy tales and plays for children were regularly published and produced throughout the Soviet Period (see also chapter 2). His Little Red Riding Hood was among the most popular plays in the 1930s, and The Two Maples and the Snow Queen are (in 2005) still on the repertory of the Moscow Tiuz and the Russian Academic Youth Theatre, formerly the Central Children’s Theatre, respectively. However, his satiric comedies, brilliant improvisations on the themes of classic fairy tales, had been held back until a posthumous publication in the 1960s. Even then, the object of satire seemed ambiguous, although the official interpretation was invariably anticapitalist and antifascist. The Sovremennik staged the production in the tradition of the “Kapustniki” (cabbage pie shows): entertainments staged by the Moscow Art Theatre at the turn of the century during Lent, when official performances were forbidden. In these entertainments the actors laughed at themselves, the Art Theatre’s conventions, and art in general. The Naked King was among the most daring performances of the decade. Although written in 1934, Shvarts’s reworking of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Emperor’s New Clothes, mixed with Andersen’s The Pig Boy and The Princess on the Pea into a “highly original, organically integrated whole” (Pyman xix), was very timely in the post-Stalin period. The play offered ample opportunity for the actors to create characters

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that parodied the members of the current regime, something unheard of in the previous decades, when comedy and parody (as well as “sentimentalism”) were highly suspect. It is said that Khrushchev, after 1964, was a regular attendant, and that in general, whenever someone big fell from office, the first thing they would do was go and see The Naked King (Smeliansky, Russian 21, 29). Perhaps due to the success of this production, and Efros’s production of The Pretore Vincenzo at the Sovremennik, the theatre changed course from “the truth of life” as portrayed in contemporary realists’ plays (e.g., Arbuzov, Rozov, Volodin), to the “truth of theatre,” experimenting with theatrical forms that would go beyond realism and the recognizable (Smeliansky, Russian 22–23). In 1964 the Sovremennik obtained theatre status. Ironically, the last production of the theatre would be Chekhov’s Seagull. In 1970 Efremov was appointed artistic director of the Moscow Art Theatre. He invited his actors to join the MKhAT: most of them refused. In an article in TDR, spring 1967, “Soviet Theatre: Two Views” Michael Glenny asserts that while more boldness and more contact with Western trends are needed, “the ice-age, though, is definitely over” (107). At roughly the same time, several controversial productions, such as Pluchek’s Tiorkin in the Other World at the Satire Theatre and Liubimov’s Alive at the Taganka, were banned; Efros was dismissed as the chief director of the Lenkom for “ideological shortcomings”; and, Sozhenitsyn wrote a letter against censorship to the IV Congress of the Writers’ Union and was expelled from the union. One year later, in 1969, Iurii Rybakov was removed from the journal Teatr for his liberal editorial politics. In 1970 Aleksandr Tvardovskii was once more dismissed as editor of Novyi Mir, the most liberal literary journal during his tenure from 1958–1970. The Freeze had set in. FREEZE Khrushchev was initially replaced by a collective leadership, out of which Brezhnev eventually emerged as the dominant leader. Unlike in the Stalin period, however, Brezhnev never became the absolute dictator, but functioned more as the senior party official. Caution and stability marked the period 1964–1982. The most significant event of the period was a deepening of the economic crisis: by the end of the Brezhnev

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period in 1982, the rate of growth in the economy was the lowest since the end of WWII, and the Soviet standard of living was the lowest of any of the late twentieth century industrial countries. Labor shortage, low productivity per worker and backwardness in automatization and technology compounded the problem. The Soviet military, on the other hand, massively expanded, as did diplomatic contacts and influence, particularly in Africa and the Middle East. One of the first actions of the new regime was to assure the party officials that their positions were secure, thus halting the “dangerous” proposals from Khrushchev. Under the slogan “stability of cadres,” this quickly evolved into a stagnant body of middle-level bureaucrats who indefinitely held their positions and privileges. Another significant change was a stop on all public attacks on Stalin’s reputation. In 1970 his modest grave outside of the Kremlin was decorated with a bust. However, mass terror, such as executed in the 1930s, did not return, despite the criticism of the Soviet regime, which was louder and more widely heard than at any time since the 1920s. A prominent dissident community emerged, including artists, writers, and scientists. They did not form a coherent group, but ranged from Russian nationalists to Western admirers. The regime’s ways of coping with the dissidents were arguably more restrained. They mostly resorted to expulsion from the Soviet Union (Aleksandr Sozhenitsyn), exile within the Soviet Union (Andrei Sakharov), or forced treatment in a mental institution (e.g., General Petr Grigorenko, and Nobel Prize winner Joseph Brodsky). Theatre for young people resumed its pre-Thaw place—once again conforming to ideological demands. Maria Knebel had to leave the Central Children’s Theatre in 1960 (for unknown reasons), and was succeeded by Konstantin Shakh-Azizov, a leading figure in children’s theatre and second International President of ASSITEJ (International Association of Theatre for Children and Youth). Pavel Khomskii, who for a decade was artistic director of the Moscow Tiuz, became a director at the Central Children’s Theatre. Maria Knebel eventually returned to the Central Children’s Theatre as senior director, from 1966–1968, continuing the training she started in the 1950s. To this day, directors gratefully remember her teachings. One of the most prominent directors in Moscow, Anatolii Vassiliev, places her on one line with Liubimov, Efros, Efremov, and Grotowsky in his speech at the 1997

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centenary of the Slavianskii Bazar meeting of Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko (Smeliansky, Russian 215, see also chapter 7). While during the Thaw the Central Children’s Theatre, in particular, played a leading role, offering challenging plays and nurturing and influencing some eminent Russian directors, the theatres for young audiences outside of the big cities seemed to simply follow the course set out from its inception: that is, children’s theatre should essentially function as an instrument of ideological and aesthetic education in the principles of Marxism-Leninism. In the big cities (Moscow and Leningrad) the boundaries between theatre for children and youth and theatre for adults were more fluid than ever before, both within designated theatres, such as the Central Children’s Theatre, and through productions by directors and companies that did not specifically target young people, such as Akimov’s productions of Shvarts’s plays at the Leningrad Comedy Theatre, and Efremov’s productions at the Sovremennik. In Leningrad, according to Smeliansky “the most unconducive city for art in the Soviet Union” (Russian 49), Briantsev’s Lentiuz continued to play a leading role in Soviet theatre for children and youth. A 1978 booklet, issued in Russian, English, and German opens with a lengthy quote of Briantsev, “Children’s theatre should be founded by pedagogues who feel like artists, and artists who think like pedagogues . . . ,” followed by an account of his principles and widespread use (V Sovietskom 6–7). George Shail, who extensively studied the plays and practices of the Lentiuz, concluded in 1980 that “[e]ducators in the modern Soviet theatre for children and youth still conduct their pedagogical work in accordance with the basic principles and practices established by Nikolai Bakhtin in the nineteen-twenties” (750, see also chapter 3). The Lentiuz also nurtured a soon-to-become famous Russian director: Lev Dodin (see also chapter 7). Although the contributions of the Central Children’s Theatre, its offshoots, and the Lentiuz were certainly significant, it needs to be noted that within the field of theatre for children and youth in Soviet Russia in general, these contributions seem to be more exceptions than the rule. Tiuzes offered a mixed repertory of fantasy plays, contemporary plays, and classics, and conducted pedagogical endeavors that had to secure the correct Marxist-Leninist interpretation. As for many adult theatres, the 1961 moral code of the builder of communism (see chapter 1,

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note 7) became for the tiuzes a guiding axiom during the years of stagnation under Brezhnev. High and low points undoubtedly occurred during this period—as testified in a volume of essays by leading figures in the field, Teatr detstva, otrochestva i iunosti (1972), translated and published in English by Miriam Morton as Through the Magic Curtain: Theatre for Children, Adolescents and Young Adults in the USSR. Generally speaking, however, the theatres mainly followed a predictable course, adhered to the moral code, and stagnated along with other (cultural) institutions in the Soviet Union. As discussed in the next chapter, the formal praise and lack of substantial criticism in 1970s and early 1980s reviews and articles, inadvertently attest to the ossification that was taking place.15 The pedagogical sections of the theatres continued their work without much change; maintaining contacts with the schools through clubs, organizing lectures, leading post-performance discussions, conducting interviews, and researching the reactions of the audience. According to the director of the pedagogical section at the Central Children’s Theatre, N.A. Litvinovich, the pedagogues aimed for: the theatre to become, next to the performances, a platform for disputes, stormy debates, and discussions on the purpose of the production. . . . The theatre must, in direct exchange with its audience, verify the rightness of its course, the rightness of its repertory politics. (Qtd. in Gozenpud, Tsentral’nyi 290)

In practice this meant verifying that the “correct” Marxist-Leninist interpretation had come across, as part of the overall educational goal to raise the builders of communism. How ingrained “correct” and official responses were in the young audiences is shown in part II. YOUTH CULTURE Perhaps the most interesting development during the period of stagnation was the emergence of rather distinct youth cultures, which, among other things, resisted the uniform lessons of the tiuzes. A gradual acknowledgment of a separate “youth culture” started with the Thaw and developed during the period of stagnation. Hilary Pilkington

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points out (“Future” 368–374; Russia’s Youth 64–85) that Soviet youth culture was conceived very differently from the Western notions of youth culture, which saw youth culture primarily as a political form of subcultural resistance to adult norms. Pilkington lays out the changing forms of youth cultural practice and their sociocultural context as well as the paradigms within which youth culture has been considered in the Soviet Union since 1953. Before WWII young Soviets were primarily conceived of and situated as builders of communism. But the increased openness and growing contacts with the West after the War led to the exposure of “decadent” cultural forms such as jazz and rock and roll, which were taken up and embraced by Soviet youth, even before the cultural Thaw. An ideologically subversive youth culture emerged which was blamed on Western propaganda and attempts by Western intelligence organs to win over Soviet youth (Pilkington, Russia’s 80). Postwar urbanization, shorter workweeks, longer schooling, in combination with the cultural Thaw under Khrushchev led to increased emphasis on the development of leisure time. Non-sanctioned youth activity flourished.16 At the same time anti-subversive groups were formed under the auspices of the Komsomol, the official communist youth organization. Patrols set out to cut hair and trousers of the “stiliagi” (the first recognizable youth group with its own style (stil’) and jargon based on American rock and roll); to mobilize young people in constructive projects, including the cultivation of the Virgin Lands; to organize discussions in which young people themselves criticized those who kowtowed for the “American way of life”; and to launch programs that would raise the cultural level of young people (Pilkington, Russia’s 66–69, for vivid descriptions see also Allen Kassof ’s 1964 study The Soviet Youth Program: Regimentation and Rebellion 154–164). As the Komsomol’s responsibility for the ideological and moral well-being of its members increased, following the “moral code of the builder of communism,” it lost its avant-garde position. The Komsomol became an organ of social control of youth by youth themselves (Pilkington, “Future” 371). This filtered down to the younger Pioneer organization. Kassoff notes in 1965 that the Komsomol and Pioneer organizations of the Khrushchev era were “not organizations of or for youth but agencies of the Communist party and Soviet government. . . . Because they block the open formation of

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dissident youth groups [they] must be counted as important assets to the Soviet leadership” (171). Nevertheless, by the end of the 1960s a definite “youth culture,” that separated itself, at least culturally, from Communist ideals and principles had been formed. Until the end of the 1960s the movement contained a distinct political aspect, which was particularly visible in the pacifist movement. In the 1970s and early 1980s, however, political engagement in cultural practice had become secondary to music, style, and pleasure for the Soviet stiliagi, bitniki, hippies, and other subgroups (Pilkington, “Future” 372). Still, from an official point of view, Soviet sociologists failed to recognize these activities as part of a distinct youth culture, but rather explained them in terms of “deviations” resulting from the corrupting influence of the West. The official descriptions and results of surveys of youth culture reflected the ideals of the “Komsomoltsy” (members of the Komsomol) and adopted the concept of a “rational use of free time” (“Future” 373). The theory of the rational use of free time asserted that Soviet society was, unlike Western society, characterized by rational consumption, as opposed to cheap consumerism. Soviet young people were corrupted into the latter by Western influence, which caused two concerns: first, cheap consumerism is not creative and as such opposes the dialectic of the “construction of communism;” and, second, the content was perceived as opposed to, and subversive of the socialist personality. A rational use of free time (theatre, concerts, sports, fashion) was considered normal and responsible as it contributes to the educational, cultural, and material well-being of young people. Cheap consumerism, on the other hand, was seen as representing the disharmony of material and spiritual demands, turning young people into the slave of things (373). The Komsomol, then, was to ensure that Soviet youth used their free time rationally and constructively, they fulfilled that role up until the rise of Gorbachev.17 Ideologically, the Komsomol and Pioneer organizations aligned themselves with the official practices and policies of the theatres for children and youth, profiling themselves as the saviors of the victims of Western influence. The rise of an ideologically subversive youth culture did cause concern, and directed the attention to the even younger children and early adolescents. While the theatres for young audiences (in particular

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the Moscow Central Children’s Theatre under the direction of Knebel, and with Efros, Efremov, and Rozov on staff ) initially embraced the freedom allowed, offering plays and productions featuring “real” young protagonists in genuine struggles, the climate soon changed. The disappearance of Stalin’s personality and accomplishments from public face and education made room for a return to Lenin and the principles of Bolshevism. The cult of Lenin and stories from his childhood were propagandized assiduously in nursery schools, schools, and pioneer camps (Kelly, “Retreat” 259), and soon made its way to the stage. In addition, the “Great Patriotic War” became the key symbol of national identity. The unselfish heroism, suffering, and losses of the Soviet people was used, particularly in the Brezhnev years, to emphasize the country’s status as a nonaggressive regulator of international affairs, and a metaphor for a national identity based on endurance and valor (263). As such, until 1986, the war became one of the few ways in which writers, painters, film and theatre makers could portray the more tragic aspects of Soviet life and Soviet reality. Catriona Kelly points out that war mythology was “in many ways a supremely efficient basis of national identity in the post-Stalin era” up until the present day, tapping private as well as public sensibilities, “it invoked what was universally perceived as a just cause: the righteousness of the war was never questioned, even in private . . . “(265). The war became so much part of the public and private world, institutionalized in education, commemorative holidays, literature, art, theatre, and particularly theatre for young audiences as an instrument of the regime, that it became an ideological tool that penetrated all facets of life. Inasmuch as WWII was divorced from Marxist–Leninist ideology in its joined fight with capitalist allies against fascism, the humanist facets were emphasized. Nevertheless, the war was also used as a means of subversion: while officially the subject could only prove the righteousness of the Soviet people and its leadership during the war, unofficially the war could become a metaphor for national atrocities. Evgenii Shvarts’s fairy tale play The Dragon, for example, was officially interpreted as a metaphor for the evils of fascism, but could as easily be interpreted as an anti-Stalinist morality, implicating among others the Soviet people (as illustrated by Akimov’s productions, and the revivals with Glasnost and Perestroika).

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On the eve of Perestroika, Soviet youth was still portrayed officially as qualitatively different from its Western counterpart, uncorrupted by capitalist ideals and cheap consumerism. The youth-as-victims-ofWestern-influence paradigm, that categorized those who did not meet the official image, was perpetuated until the mid-1980s. Rock music and the youth culture surrounding it was seen as part of deliberate “ ‘psychological warfare’ from the West, aimed at shaking young people’s confidence in communism” (Pilkington, Russia 80). Since the cold war the Voice of America had “two clearly delineated tasks: to extol the American way of life, on the one hand, and to slander the Soviet Union in every conceivable way on the other” (Nozhin, qtd. in Pilkington, Russia 81). As this campaign was ideological, it should be fought with ideological measures: the organization of leisure time, the fabrication of fashionable Soviet youth clothes, and the stimulation of Soviet Rock (see note 17). Aside from the Western influence paradigm the influence of the “microenvironment” (school, place of work, family, daily life) was increasingly targeted as a source of corruption of Soviet youth. Inadequacies in the microenvironment were claimed to be a major cause of juvenile delinquency. Micro measures were taken such as curfew times (9 p.m. for youth under 16, 10 p.m. on holidays), and liability of parents for payments of fines and material damage (see also part II). Still, on the eve of Perestroika: [t]he picture of Soviet youth elaborated was one of a mass of youth successfully socialized into society, and eagerly taking up the baton of the construction of communism, alongside a small minority of “problem teenagers” who had been failed by their micro-environment. Society, then, was ill-prepared indeed for the advent of glasnost and the non-homogeneity of the youth sphere which it revealed. (Pilkington, Russia’s 80)

The theatres for young audiences were equally unprepared for Glasnost and Perestroika. It may be clear, however, that on the eve of Perestroika their status and popularity, particularly among adolescents and youth, had already seriously declined. The inviolable connection between Soviet theatre for young audiences and the dominant ideology, strengthened in the Brezhnev years, raised the issue of interdependence

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and contested the notion whether the theatres for children and youth in the Soviet Union could adapt to the ideological shifts without losing their identities and reputations as theatres for young audiences. How Glasnost and Perestroika affected the traditional ideological and cultural function of the theatres both practically and philosophically, is shown in part II.

II

Perestroika and Glasnost x


4. The Change in Cultural Function with Glasnost and Perestroika x INTRODUCTION If the ideology of Marxism-Leninism affected all facets of life, so did the change in ideology brought about by Glasnost and Perestroika. The basic functions of the official ideology—the function of legitimation of the politics of the official regime, and the function of interpretation of the social reality by this official regime—were contested. Glasnost challenged the legitimation of all state institutions, including theatre for young audiences, and their (official) ways of interpreting the social reality. Theatre for children and youth in the former Soviet Union became a forum for contesting or refuting the ideology when, in 1987, the question was raised whether a theatre specifically for young audiences should exist at all. As an institution it was so connected with the official ideology and its accompanying functions that a complete overthrow of its basic organizational structure and mission seemed unavoidable if the tiuzes were to survive under the new emerging material circumstances. This chapter will focus on the problems of theatre for young audiences brought to the fore by Glasnost, and the perspectives and comments of (former) Soviet practitioners in the field.1 In discussing the ideological changes that took place in Soviet theatre for young audiences with Glasnost and Perestroika, the two basic premises of this book, as discussed in chapter 1, have to be kept in mind. These are: (1) that theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union functioned explicitly as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, legitimating and

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perpetuating the official dogma of Marxism-Leninism; and, (2) that the change in ideology brought about by Glasnost and Perestroika is one of pluralism, including (“restructured”) old ideological structures and mirror structures produced by the media as the material ideological state apparatus, what Lefort calls the “invisible ideology” (see chapter 1). In the ensuing “transcultural world,” which Epstein defines as a collective state of awareness involving a plurality of cultural expressions, culture became a site for self-reflection, characterized by the individual choice to accept or reject various cultural norms (286). The Moscow theatres for young people illustrate the complex workings of ideological structures, cultural hegemony, and multifaceted freedom in a transitional society. It needs to be noted, though, that the rapid emergence of liberal cultural expressions with Glasnost and Perestroika attested to the idea that the “stagnation” under Brezhnev was not absolute. Just as the Thaw period offered a window for the surfacing and expansion of underground works (through e.g., samizdat, tamizdat, magnitizdat)2 so did Glasnost encourage the open manifestation and publication of previously suppressed works, including the novels and plays of Tendriakov, Zinoviev, Voinovich, Petrushevskaia, Rybakov, Shatrov, Solzhenitsyn and many more (see Lovell and Marsh). As has been pointed out in the previous chapter, subversive cultural groups, albeit fractured, not only continued to exist under Brezhnev, but also increased and strengthened. However, it was not until Glasnost that they could openly manifest themselves, contesting the official Marxist-Leninist image of Soviet Russian cultural life. POLITICAL LEADERS The years 1982–1991 formed a decade of remarkable change in comparison to the previous decades. Iurii Andropov, who succeeded Brezhnev after his death, started some changes, most notably the combat of economic stagnation, but was in too poor a state of health and faced too much opposition from Chernenko and his followers in the politburo to make any significant impact. Perhaps his most lasting influence was his patronage of the young Mikhail Gorbachev, who had been a member of the politburo since 1978. Andropov stopped appearing

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in public in 1983. He died in 1984 and was succeeded by the even frailer Konstantin Chernenko. Chernenko was a long-standing political lieutenant under Brezhnev, and designated by him as his successor. When he was voted to succeed Andropov, it was apparently with the understanding that Mikhail Gorbachev would eventually succeed Chernenko. This came very soon: Chernenko passed away in March 1985; Gorbachev was named his successor as general secretary within an unprecedentedly short twenty-four hours. For the first time in decades Russia had a relatively young, energetic leader, who was not afraid to question the complexities of the system. Unlike his predecessors Gorbachev encouraged an examination of the country’s history and its current problems. In his launching of Perestroika (restructuring) and Glasnost (openness) he attempted to solve the country’s domestic and international troubles. He freed Andrei Sakharov in 1986, sending a signal that even prominent dissenters would not be persecuted for their views. Iurii Liubimov returned from abroad, where he lived and worked since 1983, to the Taganka in 1988. Top meetings were held with U.S. President Ronald Reagan to discuss arms control. Independent organizations, including some political parties, started to appear in both Russian and non-Russian parts of the country. The party and the legislative system were restructured. At the same time Gorbachev faced ethnic unrest from the republics and the satellite states, a declining economy, and an increase in political opposition. Some thought that Gorbachev reformed too much, too fast; others criticized him for reforming too little, too slowly. As has been discussed in more detail in chapter 1, Gorbachev never completely discarded the potential of Marxist-Leninist ideology and insisted on the guiding role of the Communist Party. However, with the politics of Glasnost and Perestroika he took away both the idealistic and the pragmatic basis for the legitimacy of the regime. The coup in 1991, marked the end of the Gorbachev years, as well as seventy-four years of Soviet Communist reign. All facets of life had been impacted by the rapid ideological shifts and struggle to survive in the plethora of unstable ideological trends and cultural expressions that came to characterize Russia’s transcultural and transideological environment. The theatres for young audiences were, in this respect, no exceptions.

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THEATRE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE ON THE EVE OF PERESTROIKA As indicated in the previous chapters, theatre for young audiences as an institution was inviolable. All official, public documents, including reviews, articles, histories and government reports were unanimously favorable. In 1984, in the official publication of ASSITEJ/USSR for the VIII General Assembly of ASSITEJ, Multinational Soviet Theatre for Children and Young People, Soviet theatre for young audiences was described as follows: Theatre for children is a means of communist education. . . . The low cost of tickets, annual grants to all the country’s theatres of young spectator [sic] (maintenance of buildings and wages for the troupes come from the state budget), millions of rubles spent on the construction of new and restoration of old theatre houses, on tours, competitions and festivals, on raising the professional level of those engaged in the theatres of young spectator, on commissioning dramatic works for these theatres—all of this serves to achieve a most important aim: to provide ideological and aesthetic education for our children and young people, to inculcate good taste in them [emphasis mine]. This is one of the ways in which the state takes care of the spiritual development of the future citizens of the USSR, of their moral upbringing, instilling in them respect for human dignity in themselves and others, love of peace and internationalism, faithfulness of communist ideals, and readiness for an active role in the life of society. The theatres of the young spectator are instrumental in these aims, they are an important link in the overall system of education in the USSR, a school for future spectators at adult theatres. (3)

The document also claims that the theatres for young audiences had a “freedom of creative endeavor,” a “great social and aesthetic impact on life,” and an “extremely high level of professionalism,” and that they were characterized by a “constant search for new theatrical forms, of new experiments.” ASSITEJ/USSR boldly stated that: “Currently, it is the theatre of young spectators in many Soviet cities that lead [sic] the popularity lists both among the children and the adult theatre goers” (4). However, with the rise of Glasnost, all these statements were systematically contested.


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GLASNOST AND PERESTROIKA In 1985–1986, the years that led up to the active launch of Perestroika and Glasnost by Gorbachev,3 some criticism, often posed in the form of questions, started to appear amidst the Soviet rhetoric. One of the first problems recognized was the apparent decline in popularity of the Soviet theatres for young audiences, especially among adolescents and older youth. The early publications did not blame the theatres and their practices directly, but circumvented the issue, talking about the problems of hosting entire schools, the necessity of parental guidance, the increasing (immoral) influence of the West. Typically, an article started out with the usual praise for Soviet accomplishments, followed by some careful criticism. Teatral’naia Zhizn’, for example, published a commentary in 1985 that started conventionally with the traditional rhetoric (“Our country is the home land of children’s theatres. The party and the government show an enormous concern for the spiritual development of our young citizens. Millions of rubles are spent . . .”), followed by an assessment of the needs of contemporary youth (“Especially in their youth, people need a positive ideal. Productions with heroic-patriotic themes, productions that evoke a feeling of pride for the glorious past and present of the motherland, are also for contemporary youth indispensable”). Toward the end, however, the editors stated that “only a tenth of the children in the city mention the theatre as their favorite art form,” because the theatres “are at times unable to find the secret key to the hearts of the audience. Sometimes the productions offend with didactic overtones and lack of artistic decisions . . .” (“Detiam”). In this way the editors criticized the theatres while pointing out one of the main problems: the broken link between the theatres and contemporary youth—a link that previously had been taken for granted. It became a question of whether contemporary youth were always understood; and the need for a “spiritual Perestroika,” a move away from a collective spirit toward a more individual one, was brought up (Silina, “Po tu storonu” 18). In an effort to revive interest in theatre for young audiences Teatral’naia Zhizn’ announced, in an editorial note to an interview with L.K. Baliasnaia, vice minister of enlightenment, the initiation of “the systematic publication of a special page, ‘Theatre, family, school’ ”

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(Baliasnaia). Baliasnaia specifically discusses in this interview the need for ideological and aesthetic education of contemporary youth and the responsibility of teachers and parents to assist in this task. In subsequent editions, “Theatre, family, school” did indeed appear, consisting usually of a short feature article; an interview with a playwright, director, actor, or pedagogue; and letters with commentary from youth. Generally, though, the pages refrained from criticism, at least in 1985–1986; the strongest reproach was directed to parents, teachers, and playwrights, urging them to put more effort into stimulating students to attend and value their theatre. The inherent structure and practices of the theatres were not criticized. The forced cultural field trips (kultpokhody) to the theatre were considered to be a main problem. Except for the youngest age group, most youngsters regarded it as an extension of school, “associated with lessons and the bell,” and were more interested in their classmates than in the performance. The group atmosphere and hierarchy, including popular leaders and standard behavior among peers “hampered any genuine emotional response of the individual kid” (Platonova, pers. intv., also Borodin in “Kul’tpokhod,” and Zhigul’skii, “Trudnye”). This, of course, also had its effect on the actors’ morale and motivation, and ultimately their performances. Another problem that came increasingly to the fore in the early years of Glasnost, a problem directly connected with altered material circumstances, was the “competition” of the mass media: radio, television, film, and video. Added to this was the rise of other entertainment for youth such as discos and rock concerts. In the beginning the effects of Perestroika and Glasnost manifested themselves mostly in the media. As a state institution in service of Marxism-Leninism, the (broadcasting) media had been of little attraction to youth: programs were often unimaginative or overtly didactic and ideological. Youth that had access to and revered Western music, videos, and clothes were outcast as the perpetual victims of Western influence. Western music and films were generally popular but only broadcast on a limited scale. Few Soviets had color television, and only the privileged had a VCR. Subversive youth cultures were mostly limited to the big cities. In the mid-1980s this started to change, though. Cartoons and not-primarily-didactic children’s programs increased. The lifting of the restrictions on contact


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with foreigners opened up both dialogue and a market for desired items: VCRs, walkmans, “boom boxes,” tapes, videos. Some young entrepreneurs and lucky owners of VCRs started their private video clubs where friends could see the newest Western releases for an admission price. Characterized as “dungeons of evil,” these new diversions were not only much more attractive for young people than the “old fashioned tiuz,” but they also acquainted them with different ideological perspectives. Many Russians who were working professionally with young people (artists, pedagogues, educators, psychologists, sociologists, writers, etc.) were worried about these developments, fearing the lack of “sound morals” and “aesthetic ideals” (Dmitrievskii; Kravtsova).4 Others advocated closer ties with television or even a “permanent, active Television [sic] theatre for young audiences” (Chukhman). Youth organized themselves in rather disjoint unofficial youth groups (neformal’nye obedinenia molodezhi) with their own agendas, such as the soccer “fanaty,” the punks, the “optimists,” the “firm” (theatre fans), and literary interest groups, such as “the devotees of Bulgakov” (Frisby 6–7). What they had in common was an aversion to the official organization and institutionalization of youth leisure. In the early Glasnost years, this became a major concern. Paradoxically, perhaps, “youth” (in the broad Soviet-komsomol notion of those between 14–32, see Riordan “Introduction”) became increasingly the focus points of the Moscow theatres for children and youth as shown in the following chapters, as well as part III. Although the key question, whether a special theatre for young audiences should exist at all, had not yet been raised, many feared what they characterized as the “adultization” of the tiuzes. Critics such as Kon, Mikhalkov, Mikhailova, and Razumnyi stressed the need for an acquaintance with the art of theatre at a young age and the need of a special repertory for the young, maintaining that “after 16 it is too late” (Razumnyi). The assumption was that most artistic directors were secretly more interested in staging plays for (young) adults than children (indeed, few artistic directors put up a production for the youngest age group), and that the disappearance of the strict control of the Ministry of Culture, who not only used to censor the repertory but also prescribed exact percentages of productions for each age group, would mean the actual disappearance of the tiuzes.

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Thus, by the end of 1986 many long-standing problems in theatre for young audiences were directly or indirectly identified; among them were issues related to the forced cultural field trips (Zhigul’skii, “Trudnye”; “Kul’tpokhod”); the age groups (Mikhailova, “Kak rozhdaetsia”; Sats, “Esli ty uvlechen”); and the lack of contemporary plays that corresponded to the lives of contemporary youth, partly caused by “pedagogical conservatism” (“Deti i teatr”). A contributing factor to these problems was the aging of the tiuzes in all aspects: . . . the generation of writers who write about adolescents is primarily people whose childhood passed during the war. . . . Our youth does not just want to see the struggle between good and evil, but they want to see it in the context of their own reality. Instead, they see productions in which middle aged people try to imitate the lives of youth, a life of which they have basically no idea. (Kon 128)

Indeed, not only were the playwrights for youth primarily middle-aged, the average age of the actors in most theatres for young audiences was also past forty, and so was the average age of directors and pedagogues. At the end of 1986, Sovetskaia Rossia, one of the most conservative party newspapers in the Soviet Union, published the results of a meeting of the Presidium of the Soviet of Ministers of the RSFSR (the Russian Republic). The meeting was devoted to increasing the role of theatre in the lives of children, adolescents, and youth (specifically the “ideo-political, ideological, moral, and aesthetic education”) and to determine “its place in the course of Perestroika” (Melentev, minister of culture, qtd. in “Teatr pravdy”). With unprecedented honesty, Melentev admitted that the Ministry of Culture, including himself, provided too little funding, which partly explained the destitute state of the theaters, the inferior quality of design and technical elements, and the disenchantment among young artists. Nevertheless, he considered the lack of contemporary plays dealing with contemporary problems the main reason for the decline in popularity among young audiences, both for the older youth and for the youngest generation. At the same meeting, however, the minister of enlightenment, Veselov, complained about the fact that so many of the


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“helpful” plays in “aesthetic, ideological, and labor education” disappeared from the repertory—plays such as Timur and his Team, (the ideological apex)—and that contemporary drama did not provide any role models. What is most interesting about the publications from 1985–1987 is that, in their open (self ) criticism, they provide new insights into the material circumstances under which theatre for young audiences had to operate, while at the same time pointing out the challenges the tiuzes faced in order to survive. Many of the problems—including the deficiency in playwrights, young talented actors, (artistic) directors, and, most of all, the lack of voluntary audience, especially among older youth, could be attributed to the overall “lack of prestige,” a situation previously alluded to but rarely openly admitted. The public realization of the bad reputation of the tiuz (theatre of the young spectator) and the “tiuzovskie” practices, however, led eventually to a featured discussion in the main theatre journal in the former Soviet Union, Teatr 2 (1987), around the question posed by V. Dmitrievskii: “Tiuz Today: To Be or not to Be?” The discussion essentially dealt with the problem that the concept of theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union was seen as “one of the main achievements of the socialist culture”(95). With the disappearance of this “socialist culture,” the question became whether there would still be room for theatre for young audiences or if new forms and/or organizational structures were needed. Dmitrievskii identified in this article the most pressing problems of Soviet theatre for young audiences, including lack of prestige, artistic quality, and repertory. Although his personal perspectives on causes and solutions were based on traditional ideological paradigms, and were, as such, contested by subsequent contributors to the discussion in the field, the problems themselves were generally agreed upon. Dmitrievskii asserted that the Soviet slogan, “All the best for our children,” was not supported by any economic, organizational, or materialtechnical base. Theatre for young audiences had become marginalized, and twelve out of the thirty-three theatres for young audiences in the Russian Republic lacked an artistic director. More and more “adult” plays entered the repertory and the social ideas—ideological and educational— had disappeared. Dmitrievskii asserted that the decline had its roots in

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the 1960s, when a shift from a serious repertory toward mere entertainment (“shows”) took place, a trend that continued in the 1970s and 80s, reinforced by a similar development in the film and television industry. Theatre became an isolated phenomenon and turned into “live television.” Dmitrievskii faulted the playwrights who took to adapting “empty” foreign literature and plays, such as Bambi and Winnie-the-Pooh, rather than consulting their native resources. The classic plays of Pushkin, Tolstoi, Shvarts, and Marshak were ignored. According to Dmitrievskii: Tiuz simply forgot about the existing amazing, poetical world of Russian national folklore, containing the magic force of the good, the wisdom of social optimism, the ineradicable belief in the creation of justice, of truth, in the constructiveness and moral power of labor; [tiuz] forgot about the inspiring heroism of the Russian fairy tale, in which the truth of love for chosen friendship, word of honor, a promise made, is confirmed by brave, courageous, and noble behavior, when the happiness of a dear person, the laws of friendship, virtue and honor are valued higher than personal wellbeing, even higher than life. (“Tiuz” 100)

Dmitrievskii particularly abhorred musicals in which fairy tales are simplified, the subtext diminished, and any correspondence with reality, the most valuable lesson for the audience, is drowned out by the music (100). The refuge of many tiuzes, to “adultize” their repertory by producing classics (Racine, Shakespeare, Ostrovsky), was often beyond the tiuzes’ power, since the classics, especially, require artistic skills (102). To rectify the situation would be difficult: the professional unity and passion had gone, people who knew nothing about theatre for young audiences had joined the theatre, highly skilled pedagogues had been reduced to audience guards, and new directors had no idea who their audience was. Most importantly, according to Dmitrievskii, tiuz had lost its mission: We all have to understand tiuz as the most important part of social, moral and artistic education, it has to be placed in the leading ranks in the sociocultural context of the artistic life of our country. There is no other way. Otherwise tiuz is simply not necessary. (“Tiuz” 106)


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While Dmitrievskii’s solution to the problems was to go back to the old models and principles to “cure” the theatre, Vladimir Urin proposed thoroughly revising the understanding of theatre for young audiences, maintaining that it is impossible to create meaningful theatre for contemporary audiences using the old concept: “We don’t have to be afraid to revise much of what once came to use but is now outdated” (110). According to Urin, pedagogical tasks had taken precedent over the artistic ones from the outset—the concentration on pedagogy became the inherent difference and specific focus of theatre for young audiences. Contrary to Dmitrievskii, Urin considered the developments in the 1960s and 1970s a positive sign, an expansion of aesthetic principles (109). Most of the other contributors to the discussion took sides with either Dmitrievskii or Urin, sometimes offering alternative solutions. Shapiro suggested looking at each theatre individually and resolving its particular problems on a case-by-case basis. Klokov, Chigishev, A. Mikhailova, and Kokorin pointed out the lack of audience research and discussed the pros and cons of forced field trips. Kokorin also suggested a name change to defy the negative connotation of the word “tiuz”: “Students, who are called upon to behave in the theatre, calmly correct: ‘We are not in the theatre, we are in the tiuz’ ” (127). Television and film were recognized as contributors to the demoralization of youth and the decline in tiuz attendance, but rather than just attacking its immoral influence, several pragmatically stated that television was a reality in contemporary life (Urin); and, alternately, some suggested that the tiuzes work together with television, to learn from television, or to go the opposite direction from television (emphasizing theatricality rather than realism). The importance of this report is that the problems of theatre for young audiences, previously hidden or “reinterpreted” in order to keep in line with its ideological image, were finally openly admitted and discussed in the main Soviet theatre journal of the moment. Some of the contributors, such as Urin, pointed out causes and suggested solutions that were unthinkable in pre-Glasnost times. Although not all agreed about the causes of the “crisis,” and many were not ready to see its roots in ideological dogma, it was clear by now that the Soviet theatres for young audiences did not function as intended. Klokov and Borodin,

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among others, referred to the snowball effect in which repertory, directors, actors, pedagogues and critics were all causing and perpetuating the problems, in particular the image of theatre for young audiences as second class. It was obvious that many of the Soviet slogans—“All the best for our children,” “Acting for children should be as for adults, only better” (attributed to Stanislavsky); and “There can’t be bad children’s theatre, and if it’s bad it has to be closed immediately” (Briantsev)—had lost their meaning, although they were still frequently quoted in direct relation to the merit of the theatres (see also Dmitrievskii, “P’esy” 168). In summary, the main problems discussed were: 1. The material situation, such as lack of funds for production and salaries, insufficient rehearsal time for new productions mandated by the 5 year plans, an overcrowded repertory, and too few incentives 2. The aging of companies 3. The bad connotation of the word “tiuz” 4. The position of the pedagogical division and the lack of audience research 5. The lack of artistic leadership 6. The lack of professional solidarity among leaders in the field 7. The rigid organizational structure, which prevents innovation 8. The lack of a repertory corresponding to young people’s lives, and 9. The “adultization” of the repertory.

However, while this “long list of unresolved problems accumulated during the last years of existence of our tiuz” was revealed, the answers were, according to the editors, “in the future” (“Ot redaktsii” 135). Also in 1987, Teatral’naia Zhizn’, the other main Soviet theatre journal, published and discussed an open letter to the Soviet of Ministers of the RSFSR (the Russian Republic) from three tiuz directors, which was unprecedentedly self-critical. They admitted that over the years the lofty initiative of children’s theatre had turned into a negative phenomenon, with its own “tiuzovskie” aesthetics, organization, and educational principles: The world of youth is full of drama, a world with the real complexity of life, in which the ugly side—alcoholism and drug abuse, cowardice and cruelty, betrayal and duplicity—exists next to the wonderful, and this contradictory


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world has been practically excluded from the children’s theatre. Even worse are the sugary, super-correct heroes, who cannot convince even the most gullible, simple-hearted young spectator. . . . (M. Ulianov, S. Mikhalkov, and R. Shchedrin, qtd. in “Teatry dlia detei: problemy i perspektivy”)

Thus they identified, implicitly, the main cause of the quite pathetic state of the tiuzes at the moment: their traditional function as repressive instruments of the totalitarian regime, perpetuating the Soviet ideology and interpreting the social reality in accordance with this ideology as reflected in the repertory. This includes the issue of the “young hero,” already alluded to in previous publications (Kravtsova among others). In 1988 the “young hero” was the subject of a discussion in a special feature in Teatr, between young, upcoming philosophers and specialists in theatre, film, art, and literature. This question of the young hero parallels the general discussion about the future of the tiuz: should they do away with the old models or can they restructure them? Sepliarskii asserted that “Today, under the conditions of the restructuring [Perestroika] that our society goes through, time requires a new young hero,” a hero who should go beyond the obvious images and conflicts provided by the newspapers, focusing instead on “a profound study of the inner world of the young person under the new historical circumstances” (“V poiskakh” 81). Although others maintained that the old plays could become meaningful for young audiences with a contemporary interpretation and young actors (Goder, “Teatr” 66–67), most of the contributors agreed about the need to study contemporary youth in all its complexities, to not take old assessments for granted but to build on new paradigms, generated by new material circumstances: The young hero of those years—the 40s, 50s, 60s, no matter how hard we try to update him with current interpretation or current staging, is simply written in the context of the culture of those years—both as social phenomenon and as individual. (Natal’ia Zlobina 75)

They noted that contemporary youth creates its own culture, “which—and not without foundation—pretends to express its own, if you will, ideology, aesthetic, and hero as well” (Shmyrov 78).

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By 1988 even Pravda, the party newspaper, got involved in the discussion. Partly repeating the criticism previously discussed, M. Shvydkoi called for respect for children and youth: We got into the habit of protecting our children in theatre and film, in literature and television from that which we cannot protect them from in real life. We feed them infantilism and dependence, forgetting about the fact that the majority of us turn out to be social infantiles, accepting “stagnant” rules of life that produce in us the psychology of societal infantiles.

Shvydkoi supported his claim of the vital importance of good, honest theatre for children and youth by referring to American studies: American sociologists ten years ago already paid attention to the fact that regular visits to the theatre have a geometrical influence on the progress of students, and that fact, in turn, determines an acceleration in scientifictechnical progress. And the network of children’s theatres in the USA started to grow significantly! (“Trebuet”)5

His recommendation was, likewise, a new theatre for young audiences, built on new models, geared toward contemporary youth. The discussion continued in 1989. Literaturnaia Gazeta organized a series of roundtable discussions to talk “about the increasing tendency to “adultize” the repertory, the lowering of the artistic level of the productions, the worsening of material circumstances of many companies, the lack of leadership and support from the cultural institutions” (“Teatr osobogo naznacheniia”). The participants (directors, writers, designers, critics, representatives from the Central Committee of the All-Union Leninist Communist Youth League and the Ministry of Culture of the SSSR, and others) also discussed the diminishing role and, at places, complete disappearance of the pedagogues. The overall tone was one of helplessness. Amidst all these discussions some practical measures had been taken, however, mainly in the economic/organizational sphere. As fullystate-supported institutions the admission prices to theatres in general and theatre for young audiences in particular were kept artificially low. They were about the same price as an ice cream cone, merely a fraction of the theatres’ expenses. The philosophy behind this was that everybody must be able to afford the experience. Where the theatres for young


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audiences were concerned, the “kultpokhody” (cultural field trips) guaranteed sold out houses, thus securing optimal funds, albeit those “sold out” houses were often empty (especially in the evenings) due to the lack of interest among older youth (matinees were reserved for the youngest age group, performances for adolescents and youth were given in the evenings). In 1987 four theatres for young audiences, including the Central Children’s Theatre, participated voluntarily in the “experiment” which promised “creative independence, democratization of direction, expansion of rights in the domain of planning, work stimulation, use of personal means, staff formation, in short, in practically all spheres of management” (Levshina and Orlov 22). A main feature was a new system for ticket prices, initiated by the Russian Federation in September 1986, according to which “productions for children” were singled out. These were defined as productions for children up to fourteen years of age, including the children’s morning shows by “adult” theatres.6 Ticket prices for these audiences were set lower than those for adult audiences. Although for the tiuzes this made hardly any differences for their daytime performances (geared toward children), they were now allowed to charge three or four times more for the evening performances, which were directed toward older youth. At the same time this caused a complication. In order to increase their revenue the tiuzes could expand the evening repertory, adding more performances for older youth and adults at the expense of performances for children. However, since attendance at children’s productions was much higher, it would be easier to fulfill the “spectator plan” by planning more performances for children, thus securing optimal funding (22). In general, though, the material situation of the Soviet tuizes did improve in the late 1980s. Funding increased and actor salaries were equalized with those of the actors in the adult theatres. For a while in the late 1980s the tiuzes’ subsidies were even raised above those of the adult theatres—a “political move” according to Galina Kolosova; however, around 1989, the adult theatres had caught up and “[i]t was not profitable anymore to be a tiuz” (Pers. intv., 1996). In the following years, tiuz disappeared more and more from the “general interest,” a trend already observed by, among others, Dmitrievskii and Shakh-Azizova in 1987. The “All-Russian Week of

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Theatre for Children and Youth,” instigated in the early 1980s under Brezhnev, was hardly taken seriously by audience and critics. Teatral’naia Zhizn’ almost without notice eliminated its “Theatre, family, school” section. Anna Mikhailova, in an interview in 1996, maintained that “nobody cares about children anymore, not to mention about children’s theatre.” Theatre for young audiences had lost its status as an official instrument of the totalitarian regime in service of MarxismLeninism, and had to redefine its mission, rethink its repertory, and revise its organizational structure, including the relationship between the artistic and pedagogical sections. They had to do this within a turbulent transideological environment, an environment that incorporated all possibilities of ideological thought, creating a site for selfreflection where one has the freedom to accept or reject various cultural expressions (see chapter 1). In 1989, Nataliia Staroselskaia asserted that “children’s theatres have become youth theatres, and we did not notice when and how it took place” (“Neuchtennyi”).7 The mandatory kultpokhody (cultural field trips) had virtually disappeared. The change in contemporary youth, the assertion that they were more informed, more “literate,” more complicated, brought with it the question about whether the rigid age groups were still valid. If not, then should they be altered or done away with? Most theatres first shifted to a more flexible system in which age groups were advised but not rigidly observed, especially not when youth was under parental guidance.8 The next step was to be more flexible with the older youth, so that, in effect, the repertory became divided into productions for children (varying up to 10 or 11 years of age), and for older youth and young adults (14 years and older). The “forgotten” age group was the adolescent, between 11 and 14 years of age (Dmitrievskii, Mikhailova, Starosel’skaia). Significant in this respect was the program of the first All-Russian Review of Theatres of the Young Spectator and Puppet Theatres, dedicated to the seventieth anniversary of children’s theatre in the Soviet Union, in October 1988. Of the nine performances, eight could be qualified as “adult” theatre; only one production (from the Iaroslavl tiuz) was a fairy tale. Since the theatres were supposed to show their best performances this was the most indisputable proof of the “adultization” of the tiuzes (Goder in, “Svobodu”). Four critics from Teatral’naia


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Zhizn’, who attended the event, thought it was characterized first of all by the “absence of ideas” (Sidorov in “O chem” 20). Evgeniia Kuznetsova remarked: It would be interesting to count and judge the technical mistakes: the sudden “refusal of entrance” to part of the productions for actors of different theatres, the changes in review times and places, the accommodation of the participants in far away hotels, the rejection of discussion right after the performance, the massive change in the jury make-up (half!), the appearance of unplanned productions. . . . (Sidirov in “O chem” 20)

The All-Russian Review, thus, unintentionally provided more evidence for the declining state of theatre for young audiences. “Theatre for children is a mess” concluded I. Abelia who recorded yet another round table discussion for Teatr in November 1990: theatre for young audiences missed the “revolutionary moment” and “the changes are so insignificant that it is difficult to discuss them seriously” (129). The critique in this roundtable discussion was more poignant than the previous ones: “It is sad sometimes to look at people who do not understand that the times have changed and that they have to do their thing differently” (Ul’ianova in Abelia 130).9 Even Aleksei Borodin, the artistic director of the Central Children’s Theatre—who up till then saw the demise of the tiuzes mainly in the disconnection between stage and audience caused by forced field trips and lack of good contemporary plays—now held the Soviet regime directly accountable: [A]ny department that had some relationship with questions of childhood, knew always exactly what could be said from the stage and what not, what children would understand and what not. . . . [S]omeone “up there” knew exactly what our children needed and what not. Even classical productions, which run on this stage, did not have the right to any original treatment, so it would not contradict the school curriculum. (In Abelia 137)

Borodin saw youth theatre—which in his definition encompasses the three traditional age groups (children, adolescents, and teens)—in its mission to prepare a future audience for the Bolshoi and the Maly as the savior of theatre in general. Within this mission he believed the past should not be discarded: “The dialectics of children’s theatre is that it is

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a universal and unique phenomenon” (in Abelia 138). The managing director of the Mtiuz, Iurii Dorokhin, on the other hand, claimed that a theatre specifically for children and youth was obsolete in contemporary society and that first and foremost one should do away with the “morally oppressing serial rubric—‘tiuz,’ ” which “up to now still means the ideology and the rigid traditions of mass consciousness” (in Abelia 139).10 Many, among others the president of the All-Russian Children’s Fund, Albert Likhanov, blamed the economic situation (despite the improvements) and the general societal attitude toward children. Indeed, not only children’s theatre, but children’s literature and art in general disappeared more and more from the common interest.11 Under the Soviet regime the (ideological) education of “future Soviet citizens” was of top priority. With Glasnost and Perestroika this changed. It is telling that the amount of publications on theatre for young audiences markedly declined after 1989. In 1991–1992 the discussion seemed almost dead, the prevailing slogan had become “each tiuz for itself.” The articles that were published in Teatr or Teatral’naia Zhizn’ were personal accounts or interviews dealing with the problems or successes of particular theatres for young audiences. Thus, by 1992 theatre for young audiences as a state institution in service of the regime was virtually nonexistent. In addition, or as a result, some people started to partly blame Glasnost and Perestroika for the decline of theatre for young audiences. For example, Nataliia Staroselskaia stated: It was simply not done to speak about the real life of our youth—we staged for them bold, joyous, beautiful productions. . . . Glasnost allowed us to draw the curtain from the most difficult problems in the life of our youth— and immediately play, the most important, primordial inherent characteristic, disappeared from the theatre. (“Neuchtennyi”)

Staroselskaia’s assertion echoes the main complaint of the “other half ” of the theatres for young people: the pedagogical section. PEDAGOGY The educational components of the tiuzes, a few years prior considered to be their main feature, had moved more and more to the background, and were virtually ignored in most of the discussions.


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In terms of audience education, a shift had taken place, which seems to have been adopted by the majority of the tiuzes. In 1987, the words “ideologicheskii” [ideological], “nravstvennii” [moral],12 and “esteticheskii” [aesthetic] were still used almost synonymously, or at least as part of the same continuum. By the 1990s, however, ideological education had disappeared as an official goal, while aesthetic education was emphasized. Moral education had become an ambiguous term because of its traditionally inseparable connection with Marxist-Leninist ideology. It is interesting, though, that most of the representatives interviewed maintained they had always emphasized just aesthetic education and that ideological education was superimposed, dictated from above. Thus, one effect of Glasnost was that the goal of educating youth to become exemplary Soviet citizens in an ideological-moral sense had been increasingly replaced by the goal of raising a “future audience for the Bolshoi and the Maly” (Borodin). This change in emphasis also affected the arguments on the necessity of a special theatre for young audiences. Theatres for young audiences were previously considered indispensable in the overall ideological goal of education to produce model Soviet communist citizens. Now they were considered mainly indispensable because of their aesthetic-humanitarian influence. In 1986, articles such as “Posle 16 smotret’ pozdno [To Watch after 16 is too Late]” by V. Razumnyi, and “Kak rozhdaetsia zritel’ [How a Spectator is Born]” by Anna Mikhailova emphasized the need for an early start in order to ensure theatre appreciation. In 1987, Levshina and Orlov also pointed out the importance of the aesthetic component, asserting that the tiuzes seemed to treat their performances for the youngest with a certain disdain— “How many artistic directors of the tiuzes direct a fairy tale?” (22). They suggested that the neglect of aesthetics contribute to the fact that young people reject the tiuz by the time they can make a free choice to go or not. Tiuz as a meaningful cultural institution was in jeopardy. The discussion about the future of education, ideological and aesthetic, through theatre is as convoluted as the discussion about the future of theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union in general, for parallel reasons. Ideological and aesthetic education were so intrinsically bound that it is hard to separate the one from the other. In addition, educational theories on aesthetic education lagged severely behind in the overall turmoil caused by Glasnost and Perestroika. While it might be true, as Abelia concluded, that the changes in the tiuzes were

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insignificant—the problems were at least identified and open for discussion. On the other hand, the pedagogical theories (Goncharov, Taboridze, Titov) from 1986 to 1988, which deal with aesthetic education through theatre, justify their claims by referring to the theories of Marxism-Leninism.13 Thus, Goncharov, in The Aesthetic Education of Pupils by Means of Art and Reality (1986), defined aesthetic education as [a] system of influences, directed to the production and perfecting of the human’s ability to perceive, sense, value, and create beauty and the sublime in life and art. Aesthetic education is called upon to form the new person, with a Marxist-Leninist world outlook, spiritually rich, capable of perceiving the aesthetic appearances of life from the position of communist ideals, to increase beauty through his effort. (3)

Labor is the first essential for the formation of the future generation, while social formation is the prerequisite for aesthetic formation. “If the social requirements are not formed in a student then his moral, aesthetic and intellectual senses are not developed either”(4). According to various scholars, art, nature, social reality, science, and labor are the components of aesthetic education, which should be built on a combination of these elements, and not exclusively rely on art. The theoretical foundation of how to do that can be found in the works of, among others, Marx, Engels, Lenin, Lunacharskii, and Krupskaia (Goncharov 5–18). An unfaltering MarxistLeninist world outlook is essential for the aesthetically literate Soviet citizen, “whose conduct in society, behavior in the sphere of labor, knowledge and relations is to be considered the main exponent of aesthetic quality” (17). Titov, in his 1987 dissertation The Role of Contemporary Theatre in the Ideological-Moral Education of Youth, essentially advocated a return to social realism. The stated purpose of his dissertation is “the clarification of the possibilities of strengthening the influence of theatre in the spiritual world of a person and increasing its role in the ideological-moral and aesthetic education of youth” (4). Basing his argument on MarxistLeninist, aesthetic, and theatrical scholarly works, without conducting any empirical study, he concluded that the [v]aluable influence of theatre on youth is often hampered by the insufficiently sharp and convincing embodiment of the image of the positive hero,


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his simplification, concealment of existing contradictions and conflicting situations in society, and sometimes even the unjustified representation of life in an exclusively pessimistic light. (5)

Titov warned against capitalism, which in “many works of art propagandizes anti-human, military, racist and other misanthropic ideas” (2), and presents “so called modern positive heroes, who distinguish themselves through energy, determination, pushiness, so that out of a lack of time they cannot consider the moral problems of life too much” (13). Taboridze’s The Aesthetic Education of Students (1988) deals with the aesthetic education of first to third graders through children’s theatre— mainly through puppet theatre which is traditionally the designated art form for this age group. Also arguing from a Marxist-Leninist point of view, emphasizing the dialectic between aesthetic experience and social reality, he discusses the necessity of preparing the spectator for the production, and the importance of follow-up activities in order to maximize the aesthetic experience. In general, the aesthetic experience is a combination of the work of art, personal development, social environment, and life experience. As far as preparation is concerned, the most important aspect is the “thematical discussion” in which it would sometimes be necessary to point out the “positive sides of the main hero” (77). Taboridze’s study is based on empirical research.14 CONCLUSION In the mid-to late 1980s theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union was transformed from an inviolable, monolithic, repressive ideological construct, into a vulnerable art form that had to defend and justify its right of existence and had to search for its own ideological and cultural identity. As I mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, this change was one of pluralism, in which one, monolithic, all-encompassing ideology had been replaced by a multitude of ideologies and cultural expressions, including old, restructured, and “new” ideologies. Glasnost and Perestroika brought new information in a new form. From an ideological soundboard of Marxism-Leninism, the media turned into the most visible and trusted source of information and the most vigorous attacker of misconstrued and perpetuated beliefs. All old state

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institutions were bound to be overhauled, including theatre for young audiences, and the media was at the forefront of setting the general, as well as (in its open discussions) the specific tone. One of the main unprecedented consequences of Glasnost was that no single answer was given to the problems and that a choice of possible solutions and expressions was provided.15 As a site for reflection, the tiuzes had to determine their own direction, goal, mission, and repertory based on their own ideology which they derived both from old sources and the new information provided. As such they started to produce ideological mirror structure following a “hidden agenda” closely associated with the new material circumstances (see chapter 1). It is of note, though, that the tiuzes (and they are no exceptions) are not consciously aware that they submit themselves to any alternative ideological paradigm. Talking about “ideology” in the former Soviet Union almost invariably turns into talking about its political implications, connected with the literal interpretation of ideology as perpetuated by Marxism-Leninism. Thus, most of the theatre practitioners I interviewed in the early and mid-1990s maintained that they now produce “non-ideological” theatre, a perspective that complicated the discussion. Nevertheless, this brings an important question to the fore: how much of the explicit political ideology was actually present in theatre for young audiences in Russia before Perestroika, not considering mandatory ideological plays? Many tiuz practitioners claim to have always focused on “humanistic ideology,” the traditional “nravstvennost”— emphasizing honesty, support of friends, respect for parents and older people, social behavior—rather than Marxist-Leninist ideology with its ultimate message that the highest good is obedience to the Party. However, this “humanistic ideology” was rooted in the MarxistLeninist ideals, followed the paradigms set out in the moral code of the builder of communism, and was perpetuated by model protagonists.16 Several tiuz practitioners maintained that theatre for young audiences was at the forefront of defying the regime; for example, as pointed out before, some of the fairy tales of Evgenii Shvarts, master of the “Soviet fairy tales,” are highly political and although presented to the authorities as pure Soviet and anticapitalist many of them could be, and were, interpreted the other way around. It is no surprise that Shvarts’s fairy tales are in the repertory of most tiuzes to this day and that, especially,


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Drakon [The Dragon] made a comeback in the first years of Glasnost (Bartenev, Kitiia, pers. intvs.).17 Thus, a distinction has to be made between the official function of theatre for children and youth as an instrument of the totalitarian regime, perpetuating and legitimizing Marxist-Leninist ideals, and the methods of the artistic direction. This distinction was also the core of the problems with the pedagogical sections, since they were more directly connected with spreading the literal ideological meaning of the production, both in content and practice. In the aftermath of Glasnost and Perestroika, tiuzes throughout the former Soviet Union reconsidered the role of the pedagogues. The Tbilisi Theatre for Children and Youth, for example, affirmed that they thought their pedagogical section obsolete for years, regarding it primarily as a “plenipotentiary” ticket distributor. With Glasnost, however, they took the opportunity to redivide the tasks, putting the administrative director in charge of tickets and the pedagogue in charge of attracting, preparing, and researching the audiences, working in close connection with the artistic division. As such they now consider their pedagogue(s) indispensable for the theatre (Dzhandieri, Kitiia, pers. intvs.). Other theatres, as shown in the following chapters, saw the shift in ideological and cultural function as an opportunity to de-emphasize or eliminate the pedagogical section all together. Another variable affecting ideological perspectives in the tiuzes is that they are repertory theatres. Many of the most successful plays stay in the repertory for decades—sometimes they remain completely the same, acted by the original actors; sometimes they are rearranged; sometimes they are just recast with younger actors; and sometimes they are rearranged or updated in several respects. In the more “universal” plays—classic fairy tales, classical literature and drama—however, it is indeed very hard to determine where the Marxist-Leninist ideology sets in and where the “humanistic” ideology of moral conduct takes over. It is therefore a question whether messages such as “be good to other people,” “respect your parents,” “help others when needed,” “be trustworthy,” “do not lie, cheat, betray, steal, hurt etc.,” aside from being moralistic, are to be attributed to the Marxist-Leninist ideology. Those messages differ little from the messages of many theatre for young audiences productions in the West.

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Subject positioning also plays a role in this. From a Western, outsider’s, point of view, selecting “evidence,” it is easy to assume and more or less “prove” that Perestroika caused a major change in theatre for young audiences in Russia, not only in economic and organizational structure, but also in mission, repertory, and practice. However, in talking to the people who are actually working in the field, the opinions and practices do not always support this position, as has been indicated earlier. Of course, the mandatory ideological plays have disappeared and so have other ideological staging practices (portraits of Lenin, pioneer costumes, komsomol routines, etc.). There was indeed a sudden influx of “realistic” contemporary plays (such as the journalist Shchekochikhin’s plays, see chapter 5), or daring production practices (such as [partial] nudity in the Mtiuz, see chapter 6), which reflect very different ideological paradigms than the traditionally accepted (and mandated) ones, particularly in theatre for young audiences. But not all tiuzes followed these trends, and many that did retreated from them (the Tbilisi tiuz and the Central Children’s Theatre, for example). Kitiia from the Tbilisi Tiuz sees these phenomena as temporary, believing that once the material situation has been reestablished and some form of order has returned, these trends will die out and the tiuzes will once again serve their original mission, that is, the ethical and, especially, aesthetic education (personal intv. 1994). The material situation, although it has definitely worsened, had by the early 1990s not become fatal, neither for the tiuzes nor for theatre in general. “It is definitely very difficult, but no theatres have been closed yet,” asserted Lev Dodin optimistically in 1994. Subsidies were still given, and reportedly even increased. Some thought that the economic hardship was mainly caused by a disproportional increase in costs of production (Kolosova, pers. intv. 1996; Lev Dodin, intv. 1994). From my outside position, then, and based on my personal observation and research, I observed the following general changes in the tiuzes when the monolithic ideological concept they adhered to was contested by Glasnost and Perestroika: 1. A change in material circumstances and organizational structures, which challenged the secure positions of all artistic and other


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personnel, while at the same time allowing for more freedom of opinion and involvement in decision making 2. A change in repertory and production practices whereby repertory and production were no longer subject to approval from above, which meant that the artistic direction had become free to follow its own convictions, including its decisions about which productions were necessary and appropriate for a young audience of any particular age 3. A change in the official mission and cultural-ideological function of theatre for young audiences: from contributing to the formation of model Soviet citizens through ideological and aesthetic education to the formation of human beings through aesthetic experiences and 4. A change in theatre for young audiences from a government institution, an instrument to legitimize and perpetuate the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism, into an art form for young people that adheres to and realizes in its theatrical practices the ideology(s) and cultural paradigms to which it has submitted itself, producing mirror structures which function side by side and in complex combinations in a transideological and transcultural society. How these changes manifested themselves in very different ways in the repertory and practices of the two oldest theatres for young audiences in Moscow, the former Central Children’s Theatre (now RAMT) and the Moscow Tiuz, is discussed in the following two chapters.


5. Central Children’s Theatre x

INTRODUCTION From its inception in 1936 as the official state theatre for children and youth, the Central Children’s Theatre1 became one of the most important theatres for children in the nation. Especially in the 1950s, under the direction of Knebel and Efros, the theatre was immensely popular, even more so than the adult theatres (Kolosova, pers. intv.; see also chapter 3). In the 1960s and 70s it remained officially the foremost theatre for children and youth. Although the propagandistic 1978 publication V Sovetskom Teatre, devoted to children’s theatre, opened with Briantsev’s principles, the exemplary theatre under discussion is the Central Children’s Theatre. It was one of the best known theatres for young audiences in the Soviet Union, and one of the most consistent troupes, but it could not escape the fate of the tiuzes in general: the unprestigious “tiuzovskie” reputation, the empty houses, the demoralization of actors, and the lack of incoming young actors. The current artistic director, Aleksei Borodin, came to the theatre in 1980. In his own words, he was given a troupe of strong, older and middle-aged actors, but there was a clear lack of youth. Borodin started to recruit young actors and set himself the task of creating a consistent repertory troupe, in which the new generation would learn from the older generation, and the older would draw energy from the younger (Borodin, “Rossiiskii” 3). Although Borodin came from a theatre for young audiences (the Kirov Tiuz), it became quite clear that his interests were in staging classics for mixed audiences rather than plays specifically for children or adolescents. In this respect, Borodin and the Central

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Children’s theatre became illustrative of the tiuz’s formerly hidden aspirations to adultize the repertory.2 From the beginning Borodin emphasized in practically all his articles and interviews that theatre for young audiences is first and foremost theatre. Although the educational value is very important, especially for youth, these values should be derived from the production as art, not imposed on the production. Because he stressed the aesthetic objectives and cultural role of his theatre, both before and after Perestroika and Glasnost, the Central Children’s Theatre seemed indeed to have merely shifted (or strengthened) emphasis rather than radically altered its course. In repertory and production practices the theatre became more conservative than, for example, the Moscow Tiuz (see chapter 6). The 1985, 1986, and 1987 publications that deal with the artists of the Central Children’s Theatre note a longing for experimentation, especially from the younger artists (Agisheva, Plavskaia). Although Borodin and the older generation boasted of the steadiness and family atmosphere of the company, the younger generation saw the theatre merely as a transition phase in their careers—practice for the “real” work. They were concerned about the inertia of the theatre and the lack of new plays (a concern they shared with virtually everybody working in the field). In their acting they found it difficult to discover something meaningful in their “actions” and to find the overall objective, especially in the fairy tales for young children, which were dated both in form and content (Plavskaia). At the same time the “adultization” of the theatre caused discontent among some older actors. As a result the audience started to complain about the lack of love, quality, and enthusiasm in the productions. E. Markova remarked that children expect theatrical miracles, but that the productions fall short of this expectation, so that only forced field trips fill the houses. Thus, the Central Children’s theatre seemed to face the fate of all tiuzes, as described in chapter 4. PERESTROIKA AND GLASNOST It did not start out that way. Paradoxically, perhaps, the Central Children’s Theatre was one of the first theatres for young audiences that received permission from the Ministry of Culture to present a rather daring and controversial production. The play Lovushka #46, rost vtoroi (Pitfall Size 46,

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Figure 5.1 Pitfall Size 46, Medium. 1986. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo by B. Kravets.

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Medium) (figure 5.1), by the journalist Iurii Shchekochikhin, had been rehearsed and proposed for the repertory for two years before the ministry permitted it to be staged. Pitfall, directed by Borodin and Anna Nekrasova, was based on the personal experiences of Shchekochikhin. It premiered on December 26, 1985. The play deals with peer pressure, loneliness, love, and cruelty, in a fairly contemporary context. It was a milestone in that it was one of the first plays that openly recognized and discussed the flourishing alternative youth cultures, such as discussed in chapter 3, even before Perestroika and Glasnost became reality. Pitfall foreshadowed and exemplified the transition in the Soviet Union, the struggle of ideologies, and the increasing gap between the more and less fortunate. Subtitled “The Chronicle of an Incident,” the play is centered around two gangs. The Wolves are a gang of soccer fanatics from the village; the “Sharaga” [the “Gang”] is a group of privileged, intellectual kids from the city, who seem to have everything the Wolves miss: jeans, Polaroid cameras, walkmans, and a cool, pragmatic, cynical attitude. Out of curiosity the Sharaga start to invite the “primitive kids” over to observe, discuss, and, at times, even imitate their conventional behavior. A relationship develops between Andrei, one of the Wolves, and Lena, the outsider from the Sharaga. Bullied by the Wolves’ leader Arlekino, Andrei is forced to leave the gang and go into hiding. Eventually he is caught and humiliated in front of Lena by Arlekino. Arlekino, then makes him promise to get him a pair of jeans, size 46, medium.3 When Arlekino arrives at the agreed exchange place Andrei attempts to kill him with one of his father’s knives. Although some outraged parents considered the play anti-Soviet, anti-ideological, and immoral (Dmitrievskii, “Tiuz” 102), reviewers hailed the play as “a daring event,” a play that poses questions without giving answers, and a play of “social sharpness” and “contemporary realism” (Kaminskaia, “Kak zhivesh’ ”). Indeed, in comparison with the usual Soviet “problem play,” it is not overtly didactic or moralizing. Although Andrei is clearly the most positive hero (he frequently tries to help the younger, equally bullied neighborhood boy; he protests against Arlekino’s brutal actions; and he shows his feelings by falling in love), the resolution of his problems is certainly not a desired one in a traditional Marxist-Leninist sense. The “villain” Arlekino is a bully, but his vulnerable side and personal frustrations are also shown. This is in

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contrast to Inter, one of the Sharaga, who is equally cruel, but without any apparent cause or motivation. Ironically, and perhaps alarmingly so, the insensitive, individualistic, and malicious Inter—a character pacing around in his jeans and walkman almost without uttering a word—was identified as the hero of the play by many in the audience (Mikhailova; Prelovskaia, “Diagnoz”). Pitfall posed questions but refrains from giving clear answers on right or wrong. The majority of reviewers considered this to be the most refreshing aspect of the play and the production. Andrei does not even admit he is sorry for what he did; “I wanted to kill him” is his only defense. Several reviewers interpreted this as a sign that youth had finally been taken seriously, and that an honest, open dialogue with the audience had begun (Balashova, “Dva spektaklia”; Borshchagovskii, “S veroi”; Kaminskaia, “Kak zhivesh’ ”; Liubimov, “Trudnyi”; Mikhailova, “Diagnoz”). From a pedagogical point of view, however, some wondered if the audience could deal with this “adult” material, if the production did not ask too many questions and provided too few answers (Mikhailova, “Diagnoz”; Prelovskaia). Contributing to the lack of answers in the play is the conspicuous absence of guiding adults, such as teachers, komsomol leaders, or friend-parents. This is a play populated by youth for youth and the youth reacted to it. Although they generally considered the era of gangs of soccer fanatics to be past (Balashova, “Dva spektaklia”; Borshchagovskii, “S veroi”), the overall reaction is one of recognition: “I never saw such a truthful production,” and “I never saw a production that so precisely revealed the relationships among adolescents. Maybe there weren’t any. Or maybe they were not allowed to stage such a production yet” (qtd. in Mikhailova, “Diagnoz” 130).4 Pitfall, then, could be seen as a hallmark for the changing times. In the light of the general problem with the tiuz, it was a promising start for: (1) reconnecting with the audience, offering them contemporary subjects in a theatrical form, (2) motivating the actors, especially the young ones; and, (3) attracting voluntary spectators. Most importantly, it offered a world outlook that is seemingly based on Western ideological paradigms, rather than relying on traditional Marxist-Leninist teachings. “The most socially and politically current production of the Central Children’s Theatre in the past years” (Liubimov, “Trudnyi”), was

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immediately followed by another addition to the repertory, Son s prodolzheniem (Dream to Be Continued ) (figure 5.2), by S. Mikhalkov.5 This production, intended for the youngest age group (7 to 10), premiered on February 14, 1986 (the manuscript is from 1983). The play, directed by Borodin and Kisliarova, is quite innocuous, and pedagogically correct (Poiurovskii, “Vse”). It tells the story of a young girl, Liuba, who is so eager to go to sleep every night that it starts to concern her mother. Liuba, though, wishes she “could sleep a whole month without waking up, or even a whole year,” because of the wonderful dreams she has. Moreover, the next night the dreams continue! In several consecutive nights the dream adventures of Liuba and Miro, a wooden soldier she brought back to life, unfold, leading them to magical places, such as the land of the snow king and the sweet tooth queen. Eventually they reach Miro’s homeland where he frees his beloved, his country, and his king from the spell of the mouse emperor. The play ends with a scene at the office of the doctor, who assures Liuba’s mother her daughter is perfectly normal: “Those are the dreams of children who love to read fairy tales and to go to bed early” (43). Liuba promises to keep doing the good deeds of her dreams, also when she is awake. This play is a typical example of adhering to the official ideology, but avoiding its political baggage. As discussed at the end of chapter 4,

Figure 5.2 Dream to be Continued. 1986. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo by B. Kravets.


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it can be difficult to distinguish between (Soviet) ideologically charged messages and moral messages not particular to the ideology of MarxismLeninism. Although the play certainly presents some particular Soviet perspectives, such as the glorification of soldiers as true patriots and courageous defenders of the fatherland, the anti-war message, and the reference to Liuba as a true “pioneerka,” it deals with material with which a Western audience can also connect.6 Ironically, as different as the two plays are in content and target audience, both faced problems in obtaining permission from the Ministry of Culture to stage them. Borodin, in an article in Teatral’naia Zhizn’ in 1987, cites the two plays to illustrate the collaboration of the artistic direction, the party representatives to the theatre, and the Ministry of Culture. Pitfall was sent for approval to the Ministry of Culture in 1983. Awaiting an answer, the theatre started to rehearse the play in off-hours. In October 1985, the question of producing the play arose at a meeting of the artistic direction and the party division of the theatre. In conjunction with the party division, the theatre sent in a new request, pointing out the necessity of including this play in the repertory. The play premiered in December 1985. Dream was obviously much less controversial in content, but solicited doubts at the Ministry of Culture, because it was the theatre’s choice of play to dedicate to the XXVII Party Congress. According to the established tradition the usual play for this occasion would have to be one with a heroic-patriotic theme. Dream on the other hand contained “a moral theme in the romantic fairy tale genre.” As with Pitfall the issue was eventually decided by the party division to the theatre, who sent in a request for approval to which the Ministry of Culture conceded (Borodin, “V usloviiakh”). The inclusion of Pitfall and Dream in the repertory was encouraging. In a 1987 article in Moskovskii Komsomolets, Vadim Vernik evaluated the preceding years of the Central Children’s Theatre. Vernik observed that the Central Children’s Theatre entered a new period, opening up a new dialogue with the audience, attracting new actors and offering more interesting plays. At the same time, however, he complained about the lack of initiative from the new young actors, who were also not represented in the newly formed artistic council, despite the “experiment” which gave companies, among other privileges, greater independence

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(see chapter 4). Vernik noted: “Over the last years we spent so much attention on words and the right formulation, so painstakingly worried about accurately fulfilling the instructions from above, that we completely forgot how to think and act without prompting” (“Vziat p’esy”). This may also be due to the authoritarian role of the artistic director. The distribution of roles, for example, was (and is) still determined by Aleksei Borodin. Nevertheless, the “new young actors” did express their enthusiasm about another new play, Krestiki-Noliki, which premiered on April 3, 1987 (Plavskaia). Krestiki-Noliki [Tic-Tac-Toe] by A. Chervinskii, directed by Borodin, was intended for a mixed audience and was very favorably received. In a playful and humorous manner, mixing Brechtian and absurdist elements, the play shows the bizarre, fantastic, and deceiving ways of Bublik, a young girl dealing with the divorce of her parents and her own loneliness. Bublik creates a world of her own, with Telik the television, Pufik the chair, Ledik the fridge, and Tomik, a book about a WWII soldier. The play starts with Bublik on the table tying a rope around her neck, singing her farewell song. She has decided to hang herself because her neighbor and classmate, a genius in the eyes of Bublik, does not love her. In her goodbye monologue she addresses Telik, the television, who immediately answers back. From then on a fantasy world takes over, operating on its own paradoxical logic. This world is perpetuated by the phone calls from her parents: her mother, Nolik, who pretends to be a surgical nurse but receives urine samples at a pharmacy window, and Krestik, her father, who imagines himself an important police inspector while directing traffic. Bublik goes along with their stories while making up her own, thinking out complicated schemes which include her parents’ respective love interests, in order to make everybody happy after her death. The telephone, which does not come to life in the play, facilitates most of the action. The play is fast-paced and full of action. Like Dream, this play has a theme easy to relate to for a Western audience. The problems and escapist fantasies of young people processing the divorce of their parents, in addition to the well-meant, but, at times, almost cruel ways through which divorcing parents try to console and win over their child, are certainly no prerogative of the former Soviet Union or Russia. Although particulars may need to be altered (such as references to queuing, Russian eating and drinking traditions,


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Russian cultural references, and an overall wordiness), the play is relatively timeless and placeless—which may account for the fact that it still played to full houses in the mid-1990s. What is particularly attractive is that the world of children and adults is virtually inseparable. Bublik converses at the same level as her parents, adapting her speech patterns and actions to their expectations, while at the same time displaying her own perceptive and imaginative capabilities. The play is filled with humor and irony. In addition, the production is interspersed with song and dance. While this enhances the entertainment and the pace of the play, it also undermines the serious subtext. This is underscored by the casting of Vovik, the-classmate-neighbor-genius, as a contradiction to any young girl’s fantasy of a prince: fat and fluffy, balding and burping, and at least three times her age. Although Bublik is an endearing character in the play, and easy to identify with, it is hard to take any of her feelings seriously. It is unclear whether the choice to underplay the sensitive material in the production of the Central Children’s Theatre is an artistic choice by director Borodin, or a device inflicted by old paradigms (which tended to “protect” children). Nevertheless, the audience perceived it as “their” play, without didacticism or moralizing, as “a festive picture” from which the children “did not leave with a ‘lecture,’ which happens often, especially in the theatre” (Loginova).7 These three new plays mark the transition period for the Central Children’s Theatre. Pitfall was considered an example of the newly emerging documentary genre, and Tic-Tac-Toe was referred to as an example of new dramaturgy “defining the main tendencies in the contemporary children and youth, or more precisely ‘adolescent,’ repertory” (Dmitrievskii, “P’esy” 170). The theatre experimented through these plays with different genres and styles, and though these productions did not overtly confront the omnipotent Ministry of Culture, they did test the boundaries. Kabanchik [Wild Piglet] by Viktor Rozov premiered after Tic-Tac-Toe. Although Rozov continued to write successful plays after his stormy debut with the Central Children’s Theatre in the 1950s (see chapter 3), this particular play that marked his return to the Central Children’s Theatre was unable to pass censorship for years. The play had been on the shelves, not because of the thematic content but because of the psychological action. The play is centered around the seventeen-year-old

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Aleksei, who finds out that his father, who has a high position, takes bribes. The correct, and simplistic, and classical (cf. the literary hero Pavel Morozov) Marxist-Leninist solution to this problem would be for Aleksei to hand his father over to the authorities. But Aleksei has no idea what to do and where to go with his knowledge. He sees only one way out and commits suicide. From a thematic point of view, Wild Piglet, directed by Sergei Rozov, clearly illustrates the transition of theatre as an official instrument of the totalitarian regime: Some years ago the play Kabanchik [Wild Piglet] by V. Rozov deeply frightened various institutions that were then supposed to look after the “satirelessness,” “critiquelessness” and “conflictlessness” of Soviet dramaturgy, which should according to them be dedicated to represent the victories, successes and triumphs of our reality. (Vishnevskaia, “Chuvstvo”)

While committing suicide for your parents’ mistakes is rather dramatic, the inclusion of this play in the repertory significantly indicated that by 1987 young people could finally be openly confronted with the failures of the system. In 1988, the year of the all-Russian review of the theatres of the young spectators and the puppetry theatres, Borodin declared that the Central Children’s Theatre was in a period of transition. Under the conviction that “real art is always free,” he stated that they “have to review many positions, which seemed to be inviolable only a very short time ago,” such as the inner structure of the company; the repertory politics, including age categories with their corresponding themes; the shortcomings and perspectives of the artistic direction; the pedagogical section, including its ties with the schools and the transition to a contemporary pedagogy that will attract family audiences; and the need for material improvement (“Chistoe”). In this article he also gives a rationale for the “adultization” of the repertory, and the special emphasis on the classics: because contemporary youth seems to become more and more indifferent to the classics, the theatre has to show them how contemporary the classics can be. Although these statements by Borodin were hardly surprising or revealing, they were indicative of his personal position and the direction he envisioned for his theatre.


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With time, fewer and fewer newly written plays appeared in the repertory. By the early 1990s, the repertory consisted for a great part of plays by Shakespeare, Ostrovsky, Dostoevsky, Goethe, Twain, Mayakovsky, and Shvarts. In June 1988 the Central Children’s Theatre premiered the new fairy tale Skazka pro Ivanushku-Durachka [The Tale of Ivanushka-the-Fool] (figure 5.3) by Misha Bartenev, “the only playwright for children left” (Kolosova, pers. intv. 1994). Ivanushka, directed by Elena Dolgina (a veteran of the theatre) and Sergei Rozov, is a straightforward fairy tale with some clear morals: honesty and good naturedness are the best policy, greed and stinginess are vices, and money is only rewarding when you work for it. Ivanushka is a good natured simpleton who causes so much confusion with his honesty and literal interpretation of what is said that he unwillingly fools both the stingy merchant and his wife, and the robbers who are after the merchant’s chest of gold. Ironically, only the bear, Mikhail Potapych, who much to his wife’s dismay is unable to eat Ivanushka, believes in the honesty of Ivanushka’s behavior: “What a non human-like human you are. If everybody could just be like that!” (49).

Figure 5.3 Ivanushka-the-fool. 1988. Central Children’s Theatre. Photo credit unknown.

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The play voices the traditional “nravstvennost,” but it also echoes the “Marxist-Leninist” world outlook as described by Goncharov (see chapter 4), professing a “conduct in society” and “behavior in the sphere of labor” that are essential for the “aesthetically literate Soviet citizen” (17). In the context of the changing material circumstances, the play can be interpreted as an allegory for straightforward Soviet values, expressed by the bear and Ivanushka, versus the perversions of emerging capitalism, embodied by the merchant and the robbers, who at a certain point even form a pact against the innocent Ivanushka. However, this is also a question of subject positioning. No doubt the play is fairly moralizing, and purposefully so. Misha Bartenev asserts that he writes plays “with a lesson,” but he does not write with special ideological problems in mind: “They can come up in the play, on a second plan, in the subtext. For example, I had this fairy tale, it was about this princess and I looked at it afterwards and it was the fate of Gorbachev and democracy.” Bartenev considers the use of fairy tale and allegory the best way to describe any life process: I can tell a story about how a fox becomes friends with a wolf and that will be the same story as the Turks who have to become friends with the Germans. . . . I think this is much more accessible for children, especially because of the metaphor, than just a literary story about an unhappy Turk whom they promised everything. . . . (pers. intv. 1994)8

Ivanushka was the representative play for the IXth Theatre for Children and Youth Week. This week was initiated in 1980 with the objective to activate theatre for children and youth in the tiuzes as well as in the adult theatres (who, as mentioned before, were still mandated to have a children’s production in their repertory). Although most adult theatres presented plays that premiered sometimes several decades ago—it inspired the tiuzes to present new productions. The production of Ivanushka, as a new play targeted to the youngest age group (6–8 years old) was considered to be an important example of an appropriate play for young audiences with its traditional theme of good versus bad; its clear, one-dimensional characters; and its optimistic belief in the power of the good. According to Nekrasova: “The auditorium


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reacts sharply to every joke, to every well aimed word—the audience feels for the simple-hearted hero, and rejoices in the disgrace of stupidity and greed. In short the production is well received” (“Vzroslyi”).9 The play was a prime example of the traditional paradigm of what theatre for children should be—devoid of Marxist-Leninist icons. The second documentary play of Shchekochikhin, Mezhdu nebom i zemlei zhavoronok v’etsia [Between Heaven and Earth Circles the Lark], subtitled “from the chronicle of our times,” premiered on January 19, 1989. In this play Shchekochikhin tackles the issue of high school junkies, including the circumstances that brought them to drugs, their feelings, their thoughts, their loneliness. From a dramatic point of view (even within the genre of documentary plays) Lark lacks both dramatic tension and character development. The characters are connected through imposed relationships, the play is sketchy and seems more intended to educate the general public than to provide a dramatic, let alone, aesthetic, experience. From a Western perspective the story seems so predictable and the characters so stereotypical and one dimensional, that it is hard to see the “topicality” of the production. In addition, Borodin’s staging, the design, the choreography and the music “lead us away from the main problematic” (Poiurovskii, “Teatr”). Immediately after its premiere the play received mixed reactions, ranging from “eulogistic praise to near abusive language” (Maksimov, “Borodin”). The controversy, however, was not about the dramatic value of the play—it was about the subject matter. As was the case with Pitfall, Lark’s ideological content is based on what used to be the “other”; a Western, capitalist paradigm. Under the Soviets a drug culture and junkies officially did not exist. Drug-abuse related subjects were only discussed in one context: as one of the many vices of capitalist society and proof of the unhappiness of people living under capitalist laws. The occasional Soviet junkie was an isolated case, a victim of bad Western influences in combination with dysfunctions of the microenvironment (see chapter 3). Shchekochikhin’s play, however, indicates that the number of junkies, especially among teenagers, was not only on the rise (which could conceivably be explained by an increased exposure to the West through Perestroika and Glasnost), but was already fairly large before there were any signs of Perestroika and Glasnost. The ex-junkie, Terekhov, asks the journalist Lebedev (ignorant father of a seventeen-year-old

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junkie), “They won’t cover up your program?” “Not in these days,” answers Lebedev (19). Terekhov’s story is one of peer pressure, the illusion of power, and ultimate dependence caused by the drug. His message to the public is clear: Ten years ago 16-year-old junkies were exceptions, now there are an incredible amount. Boys and girls . . . they all want to stand out! They all lost their minds! Chemicals entered the circuit, they already take God knows what! The number of junkies grows in geometrical progression. How many little idiots will leave their mama, will leave society, and will they ever return? Therefore I want to address those who are not yet completely sold to the needle: jump while it is not too late! I understand, when you are already used to it, it is difficult. They have treated me many times, but it did not help and could not help until I wanted it myself! And another thing I want to say, guys. We regret all those years that flew by in dreams. It is useless to talk to you about health—you don’t value that. But at least take care of what you call “love” . . . . Because it will be very embarrassing when you appear also to be unfit to love. (19)

The play as a whole seems a sequence of monologues from various characters: Dmitrii Lebedev, whose drug habit reached a decisive point; his father, the journalist whose profession it is “to notice everything”; the colonel, whose son committed suicide because of his addiction; Katia, a classmate of Dmitrii, blindly in love with Terekhov, even if he deceives her by picking up drugs again; the director of the school, reminiscing about his pioneer youth, and so on. Shchekochikhin tries to present the precarious and confusing situation of contemporary youth under the altered political circumstances—and the widening gap between them and their parents, between them and their teachers: In the past you always knew what was good and what was bad. You grabbed a newspaper, you looked at it. . . . You did not even have to read it—you just picked up right away what was right and what not. And now, if only they would not read it. (50)

At the end of the play, Dmitrii and his classmates are asked to fill in a questionnaire. Question number 5 is: What do you think about when you are alone? In a series of monologues Shchekochikhin has the students


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ponder this question in two ways—what they could write, and what they do write—suggesting how little contemporary youth is understood. More than the previous plays, Lark raised the question of target audience. The increased access to information led to the assumption that Russia’s, and especially Moscow’s, youth were already quite aware, and that this play was a simplification of what they already knew. The play most directly addressed ignorant parents who were literally raised with the ideas that the Soviet Union was free of teenage drug abuse, prostitution, and other crimes. Nevertheless Poiurovskii reported that: “[M]y neighbor Sasha, a high school student and a great lover of theatre, said that Pitfall was already yesterday. But Lark is hot!” (“Teatr”). Reviewers, too, despite their critique of the dramatic aspects of the play, praised the subject matter, especially since it was produced by a theatre for young audiences. Maksimov considered the main idea of the play a warning against indifference, a neglect of reaching out a helping hand (“Borodin”). Borshchagovskii saw the discussion it evoked as the main value of the play (although, at the same time, he considers the love between Terekhov and Katia the “actual theme,” a point open for argument; see, e.g., the end of Terekhov’s monologue, quoted above.) Lark was still in the repertory in February 1996.10 Thus, every year from 1985 to 1989, the Central Children’s Theatre premiered at least one new play that became a regular part of the repertory. The plays were targeted at different age groups: Ivanushka and Dream for the youngest, Tic-Tac-Toe for the adolescent, Pitfall and Lark for the older age group. But, from 1989 on, the theatre started to concentrate more and more on existing plays and adaptations of established literature. This was no isolated phenomenon. As pointed out before, the interest in theatre for young audiences (and interest in children in general) markedly declined after 1989. The concern for the fate of the tiuzes disappeared from the common interest: in publications, in reviews, in political rhetoric. “The days when all the best in the country belonged to our children are long since gone” says the 1996 Central Children’s Theatre anniversary booklet (Na Teatral’noi). The financial advantage of the tiuzes in the first years of Perestroika diminished. The overall support of the arts decreased, disproportionate with the costs of production. Admission prices for performances for children up to

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fourteen years old were still kept artificially low (in 1996 it was still the price of an ice cream cone—that is Russian ice cream, foreign ice cream is twice the price). Following the course set out by Borodin, the new additions to the repertory since the January 1989 production of Lark were: in 1989, a production of Tom Soier [Tom Sawyer], staged by Jon Cranney from the Minneapolis Children’s Theatre Company, and an adaptation of a Gozzi play by a Leningrad guest director; in 1990, an old play by Viktor Rozov, a fairy tale by Shvarts, and a fairy tale by Pushkin; in 1991, an adaptation of a Dostoevsky novel; and, in 1992, Korol’ Lir [King Lear], a production based on two nineteenth century Russian vaudevilles, two more adaptations of Dostoevsky novels, and a play based on Oscar Wilde’s The Star Child.11 Except for the plays based on Dostoevsky and Gozzi, all these productions were still on the repertory in the mid-1990s. Of the new plays since 1985 discussed above, only Pitfall disappeared from the repertory. In 1990 the direction of the Central Children’s Theatre made an important decision: they would leave the party and dismiss their party division. The official notice said: Considering the specificity of art for children and youth, we are convinced that any ideological influence on the audience is not only immeasurably inferior to moral and aesthetic influence, but goes also frequently against it. . . . (Qtd. in Lialina)

Borodin believed that the party division had become obsolete; its sole function was the organization of meetings. The main idea behind the dismissal, though, was that art ought to be free: “An artist should not be accountable to bureaucrats but to his own conscience. Ideologicalized art is something else” (Lialina). “The Central Children’s Theatre decided to talk with youth about life, by means of great literature. . . . And why not? Why do we have to educate our kids with primitive plays?” (Sergeev, “Korol’ Lir”). In September 1992, the theatre opened its season under a different name, Rossiiskii Akademicheskii Molodezhnyi Teatr (RAMT)—The Russian Academic Youth Theatre, a change insisted on by Borodin (Mikhailova, pers. intv.) who argued that “youth” encompasses all age


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groups and that “[I]n the combination Youth Theatre or Children’s Theatre the most important word is not the first one but the last” (Borodin, production notes to Berenika [Bérénice] 1994). The actor Ivan Voronov, a veteran of 48 years in the theatre, supported the decision in the hope that the production of classics in combination with the name change would distract youth from the sex films they were currently watching: “We need to save our youth” (qtd. in N. Mikhailova, “Klassika”). Here, the fate of the theatre seemed decided. Still located on Theatre Square—opposite the Maly Theatre, which is famous for its classical productions, and next to the Bolshoi—the theatre threatened to become a relic. Despite its aspirations, the classical productions were not very well received. Although the theatre blamed its trouble on the difficulty of attracting a young audience to classical productions, Dmitrievskii had already warned in 1987 that too much emphasis on a classical repertory might prove beyond the tiuzes’ power (“Tiuz”). While Tic-Tac-Toe still attracted an almost full house in the mid-1990s, King Lear played to a practically empty auditorium. The competition for audiences had become stiffer than ever. The Moscow Art Theatre, the Maly, the Sovremennik, the Vakhtangov, and the Taganka theatre all offer classical plays in more or less innovative forms, and they were no less accessible to youth than the Russian Academic Youth Theatre’s productions (with the exception of the admission price, which is still considerably lower in the RAMT). It needs to be noted here that the theatre in general was in a state of crisis. As Anatoly Smeliansky notes: “In a situation of freedom and spiritual vacuum, the Russian theatre had lost its specific significance” (Russian 145). The loss of social status was omnipresently felt by all who worked in the (theatre) arts. But the theatres for young people had to fight more odds than the other established theatres. They had more to prove to meet the qualitative level of the adult theatres and enter the competition for audiences. By the mid-1990s, it looked like the Central Children’s Theatre, now Russian Academic Youth Theatre, was losing the battle.12 It is, therefore, not surprising that some of the older generation sincerely believed that “all that was good has been destroyed, and nothing new has replaced it.” Anna Mikhailova, who worked in theatre for young audiences as critic and pedagogue for most of her life, blamed

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artistic director Borodin for the demise of the theatre as a theatre for young audiences: “It was important to establish themselves [she also refers to Genrietta Ianovskaia, see next chapter] firmly in Moscow . . . and so two people, who do not love children, started to chase the children out of the theatre” (pers. intv.). The Central Children’s Theatre was a very strong troupe “close to the Moscow Art Theatre,” because it used the same artistic principles and methods. With Borodin, said Mikhailova, the “organic link” between artistic and pedagogical principles has been disrupted, and the transitional age of the adolescents (10 to 14) was especially neglected. Mikhailova’s main complaint was that the principles of the Soviet theatre for young audiences as laid out by Briantsev had been forgotten: “The idea of children’s theatre was always built on a constant introduction to theatre, because it has its own language and the comprehension of that language is a process.” The “aesthetic ten years” acquainted the children, through a logical process from simple to complex, with the theatre arts. Mikhailova noted that now “they are not prepared to perceive Shakespeare,” commenting that the current developments “are all very offensive because much was created by the Russian children’s theatre” (pers. intv.) PEDAGOGY These “current developments” are at the same time, clearly, a result of the changed material circumstances and organizational structure of the theatre. Although school groups still attend the theatre, with Perestroika this became less frequent and on a more voluntary basis. Changes in education contributed to decreasing links with the schools. Teachers were no longer obliged to write mandatory field trips into their curricula. Previously “[y]ou had to put a plan together for ‘extracurricular activities’. You had to go to the museum, you had to go to the theatre. . . . to visit the theatre two or three times was just required. Now the teachers don’t do that” (Tikhonova, pers. intv.). Now, all the teaching happens at school, during school time. Thus, the strategies of the pedagogues had to change. Pedagogues started to attempt to reach the parents, through the schools and the teachers, rather than the teachers themselves. Those teachers who still bring their


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students are “enthusiasts,” friends of the theatre who often are alumni of one of the former theatre clubs. In May 1994 I separately interviewed the head of the pedagogical section, Vera Khabalova, and three pedagogues of the Central Children’s Theatre: Irina Brovkina, Iuliia Farmakovskaia, and Irma Safarova. They all maintained that little or nothing had changed in their theatre with Perestroika: “politics do not influence theatre life very much, theatre is theatre, aesthetic education is aesthetic education” (Safarova); “We have the same director as before Perestroika, the same artists. . . . [W]e used to have those instances when we wanted to produce something and the Ministry of Culture got in our way [see above]. . . . we just do not have to fight for productions anymore and for the rest it all remained the same” (Khabalova). Although they do talk about changes that in their opinion affected the theatre—such as the “adultization” of the repertory, the discontinuation of the mandatory field trips, the change in the audience, and especially the increasing “lack of moral criteria” (Brovkina) after Perestroika—they do not always see a direct link with Glasnost or Perestroika. Thus, they assert that their inherent mission—to offer moral education and introduce young people to the beautiful—remained not only the same but has become even more urgent under the current circumstances: “The education of morals characterized our theatre and it still does nowadays” (Farmakovskaia). Safarova notes that: Market relations are very important, but market relations cannot be founded by immoral people, I mean real relations, as they should be. The foundation of all [knocks on table] should be morality. The foundation of all should be the human being. And we, as much as we can, try to educate such a human being.

The loss of a (Soviet) moral, (nravstvennost’, see chapter 4, note 12), which was the foundation of society, has, according to Brovkina and Khabalova, thus far not been replaced with something else: “They have destroyed the old, and the new has not come up yet,” a feeling of “complete permission” prevails because “the moral criteria and principles are destroyed” (Brovkina). The social changes also affected the audience. They have more distractions, such as film, and television; and they have become more

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complicated (Farmakovskaia). In addition, the pedagogues see an increasing “neglect” of children, because the parents are too busy: “Before it was not possible for children to work. It was not done and it was considered improper” (Brovkina). Contemporary young Russians, however, would “rather earn some money and buy a piece of American gum” than go to the theatre (Khabalova). Moreover, if and when they come to the theatre, the young people have no idea how to behave. Brovkina bemoaned the “shocking” behavior of contemporary audiences: “the theatre is not a stadium where you have to let your emotions out in the form of yelling, noise making, and whistling.” Concerning the repertory changes, all the pedagogues refer to artistic director Borodin who wants the theatre to be “a small island of some emotional culture, of education” (Brovkina). They consider the “adultization” of the repertory, and the emphasis on productions based on classical literature a general tendency, merely reinforced by “the personal interests and talents of our artistic director” (Brovkina). Despite the reported democratic reforms of decision making in the theatre, it is understood that “the artistic director says: that is the repertory that is chosen, those are the productions that go up” (Farmakovskaia). Farmakovskaia adds, however, that the “adultization” of the repertory does not take away from their mission, but that only “the material with which we try to fulfill that mission may have changed.” “Everything changes so quickly, we do not want to put on some kind of topical play that is topical for two months, half a year or even a year. Therefore we put up classics, which have at least some foundation, something eternal, always interesting.”13 Nevertheless, the pedagogues assert that the Central Children’s Theatre differs from the other theatres (including the Moscow Tiuz, see chapter 6) in that it still cares about the younger audiences, and still maintains an active pedagogical program, which has remained virtually unaltered under Perestroika: “We have worked very long with youth, and very seriously. That tradition, thank God, is still preserved” (Safarova). The three pedagogues are each in charge of preparing and educating different age groups. The program is set up according to Briantsev’s principles (see chapter 2) and follows a logical sequence. Their goal is to create “a more constant spectator who would understand the theatre as


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well as possible” (Farmakovskaia). Irina Brovkina leads the youngest age group, the “theatrical alphabet” club, where children can come as soon as they start to go to school (when they are 6 years old). Here the children receive some “elementary theatre culture”—they get acquainted with the theatre: what it is, how to behave, how a production is made; they get an excursion backstage; and, they watch performances for their age group which are preceded by preparatory talks and followed up by post-performance activities (drawing, dramatizing, discussing). When they are about nine years old they can move to the next age group, the “theatrical dictionary” club (for ages 9 to 13), led by Iuliia Farmakovskaia. The “theatrical dictionary” proceeds through the alphabet over a period of several years. Starting with the letter “a,” theatrical concepts are explained and illustrated in alphabetical order, ranging from “actor” to “avant-scene,” from “benefit” to “balcony” to “buffet.” They gather once a month, discussing the concepts with the help of actors, designers, choreographers, prop-masters, tech crew, and others. Sometimes the children are asked to develop a scene or a design that explains or illustrates the concept or to use their imaginations in developing a character based on a particular costume or make up. Performance attendance and post-performance discussions are also included. Farmakovskaia says that her work depends very much on the individual child and the group process—some come totally prepared, for example the ones that were in the “theatrical alphabet,” while others are novices. For the oldest age group, Irma Safarova leads the theatre section of the art club or “aktiv.” She takes the participants to performances, which they analyze and discuss, and she teaches them “to understand the language of the theatre.” They, too, meet with actors and the directors and are at times allowed to attend a rehearsal. Irma Safarova also takes them to other theatres’ productions, including the graduation productions of the theatrical institutions. The productions are mostly evaluated in writing and through discussion.14 In a sense the basic setup of acquainting children with the theatre, “building a circle of friends,” as they prefer to call it, does not differ very much from age group to age group, it just gets more sophisticated and complex as the child gets older. But not every child is exposed to this aesthetic step-by-step education. That is why Anna Mikhailova,

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for example, complains that a production such as King Lear is too difficult for the intended age groups (older youth) because they might not have been exposed to theatre before and, therefore, might not understand the (theatrical) language. The pedagogues are well aware of this, and lament that although they recognize the difficulties caused by the forced field trips, “at least the children were introduced to the theatre” (Khabalova). Thus, the pedagogical principles in the Central Children’s Theatre seem to have remained practically unaltered under the changed material circumstances. The recruiting of the participants in the diverse clubs might be slightly different (besides announcements by enthusiastic teachers, they also use newspaper and radio announcements), but the work stayed inherently the same. By the mid-1990s the theatre claimed that they are the only ones who still conduct this kind of work with the audience.15 CONCLUSION The Central Children’s Theatre operated on several assumptions. First, that classical literature offers the ultimate aesthetic and moral education, conveying a “universal ideology.” Second, that the traditional pedagogical practices (which are ultimately based on MarxistLeninist ideological principles), were still valid and fruitful. Third, that the changes in organization, repertory, practices, and audience were not directly connected with Perestroika, but would have happened anyway. Thus, they somehow managed to detach the changes in material circumstances from the theatre, believing indeed that they created a “kind of oasis where you can spiritually relax” from the turmoil around (Borodin, qtd. by Brovkina). The solution of the Central Children’s Theatre (both by the artistic and pedagogical sections) to the question of whether the tiuz can survive under the altered material circumstances was to take the middle road. There was a strong sense that part of the organizational structure had to be overhauled, yet they tried to preserve what they considered to be the “good” aspects of the system. This became especially clear in the educational practices, which remained virtually unaltered and were still based on Briantsev’s progressive approach. Concerning repertory and production practices, the mandatory political plays perpetuating the


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Soviet ideology had disappeared, but the inherent morality of the ideology was still emphasized, both in the pre-Perestroika productions that remained in the repertory, and (consciously or not) in the new productions with their “universal” problems. The artistic director (Borodin) grasped the opportunities offered by Glasnost and Perestroika to follow his own aspirations, that is to increase the number of classical productions, thus “adultizing” the repertory. However, his emphasis on “universal, morally sound” messages, and his production methods remained essentially the same. Although the artistic director determines the repertory (which was frequently emphasized in my interviews with the pedagogues), the artistic and pedagogical sections were on the same wavelength where ideological messages are concerned. They increasingly tried to avoid contemporary politics and did sincerely believe that their productions are essentially “non-ideological,” emphasizing the cultural function of the theatre: to inculcate “good taste” and raise a future audience for the Bolshoi and the Maly. Because the concept of “ideology” was for these artists and pedagogues inherently tied to Marxism-Leninism, it is more accurate to say that they aimed to free their productions from perpetuating the coercive, monolithic Marxist-Leninist ideology in the traditional sense. Nevertheless, the emphasis on “universal, morally sound” messages is ideological in and of itself: albeit less coercive and blatant, the theatre functioned no less as an instrument of perpetuating ideology(s) than it did in pre-Perestroika times. Moreover, the mirror images it reproduced seem fundamentally rooted in the ideology of Marxism-Leninism. As an ideological state apparatus, to use Althusser’s term, the theatre had a “hidden agenda” of which they were themselves, apparently, not fully aware. Within the newly created transideological environment they considered it their mission to see to “the spiritual education of a special spectator” (Na Teatral’noi). In this way the Central Children’s Theatre attempted to adapt the traditional paradigm of Soviet theatre for young audiences to the altered material circumstances. But the success of these attempts seemed, in the mid-1990s, questionable. As a theatre specifically intended for young audiences it had become a relic. As a theatre for mixed audiences, presenting the “universal lessons of great classical literature,” it had so far failed to establish itself. Neither actors nor directors seemed to be

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able to make the classical productions successful, especially not with the competition of other Moscow theatres. In addition, the children’s productions missed spark, enthusiasm, and innovation. The artistic and pedagogical direction mostly blamed the disinterest of the audience and their deteriorating cultural tastes for the relatively empty houses, especially for the evening performances. Iuliia Farmakovskaia mentioned that one of the strengths of the theatre was that they were “strict” with the repertory, that they did not produce any “trite” plays, despite the fact that this was “financially not the most lucrative” (pers. intv.). Even in this respect, they seemed to deny any change in circumstances or audience expectations, deny the existence of a transideological and transcultural environment where multiple cultural expressions could exist side by side.

6. The Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator x

INTRODUCTION The Moscow Theatre of the Young Spectator, the Mtiuz, did not have an equally “famous period” as the Central Children’s Theatre had in the 1950s and early 1960s.1 However, following the general trend, the 1960s was also for the Mtiuz a heyday period under the artistic direction of Pavel Khomskii (Levitskaia, pers. intv.). As was the custom under the Soviet regime, the Mtiuz was usually favorably reviewed, and was, because of the forced field trips, apparently popular among the audiences. However, when Perestroika started it soon became known that the Mtiuz had many more (internal) problems than, for example, the Central Children’s Theatre. In a sense, the Mtiuz is the epitome of the difficulties experienced by the tiuzes and brought to the fore by Glasnost. Whereas the Central Children’s Theatre chose to adjust its course where necessary and desirable under the altered material circumstances—for better or for worse—the Mtiuz altered its course completely, causing a major controversy in the troupe itself and in the tiuz world in general. Where the Central Children’s Theatre’s main change was an eventual change in names, the Mtiuz early on changed the majority of its artistic and pedagogical staff and crew. Under the old regime, the repertory of the Mtiuz quite blatantly reflected the Marxist-Leninist ideology, leading to deceptively realistic and “complicated” plays, peopled with positive heroes who are loyal to the fatherland and fight for such lofty social causes as collectivism,

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honesty, and friendship, and who overcome evil (greed, capitalistic enterprises) after and despite various hardships and temptations. From 1974 until 1986 Iurii Zhigulskii was the artistic director of the Mtiuz. Zhigulskii was a “psychological” director who cared about the younger audiences and who had a personal preference for plays with “inner tension” (Levitskaia, pers. intv.). The official position of the Mtiuz in pre-Perestroika times was “to link propaganda with the education of young people,” and “to work on their world outlook, their moral values and their inner culture” (Andreev, “Teatr osobogo”). Zhigulskii stressed the “enlightening function” of the theatre, and the importance of the “spiritual education” of the “new Soviet citizen of the future” (“Pomoshchnik”): As one of the oldest theatres for children in our country, the Mtiuz always saw its most important task as the ideological-artistic education of the rising generation, and strove to be the conduit of the party’s ideas, addressing youth. Our collective always tried to facilitate the formation of a communist world outlook, strong moral convictions, and a high spiritual culture. (Zhigul’skii, “Aplodiruiut”)

The repertory was aimed to reflect this mission (one of the most important traditions was “the work on the image of Vladimir Il’ich Lenin” [L. Andreev, “Teatr osobogo”]) and the theatre was in “constant search of writers who hold the same views” (Zhigul’skii, “Aplodiruiut”). The function of role model of “real” heroes was important: “Who to become? and, What to become? . . . is not only a moral problem but first of all a civic problem” (“Aplodiruiut”). Zhigulskii was a proponent of a repertory geared toward different age groups, because every age brings forth its own interests and problems (“Teatr osobogo”). Levitskaia and Levanshina said that the strength of Zhigulskii was in producing plays for adolescents: Zhigulskii was “successful, if he could find a way in. If not he just let it go. He did some very bad productions. But for adolescents, yes” (Levan'shina, pers. intv.). PERESTROIKA AND GLASNOST As early as 1985 the problems of the Mtiuz as a collective became apparent, although the first attacks were directed against Zhigulskii.

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In 1985 Orenov published a devastating article in Moskovskaia Pravda in which he held Zhigulskii responsible for the unimaginative productions, the uninspired acting, the shabby sets and the uninviting and neglected environment. Orenov maintained that the loss of prestige of the Mtiuz started with the arrival of Zhigulskii as artistic director. In the sphere of altering material circumstances this was an “early” attack, and a sign of changing times. The tiuz as an institution, however, was not yet criticized; rather the criticism was geared toward a specific theatre and a specific artistic director. Orenov’s article was followed, in 1986, by a published interview with Vladimir Gorelov, an actor who worked at the Mtiuz for forty years. Gorelov lamented the loss of magic in the tiuzes in general and in his own tiuz in particular, blaming both Zhigulskii and the pedagogical staff. He noted that the repertory was uninspired and mostly geared toward older youth (at the expense of the fairy tale) and that the company had aged, which causes a particular problem with the “travesty roles”2; and, that the link between the theatre and the audience had been lost, partly because audience research was hardly conducted anymore (“Vernite”). A few months later Gorelov published an article in which he says that it is hard not to agree with Orenov, that, indeed, nonprofessionalism and indifference have taken over, and that neither the artistic directors nor the government care (“Posledniaia”). At that point (December 1986) Zhigulskii had already left,3 and the Mtiuz had joined the ranks of theatres without artistic directors. Two of the new productions under the artistic direction of Zhigulskii premiered in 1985: Vsia nadezhda [All Hope] by M. Roshchin and Anchutka by B. Metalnikov. All Hope was targeted at older youth and reviewed as the Mtiuz variation of Pitfall, which premiered at the same time at the Central Children’s Theatre. Both plays reportedly opened up an honest conversation with youth, raising questions without providing the answers, making the young audience think for themselves (Balashova, “Dva spektaklia”; Liubimov, “Trudnyi”). Both plays were said to give a good insight into the relationships of adolescents with their parents and among themselves, although All Hope was considered “less dramatic” providing “even some sort of a ‘happy end’ ” (Balashova, “Dva spektaklia”). All Hope, an episodic play, follows the destinies of four adolescent girls: Nadia, Bukhara, Lenka, and Zhirafa. “You cannot call them

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heroines,” wrote Felix Andreev, “those girls are connected by idleness and an anti-social attitude to their surroundings, to labor.” However, two of the girls are saved by love, and the fate of the other two is supposedly also fortunate, which is indicated by the “light, optimistic atmosphere of the play and the production” (F. Andreev). Ideologically speaking it does convey a message of what constitutes “good” citizenship, but the merit of the play is that it presents “real” adolescents in “real” situations rather than the stereotypical positive heroes which had become a tradition in the doctrine of social realism. As such, it conveys alternative ideological paradigms. Along with Pitfall, this play represented a “new dramaturgy,” which reveals the attitudes and behavior of domestic young people rather than the eternal and well-known (negative) habits of Western youth. Accordingly, it provided an example for the established Soviet playwrights for youth. The renowned playwright Genadii Mamlin commented: “And I think: do I—a dramaturg who has written half his life about adolescents—do I know, do I understand them, the contemporary adolescents, who have changed so much in three or four years?” (“Kogda”). The other 1985 premiere, Anchutka, was directed to the youngest age group, and was, significantly, one of the last premieres of a new play specifically for this age group that is still part of the repertory in 1996. Anchutka conveys a message of good behavior. As in Dream to Be Continued (see chapter 5), it is an example of adhering to the “moral ideology,” preaching love, courage, and humanity, which are inherent in, but not particular to, the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism. It is, therefore, not surprising that both Anchutka and Dream remained, virtually unaltered, part of the regular repertory after Perestroika. Anchutka, a strange, green creature with a long nose, born 300 years ago out of a tossed apple core, is chased out of the forest to live with the people because her pranks have gone too far. Living with the people, witnessing their kindness, personally experiencing love and sacrifice, the weird creature slowly turns into a lovely girl, someone the enchanted forest can be proud of. The production includes song, dance, acrobatics, and illusionary tricks which “help to attract the attention of young spectators, to entice them with what goes on” (Tariverdieva). However, the play itself is very loosely structured, and characters, actions, and relationships are unmotivated. Anchutka’s redemption, for example,


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consists of risking her life by going back to the forest in order to get the herb that will save the life of the grandson of her caretaker, who somehow became frozen on a mountain during a mountaineering trip. Orenov uses Anchutka to illustrate his critique, asserting that the production presents “an anthology of clichés of the ‘tiuz musical production,’ where the action is ‘vaudevilized’ and ‘ironicalized,’ ‘miked,’ and abundantly sprinkled with tasteless and uncontrolled actors’ improvisations” (“U vremeni”). The internal problems of the Mtiuz came fully into the open when Zhigulskii left the theatre, and Genrietta Ianovskaia entered as a guest director, soon to become the new artistic director. Ianovskaia, a student of Tovstonogov (see chapter 3), had worked in the Krasnoiarsk Tiuz with her husband, Kama Ginkas, before she came to Leningrad (now St. Petersburg). It was rumored that Ianovskaia, a very talented director, was hampered by the regime, which made it impossible for her to be permanently connected with one theatre, as was the custom in the former Soviet Union.4 Ianovskaia’s appointment was considered to be a direct result of Perestroika and Glasnost and led to an immediate controversy, within the company itself as well as in the theatre world. Among her supporters were the people who considered her a gifted director who finally got a chance to put her talents to use and train her own company. Among her adversaries were those who saw her as an opportunist who would do anything to get a permanent position in Moscow. They maintained that she did not care about either children or theatre for youth and that she would ultimately destroy the Mtiuz and its original mission. Letters for and against Ianovskaia were sent to the Ministry of Culture, even before she was appointed artistic director. In 1986 Ianovskaia started to rehearse Sobach’e serdtse [Dog’s Heart] (figure 6.1), an adaptation from the novel of the same name by Mikhail Bulgakov—a novel that was at that time still censored. The premiere of Dog’s Heart, its favorable and tumultuous reception, and the fame it brought the theatre both nationally and abroad, reinforced the topicality of the question posed by Dmitrievskii in 1987: “Tiuz today—to be or not to be?” This was in spite of the fact that none of the contributors to the discussion even refer to the production—as if it was a separate issue, detached from the future of the tiuzes in general. One of the main

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Figure 6.1 Dog’s Heart. 1987. Mtiuz. Photo credit unknown.

controversial points surrounding the production was why Dog’s Heart should premiere in a tiuz, and what the gain for a young audience could be. It was unquestionable that a production of this play adapted from Bulgakov was politically and ideologically charged. The playwright and novelist Mikhail Bulgakov was a hero of the 1920s. His work was immensely popular but so controversial that it was all classified as forbidden by 1930. During the post-Stalin Thaw period, part of his work was finally published, but in limited editions, most of which disappeared directly into the black market. Dog’s Heart was only published (in Russian—the “Tamizadat’ ”) in Paris, and was simply ignored in Russian anthologies, bibliographies, and other writings about Bulgakov and his work. The adaptation of Dog’s Heart by A. Chervinskii (the author of Tic-Tac-Toe, see chapter 5) follows the novel quite religiously.5 Chervinskii basically took the dialogue and put it together in play format, a task that was facilitated by the original author, whose playwriting skills permeate the novel. Professor Preobrazhenskii (a name derived from the Russian word for “transformation”) lives in a seven-room apartment (a luxury just after the revolution), where he continues his


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sophisticated prerevolutionary life style and experiments with rejuvenation through brain transplantation. While the new house committee is after Preobrazhenskii’s rooms, the professor picks up a dog from the street, has his assistant deliver a fresh corpse and transplants the hypophysis (the pituitary body) of the deceased, an alcoholic and petty criminal, into the dog. The dog loses his tail, starts to talk, and becomes human, taking the name of Poligraph Poligraphovich Sharikov (“Sharik” is the most common name for a dog in Russian). Unfortunately the “new human being” turns into the most degenerate of proletarians: swearing, drinking, stalking women, and eventually even denouncing the professor—his creator. When Sharikov points a gun at the professor it is clear that the situation is out of control. The professor performs a contra-operation, and the investigators who come to search his house only find a barely talking dog, by the name of Sharikov. The ideological metaphor of the play is easily seen. Sharikov stands for the proletariat, who used to live a dog’s life but received a new identity through the operation—in effect, the revolution. This turns the professor into Lenin, who takes nature into his own hands by promoting dog to human without realizing the consequences. In the light of Glasnost and Perestroika the play became as political and topical as can be, raising the question of responsibility: who is responsible, the professorLenin or Sharikov-proletariat? An actor who, at the Leningrad Maly Theatre, recited a section of Dog’s Heart in the production Returned Pages explained it as follows: The most important responsibility for this out of control situation is not Sharikov’s, but the professor’s. As a dog he still had his own thinking capacities; when that was taken from him and he received the hypophysis of another, he was not capable anymore of analyzing his own situation. Lenin is in fact just as guilty as the professor. Before the revolution he should have given more consideration to the background of the proletariat. Lenin was not in Russia during the February revolution [when a multiple party system was initiated], maybe he was jealous that it happened without him and therefore forced a second revolution to attract power. However, by cultivating the proletariat from the outside as omnipotent ruler he gave free reign to unforeseen terror. (Qtd. in Steijn 23)

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Ianovskaia leaves the text intact, but sharpens the topicality and the attack on the old ideology by adding several theatrical features. The stage is covered with black pieces of paper, a metaphor from Bulgakov’s novel Teatral’nyi roman [translated as Black Snow] in which he writes that the revolution altered everything so rigorously that even the snow turned black. The stage action and the specific intonation of words and sentences evokes reactions from the Russian audience that are culturallybased and contextualized through a life under the Soviet regime.6 The discrepancy between the professor’s and the proletarian world is emphasized by contrasting the proletarian songs of the house committee with visual images of an Egyptian chorus from Aida by Verdi. The professor is regularly visited by three “uniformed” characters, the KGB, who are “here to save you from importunate visitors” (e.g., a Western imperialist offering to finance the professor’s experiments), an image coming from the novel Rokovye iaitsa [Fatal Eggs] by Bulgakov. One of them hears the professor criticize Soviet society without interrupting him—a cynical comment on the unpredictability of action and consequences at the beginning of Glasnost. The controversy around this production was, for obvious reasons, not limited to the issue of whether this was a tiuz production or not. Ianovskaia reinforced the sociopolitical impact by inviting, among others, legendary anti-Soviet figures for the premiere, such as Andrei Sakharov and Boris Yeltsin. In the context of the beginning of Glasnost and Perestroika, this production was an event, and most Soviet critics reviewed it as such. Several raved about the “omnipresent Bulgakov spirit,” with its mixture of irony, lyricism, fantasy, and social criticism which was so clearly preserved in the production (Smelkov, “Chto uvideli”). They praised Ianovskaia’s successful attempt to preserve the allegory of the novel and her vivid characterization of Sharik-Sharikov, a “monstrous degeneration, which was, unfortunately, no exception, but a generalized product of recent times, having absorbed all evil, from a ridiculous tie to relentless aggression towards cats, as well as towards the professor” (Erofeev). Others thought that the Bulgakov spirit was violated, and criticized the presentation of Preobrazhenskii as a benevolent man, his house a temple of culture and science, and the “simplified” image of Sharik-Sharikov (Plavinskii). At least one reviewer chose to interpret the play very literally as a warning against ecological


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experiments, as a play “about the responsibility of the scientist who takes the scalpel to conduct a new experiment for the improvement of the human psyche” (Stroeva). That Dog’s Heart premiered in a tiuz, a theatre for young audiences, was only sporadically touched upon; most critics just found it ironic that it is so difficult for children in particular to obtain a ticket (Smelkov). Some pointed out it was a good start to broaden the scope of the theatre (Erofeev, Smelkov), others that it was necessary for youth to get to know Bulgakov (Gul’chenko, “Ot prechistenki”). Ianovskaia answered the question of whether Dog’s Heart was not an unusual choice for a tiuz as follows: Who said that productions for youth only have to talk about school problems? . . . The books that are mostly read [by youth 14–16 years old] are those that, in our perception, should be interesting to people of twenty and older. I believe that a statistically average “young” spectator does not exist. With every spectator, from any age group, you always have to talk in the language of truth. That means the language of great literature. (Qtd. in Vakhramov)

Foreign critics also concentrated on the production itself in the context of the altered material circumstances, rather than seeing it as a production by a theatre for young audiences. Although Peter Brook, reportedly, after a Moscow performance, praised the production and its director as “brilliant,” (Doronin, qtd. in Iskantseva), “Teatral’nyi Chernobyl’ ” both the German Die Zeit and the Dutch Toneel Teatraal found the merit of the production mainly in the presentation of the subject matter in the current political context. Renate Klett in Die Zeit wrote that “[T]he progressive content is often clothed in a quite conservative form.” Robert Steijn remarked that “without knowing the context little is left of the production” (22). A review in the Yugoslav journal Danas from a performance at the XXIII Beograd International Theatre Festival read: Although both plays from the SSSR [Dog’s Heart and Notes from the Underground] got in the festival as productions of “Perestroika theatre,” they did not show a trace of what is usually understood by that. Everything is done the old way, no attempt has been made to overcome the habitual

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directors’ and actors’ canons, no new, unusual, striking, imaginative means. . . . (Qtd. in Pantsyrev)

Ianovskaia’s production of Dog’s Heart did not end the internal discord in the company. In 1987 the Ministry of Culture had finally made up its mind about appointing Ianovskaia, handing her the power to act and decide in the capacity of artistic director. This led to a letter of protest signed by 27 actors—“by far not the least talented” (Kaminskaia and Sokolianskii, “Kak u vzroslykh”)—whose main concerns were the neglect of the children and the renunciation of their mission as a tiuz. Ianovskaia’s loyal followers immediately protested the protest. Among them were actors in Dog’s Heart who had played their parts beyond their previously expected powers. “At the Ministry of Culture it rained letters and telegrams: for Ianovskaia—against Ianovskaia” (Kaminskaia and Sokolianskii, “Kak u vzroslykh”). However, “[T]o think that the division of the ‘tiuzovtsy’ into supporters and adversaries [grew] solely out of ideological-artistic motives, would be naive. Worries about personal well-being also played a role . . .” (Kaminskaia and Sokolianskii, “Pis’mo”). Indeed, Ianovskaia was a supporter of the contract system and of pay according to accomplishments. In addition, the success of Dog’s Heart attracted talented young actors, which challenged the hitherto secured positions of the older artists. A direct power struggle went on in the Mtiuz, centered around the question of whether the Mtiuz should continue as a tiuz, or drastically alter its course. The Mtiuz was divided in two groups: [o]ne—the majority—who believe in Genrietta Ianovskaia, and already won the first triumph with her, are tempted to create a theatre for [older] youth (“molodezh”). The others, among whom are a significant part of the theatre’s talented and hardworking young people, want to and are able to work for children. (Kaminskaia and Sokolianskii, “Pis’mo”)

A consensus was hard to achieve because “[i]n our theatre (and not only in the theatre) there is practically no experience of peaceful coexistence of people who in principle disagree with each other” (Kaminskaia and Sokolianskii “Pis’mo”). Indeed, disagreement about principles in pre-Perestroika times could be no more than a “non-antagonistic contradiction” (see part I).


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While the details of the struggle are intriguing, and the characteristics attributed to Ianovskaia exciting (among others I have heard Ianovskaia described as the most talented director in Moscow, a fascist, an evil woman, an opportunist, a very caring person, a child hater, and a charitable figure), the significance lies in the public discussion of this struggle, which was only possible because of the altered circumstances. Before Perestroika, Ianovskaia could not have become a regular director at the Mtiuz, let alone its artistic director. She would not have been able to obtain permission to stage a production based on a censored novel, to cause and get away with so much controversy, and to initiate what she eventually accomplished: to turn the Mtiuz into an “art theatre” where youth would be welcome but not be the target audience. Ironically, it was Ianovskaia at the Mtiuz, who literally organized an open discussion with the audience. By open invitation and through distribution of leaflets with the statement “The Theatre of the Young Spectator asks its audience for advice,” they held a series of discussions about the expectations of the young audience and the responsibilities of the theatre. To prevent problems while having an open conversation with the participating youth, psychologists were also invited. Nevertheless, the meetings were criticized for indoctrination and the predictability of the answers, and it was rumored that Ianovskaia did not want a new answer as much as a confirmation of her own convictions (Levitskaia, pers. intv; Sokolianskii, “Teatr” 6). For the theatre, however, the discussion brought clearly to the fore what the young audience hitherto missed: to see themselves on stage, to see experimental theatre, new forms, honest acting, and especially no didacticism. “They said, no, we don’t need a theatre for young audiences, we just need good theatre” (Platonova, pers. intv. 1996). One of the questions asked the youth what they thought the target audience of the tiuz was: “And the 13 years old said it is for his brother of 7, and the 17 years old said it’s for the 13 years old and the 30 years old said it’s for the 17 years old” (Platonova in Smelianskaia and Platonova, pers. intv. 1994). Based on these meetings the Mtiuz soon let go of the age categories, maintaining that “good theatre appeals to all age groups” (Smelianskaia and Platonova, pers. intv. 1994), and concentrated on “innovative” productions, not necessarily directed at young audiences in the traditional sense.

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In 1988 two productions premiered in the Mtiuz, a liberal adaptation of Dostoevsky, Zapiski iz podpol’ia [Notes from the Underground], which was clearly geared to an adult audience, and an adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Nightingale for a “family audience.” Both were controversial in different ways. Notes from the Underground was actually more a studio production facilitated by the Mtiuz, directed by Ianovskaia’s husband, Kama Ginkas,7 with two guest actors and one Mtiuz actor. Although it was purposefully not intended for youth, the fact that it played in a tiuz caused a storm of protest in tiuz circles, especially where the nude heroine was concerned (Levitskaia, pers. intv.; Mikhailova, pers. intv.; Sats, “Moda i pravda”). The Nightingale is the story of the nightingale who is locked up in a cage to sing for the emperor, but who is unable to sing in captivity. Ianovskaia adapted the story herself for this production, loading it with double meanings. The stage was filled with cages of all sorts. The play is full of repetition (for about three pages of the dialogue the gardener says that “the garden stretched out wide and far. So far that the gardener didn’t even know himself where the garden ended. And why did the gardener not know where the garden ended? Because it stretched out . . . etc.”) and it takes about half the play before the nightingale appears. The nightingale’s sweet songs are interspersed with poems by Pasternak, Mandelshtam, Brodsky, and Pushkin, an overtly political gest that is not immediately clear to most young children. Ianovskaia used some Brechtian devices such as historicizing the subject (“In China all the people are Chinese. It was a long time ago”—also repeated over and over) and emphasizing the theatricality of the production. The illusion is repeatedly broken by the actors, who step in and out of role, introducing themselves and others, and addressing the audience directly with comments on the action. Just as with Dog’s Heart, the play is specifically contextualized and the metaphor is once again inescapable: the mechanical nightingale stands for the stilted ideology of Marxism-Leninism (Tzing Pe, the court scholar, has written volumes about the mechanical nightingale, which everybody has read although no one understands), the old emperor for Gorbachev, the nightingale for the voices of all those who were similarly unable to sing in captivity, the new emperor for the new ruler (yet to come). The overall impression was of a “vivid show, where, just as in life, laughter and tears, humor and tragedy, reality and fantasy flow together” (Zonina, “Chem”).


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Many of the traditional tiuz critics and practitioners considered Ianovskaia’s version of Nightingale, especially the poetry, too complicated and dense for children (Fridman), although “[S]ome of Ianovskaia’s apologists seriously believe that not only adults but also children can decipher the scheme of the director” (Poiurovskii, “Mister Twister”). Others praised Ianovskaia for the respect she shows for children who “probably do not understand everything but want to understand,” who “are not yet used to the fact that the theatre does not talk with them as non-thinking, but as equal, completely independent individuals . . .” (N. Agisheva, “Eti”). In the long run, however, the production was less successful than Dog’s Heart. A 1990 review says that the production is “heavy, stagnant, metaphysical and has nothing to do with the delicate lightness and playful philosophy of Andersen’s creation,” that the improvisation is “rigidly staged” and “limited” and that the message is “hammered with nails into the public’s heads” (Fridman 125). Although Fridman criticizes Ianovskaia in general (she knows her trade but makes the wrong choices), the absence of other reviews and the dismissal of Nightingale from the repertory within a few years seem to support his opinion. In 1989 Ianovskaia presented her third premiere: Gud-bai, Amerika! [Goodbye America!], a “show-parody” based on a well-known children’s poem by Samuil Marshak, Mister Twister, in an adaptation by A. Nedzvetskii. Nedzvetskii converted the poem, which takes about 10 minutes to read aloud, into a two hour production filled with song and dance, without essentially altering the text. Nevertheless, the meaning of the poem-parody of Marshak was totally turned around. There is no question that the first three productions of Ianovskaia at the Mtiuz were all “reactions to” the “unhappy stagnant past” (Fridman 122). Goodbye America!, however, differs from the previous two productions in that it makes a parody out of a parody solely through theatrical presentation, thus generating meaning through a complex semiotics limited by cultural boundaries. As a site for the production of meanings, Goodbye America! functions essentially as a paradigm for the interdependence of meanings and material conditions in a transcultural and transideological environment. Although some critics saw Goodbye America! as pure theatrical entertainment (Rassadin, “Pokhvala”), the cultural-political context of

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the poem’s presentation made it a highly ideological and political, albeit entertaining, event. Even more than Dog’s Heart, where the contextualized political implications were immediately picked up by the Russian audience (as opposed to a Western audience) this production generates a meaning which is totally different when taken out of context; in fact, it is the culturally based context that supplies the meaning. Goodbye America, is a parody on the Soviet Union and the ideology of Marxism-Leninism. The production is based on a well-known anti-American Soviet children’s poem by Samuil Marshak, Mister Twister. The poem, an original parody written in 1933 and revised in 1952, is about an American multimillionaire, who decides to take a trip to the Soviet Union with his wife, his daughter, and her monkey. “When you go to a foreign country, try to observe its laws and customs in order to avoid misunderstanding” is the epigraph of the poem (from an old guidebook). In essence the poem tells about the foolishness of the rich, racist, and capitalistic Twister and his family and the kindness and righteousness of the Soviet people, who teach him a lesson, especially with respect to his racism. Mister Twister, Former Minister, Mister Twister, Millionaire, Owner of factories, Newspapers, companies Enters Hotel “Angleterre” (309)

Thus goes the refrain of the poem, which is known by heart to practically every former Soviet-Russian citizen. Marshak’s Mister Twister is especially sensitive to “Negroes, Malays and additional rabble, Twister does not like people of color.” While in America he is still able to order a steamboat without “colored people,” in Hotel Angleterre in Leningrad he finds to his horror a black man as his neighbor: “With his black hand he touched the bar of the stairs, calmly descending and smoking a


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pipe.” The image is multiplied into an army of black men in the mirror walls of the hotel. Twister immediately picks up his family and his belongings in order to find another place to stay. When all hotels claim they are full, Twister and family return to Angleterre, to find their original rooms occupied too.8 The benevolent Soviet porter, however, gives the mother his bench in the porter’s loge and installs the daughter in the snack bar. Twister himself falls asleep on the door step in the lobby, where he has a terrible nightmare: the almighty Cook picks him up in his helicopter to go back home, but when they reach America his housekeeper tells him there is no vacancy. In the morning Twister accepts the key to a room adjacent to the rooms of a Chinese, a Malay, a Mongol, a Mulatto and a Creole. Goodbye America, the production based on the poem, is subtitled a “show parody.” As a parody of a parody it emphasizes the interdependence of meanings and material circumstances. The Czech semiotician Ivo Osolsobe in “Principia Pariodica: Meeting Bakhtin at the End of the Trip” (1993) points out four principles of parody.9 In the context of this book the fourth principle is the most relevant. The fourth principle is the pragmatic principle of “Sharing,” which presupposes that both the author of the parody and its receiver have been receivers of the original work. It is particularly in this principle that the audience members, as individual subjects in the function of meaning makers, bring their own culturally contextualized perspectives to the construction of meaning. While one can assume that the majority of the Russian adult audience knows the original work and the original context under which it generated meanings (officially and nonofficially)—the young audience’s acquaintance with the poem (if any!) and its presupposed meaning has been primarily in a historical context. Thus, in Goodbye America! the principle of sharing is not limited to a common knowledge of the original work but also includes the material conditions under which this original work generated meanings and the altered conditions under which the parody generates meanings. The principle of sharing is a determining factor in the construction of meanings, because as soon as it is violated the parody no longer functions as a parody, but will be either perceived as an unintentional parody (when the author does not know the original or does not intend the work to be seen as a parody of another work), or as an original work (when the

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perceiver does not know the original), both of which affect the negotiation of meanings. With Mister Twister and Goodbye America!, this idea gets even more complex because the production is a parody of a parody— thus, while the original poem might not be recognized as a parody, the production can still be perceived as a parody on the Soviet Union which is the way most foreigners and an increasing number of young Russians read the production. As mentioned before, neither the text nor the story line were significantly altered. As a “show-parody,” the text was complemented with dance and contextualized images, parts of it were rearranged and repeated, and several songs, ranging from nineteenth century ballads, to Soviet hymns, to contemporary popular hits, both Russian and foreign, were inserted. Ianovskaia underplays the parody on capitalism through theatrical rather than textual means by concentrating on parodying the ideology and the citizens of the former Soviet Union, including the traditional Marxist-Leninist representation of America. Before the lights dim the premise of the play is introduced. An actor in gray appears and performs a desolate tap dance on the empty stage, the walls of which are clothed with “vatniki,” the traditional gray quilted jackets of the Soviet camp prisoners. This image is sustained throughout the play; where the Americans are represented as bold and colorful, the Soviet society and its population are primarily gray, gazing upon the foreigners, “[w]ho has eyes—will see, who has ears—will hear, who can think—will understand” (Zonina, “Chem”). The old Soviet society is most clearly represented by a couple in undefined, colorless, everyday Soviet clothes, afraid of foreigners, yet curious, who appear and disappear on stage intermittently, witnessing almost every scene, providing silent commentary. They have a pure representational function: standing in line, shopping, observing the foreigners from a safe distance, reading the Pravda. Many stage actions, intonations, and special effects have a similar representational function, operating against the text. Zonina points out: “How many times haven’t we witnessed the ‘potemkinesque reception’ of foreigners—with the traditional bread and salt, with streets cleaned until they shine, decorated with slogans—the indirect attributes of our ‘beloved agitation.’ ” Twister perceives the Soviet society through the eyes of the tourist, and Soviet society complies with that image. When Twister demands “Russkii dance,” a trio of traditionally dressed Russian


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girls perform “Katiusha” ” and “Kalinka.” With the same delight, Twister witnesses workers accompanying their manual labor with 1930s songs and the Songs of the Volga Boatman. At the same time, however, when Twister goes ashore in Leningrad, his first deed is handing out the Daily newspaper. Ianovskaia plays with cultural prejudices and beliefs, using stereotypes from both sides, Western and Soviet-Russian. Meaning is generated in the juxtaposition of these stereotypes. Thus, the self-righteous Soviet porter becomes a malicious figure, who (under the accompaniment of “spy music” from a well-known Russian television detective) calls his buddies in the other hotels to inform them about Twister and has them close their doors. The scene of Twister and his family riding the car to Angleterre produces a double meaning through the accompaniment of a Soviet popular hit of the early 1980s, “Avtomobili [Automobiles].” The American ideal is reinforced by “Glory Alleluia,” “Rock around the Clock,” and “Summertime.” To the racism of Twister against “colored people and additional rabble,” Ianovskaia adds Soviet-Russian anti-Semitism. The disclosure of false consciousness and ideological beliefs is emphasized in the inserted song “Goodbye America,” a popular contemporary hit, that gave the play its title. Goodbye America Where I’ve never been Farewell forever ............... Your ripped jeans Became too small for me, They taught us too long To love your forbidden fruits Goodbye America Where I will never be ...

According to one critic, this song, and the inserted Jewish folk song “Hava Nagila” are the most truthful and touching, sung from the heart (Pantsyrev). They are also significant in the unraveling of at least one meaning of the production: Ianovskaia asks the Russians to reevaluate their own beliefs, including a close look at anti-Semitism.

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Thus, through a complex theatrical semiotics Ianovskaia turns previously held beliefs upside down—be they old Marxist-Leninist ideals, or ideas about American capitalism (“Why don’t you buy a house” asks the daughter. “This is not Chicago” answers Twister). The grand finale, in which the whole cast takes part, reads as a summary: “Back to the USSR” blasts from the loudspeakers, while the stage transforms into a disco. In discussing the contextualized readings of the production it is even more interesting to compare the reactions to this play by Russian critics, who in Osolsobe’s terms, presumingly, share the knowledge of the original work as well as the various material circumstances under which it was perceived. Reviewers differ between seeing the production as “pure entertainment [evoking a] feeling of liberation” (Rassadin); as a parasitical use of Marshak’s poem, lacking any parody and “self-confidently, aggressively unskillfully done, striving to pass this unskillfulness off as the new theatrical aesthetic” (Velekhov); as an “unquestionably talented show . . . funny and painfully sad parodying our joyless reality” (Zonina); and, as an “untasteful” show, which is “not theatre” (Fridman). Some critics question the validity of making a parody out of a poem that has already become an inverted parody in and of itself under the new material circumstances (Velekhov). For at least one critic it is crucial to consider the intended audience. Perceiving the production as a children’s show (after all it played in an established children’s theatre) Poiurovskii complains that “Americans, Malays, Chinese, Swedes, Danish and many other large and small nations evoke the sympathy of the spectator, [w]ith the exception of the ‘aboriginals’ [the Soviet people]—those gloomy subjects with their imbecile faces. . . .” Poiurovskii maintains that if the production was intended for adults “then we could laugh with the others about the possibility to turn the subject inside out. . . . about the inventions of the director and the actors” (“Mister”). Thus, both content and artistic quality of the performance are either praised or attacked from particular, culturally rooted subject positionings which reflect the material, ideological, and cultural position and positioning of the audience members. The perspectives of the adult audience particularly are colored by directly experiencing a totalitarian ideology, which, according to Claude Lefort, in its “discourse acts with


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the conviction of being imprinted on reality” (79), a discourse that was “entirely political discourse, but . . . denies the particular fact of the political and attempts to achieve the dissolution of the political in the element of the pure generality of the social reality” (71). The original text of Mister Twister, the poem, had only one official purpose: pointing out the evil, idle, and immoral behavior of capitalist degenerates as opposed to the noble, industrious, and moral behavior of the superior Soviet citizens. As a site for the production of meaning, Goodbye America! takes in this respect a phenomenological turn in that it tries to get to the essence of the poem, revealing hidden meanings by the juxtaposition of the original text (including its official “message”) and the commentary of the theatrical images, often going directly against the text. In the mid-1990s Goodbye America! still played for sold out houses with a mixed-age audience. However, although the production is festive, colorful, visual, and fast-paced enough to hold children’s attention, it did seem to be primarily geared toward “the excited adults [who] yell ‘bravo’ and applaud for a long time” (Pantsyrev, “Misteru”). The response of this adult audience is caused in part because they grew up with Marshak, social realism and the rigid doctrine of Marxism-Leninism, a cultural and political context that many Russian children—who by now have spent the majority of their young lives already under altered material circumstances—and foreign visitors lack. Thus the audience members as individual subjects in the function of meaning makers read and understand the meanings generated by the production on various levels: as a parody of a parody (according to the principles of Osolsobe), as an original parody, and as an original work. Goodbye America! was the last new production directed by Ianovskaia before 1993 (Ivanov). In the interim the theatre lived on its old productions—including Anchutka and Evgenii Shvarts’s The Two Maples, a production from the 1970s—and the chamber productions based on Dostoevsky’s novels by Kama Ginkas (which were still considered independent studio productions, although they do appear on the regular repertory bill of the Mtiuz, see also chapter 9). The 1990 season did not include any new productions, while in 1992 only Ginkas produced a complement to Notes from the Underground, Igraem prestuplenie [Let’s Play Crime]. The 1992 repertory again included no new productions.

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In 1991 Ianovskaia declared the theatre a zone where “the activity of any political party is prohibited.” At the same time she announced a benefit (which included the actors’ salaries) for the families of those who were killed in Latvia. However, the internal conflicts in the troupe were far from gone, and they even increased because of a new distrust in the leader, Ianovskaia, by those who initially supported her. One cause was the new contract system of payment. New plays were put into rehearsal, but they ceased after laborious conflicts. With three new productions in five years, the theatre had not established itself yet as a “youth” theatre, but at the same time it was no longer a children’s theatre (Kaminskaia, “Raby liubvi”). “A permanent conflict that stretched out over years” led to a massive exodus of artists and staff. The conflict escalated when, after the managing director left, Ianovskaia decided to also take over the management function. In an open meeting it was stated that Ianovskaia “does not work, could not withstand fame, does not love actors, and destroyed the aesthetic of children’s theatre.” Ninety-three out of a hundred people voted against the continuation of Ianovskaia as artistic director. Anti-Semitic statements were even published about Jews taking over power everywhere (in Russkii Vestnik, qtd. in Iskantseva, “Teatral’nyi Chernobyl’ ”). Counteractions were taken by those who believed in Ianovskaia, and saw the future of the theatre in its aim of making interesting productions for a mixed audience, young and old. They pointed out the success of the three productions (as opposed to the abominable state of the theatre as a “tiuz” under Zhigulskii) and, eventually, they prevailed. Ianovskaia remained artistic director, and a new business director was appointed, enabling Ianovskaia to concentrate on the artistic aspects of the theatre (Iskantseva, “Teatral’nyi Chernobyl’ ”).10 Ianovskaia is clearly a director for older youth, or adults—“the framework of children’s theatre is categorically too tight for her, her creative pretensions cannot find the desired expression” (Silina, “Effekt” 138). In this context, the question arises why this theatre, that tried so hard to escape the stigma of “kids” or “school” theatre, did not change its name, just like the Central Children’s Theatre did? Since 1988, people have been wondering about the “inertia,” maintaining that the “tiuz [theatre of the young spectator] stigma” is only hampering them (Treplev). A point of issue is that it is very hard to distinguish between


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“older youth” and just (young) adults. The majority of the repertory does not consist of plays that are traditionally perceived of as specifically for youth, containing a youth protagonist dealing with youth problems, ideas, and worldviews. Some maintain that Ianovskaia just used the classification as a tiuz to obtain the increased subsidies: “She just steals from the children” (Levitskaia, pers. intv.). Since the early 1990s, however, subsidies and salaries of both children’s and adult theatres have been equalized (Kolosova, pers. intv. 1996, see also chapter 4). The theatre staff itself maintained that they have been wanting to change the name of the theatre for a long time, but that the Cultural Committee up until now did not allow them to (Platonova, pers. intv. 1996). “Tiuz is not a name for a theatre. We know the Moscow Art Theatre, we know the Vakhtangov, we know the Taganka, but tiuz is a featureless name. Every city in the Soviet Union had a tiuz.” (Smelianskaia, pers. intv. 1994).11 As will be shown in chapter 9, however, a name change was never realized, and even became undesirable. PEDAGOGY Interviews with the new zavlit (director of literature), Marina Smelianskaia, and Svetlana Platonova, the pedagogue, yielded some interesting inside perspectives.12 Platonova has worked in the theatre for more than twenty years. She has witnessed all the changes and conflicts, and she is a fervent supporter of Ianovskaia: “Our artistic director always tries to help the less fortunate, through complimentary tickets, free places for people with low incomes or families with many children, and charity performances” (pers. intv. 1996). Although her role has been greatly diminished and altered under the new material circumstances, she still adheres to some traditional practices: she introduces interested young people to the theatre, its history, building, and principles, and she watches and discusses performances with them. The major changes are the voluntary nature of the preparation and that she now tries to reach the youngsters with their parents. The link with the schools is mainly focused on reaching and teaching teachers so that they can enthuse the students and their parents. Cultural field trips are discouraged. The practices of Platonova are not very different from those of the pedagogical staff at the Central Children Theatre, but on a much smaller scale (see chapter 5).

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Platonova described the way she works with groups as follows: Sometimes they come to the production one hour earlier. I will talk with them, tell them what theatre is, ask them what they think theatre means and how it differs from video, from television, what the specifics of theatre art are. I show them the stage and lead them backstage, so that they can feel that the theatre is more than just actors, that it is the work of an enormous collective. I will give them the first understanding of theatrical vocabulary: Avant scene, Applause, Backstage, and talk about the fact that a production comes to life only when the actor on stage and the spectator in the auditorium breathe together. It is a mutual friendship, a composition. Without spectators the actors can’t work, and without actors it is impossible. So the audience has to put in some effort—effort from the soul. A performance cannot be repeated. A different audience yields a different performance. For the children—when they stand on the stage and they see the auditorium, and when they see that they are visible from the entire auditorium—for them it becomes suddenly a reality, that they are all together, and that the framework does not put up a barrier, does not separate, but that it unites. And after the performance, not for young ones but for the older ones, we lead discussions. We do not ask what did you like and what didn’t you like, because each has the right to his own opinion, also the youngest, we just ask where was it painful, where was it funny? If it is a young child we ask him who would you like to invite to your birthday, with whom would you share a desk at school? Those evaluations are very important for us. We understand that if we set the right accents in the productions, and if that concrete performance precisely addressed that spectator, they evaluate and understand it right. In no way do we enforce our opinion. In addition, we try to lead the discussion so that the parents are not in the auditorium, alone with the children and categorically without a teacher. Children feel oppressed. There are children with whom you can talk in a group, when there are twenty people, and there are children with whom you can talk one on one. Therefore, I often don’t have one discussion. When I see a child who wants to say something but is afraid or shy, I invite him for another production, and before that performance I talk to him about what he saw before. Maybe something hurt him or he wanted to tell me about it but was embarrassed in front of his classmates. There are different types of children and therefore there are different forms of discussion. Sometimes he [a school teacher] asks the pedagogue if she could just help him to talk about the theatre. And so I go and lead an activity, the theatrical alphabet. Theatre from A to Z. I just ask them, what do you think applause is, or, which words do you know that start with A. Then they start thinking


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and usually they know very few words, and I start to explain to them what those words mean, where do they come from, often in a playful form. And I ask them to think of some little scene on that word. That kind of work we do over several years until we reach the Z, when they have already grown up completely. Then they take a quiz, on the dictionary. They play the scenes themselves, think something up, and in this playful form they acquire the essence of the theatre. With the older ones we have meetings with the director, with the actors, with the designers, on how to put up a performance, how the design works from drawings to performance, at the tech shop, the make-up room, the costume shop, the prop shop, the sewing room. What is important is that they feel that the theatre is an enormous collective, that it is a product of working together and that very many people put a lot of effort into a production, just as for a child’s birthday. Afterwards we read the play and then they are sometimes allowed at a rehearsal. So they see the drawings, the model of the set, how they sew the costumes, how they prepare the sound, the music, the lighting; they watch the dress rehearsal, and finally the performance. And none of those who have been backstage can applaud only the actors—by applauding the actors they applaud the whole collective which is called theatre. (Pers. intv. 1996)

Platonova emphasized that no interpretation is forced upon the young audience—in contrast to pre-Perestroika times when there was only one “right” interpretation for many plays. She also meets with young and older adults, with whom she has more academic and philosophical discussions, explaining history, styles, genres, and the function of theatre. She prefers to ask “provocative questions” and let the participants do the talking. The main difference between pre- and post-Perestroika pedagogical practices, Platonova asserts, is connected with the different makeup of the audience: They used to come to the theatre mostly in classes. It was a school auditorium. It was very difficult; it has happened that one of the actors just stopped the performance. He went to the apron and told the audience it was impossible for him to play.

She also explained why a school audience is so difficult: The theatre addresses the individual but a child cannot separate himself from his classmates. Emotionally they are often afraid at that age to openly

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show their feelings. When the child is emotionally touched he closes himself off and starts giggling. . . . he does not want to appear weak in front of his classmates and he starts to become rude.

A family audience, parents visiting the theatre with their children, is especially important now that parents seem to be very occupied with earning money (grasping the opportunities made possible by Perestroika and Glasnost) and have less time to spend with their children: When the parents come with their children they get to know their children better than when they just ask if they liked it when they come home. . . . The content is not the most important thing, but what they felt. When a parent looks at the child during a performance she sees where he gets sad, or laughs, and we advise them to ask the child where it hurt, or was boring. And so she knows his appraisal of the events right away and that means she understands the psychology of her own child better.

Platonova maintains that the only thing that has basically changed in the theatre’s mission is that now “everybody can see all performances, except for very few which are just psychologically difficult for a child. But with parents they can see everything.” Her job is still to attract young people and children to the theatre, but her work is now geared to a much broader audience (they also do not organize special “clubs” or “collectives” any longer), with a focus on parents with children (pers. intv. 1996).13 Marina Smelianskaia maintained that the theatre started to determine its own artistic program as soon as Perestroika started and became “a theatre common to mankind”—a theatre that is artistically and intellectually challenging:14 “I am not afraid to say that all theatres for young audiences were the result of our socialist society only,” writing and producing plays by “social order,” neglecting any artistic standards. “To talk about the specificity of theatres for young spectators today is almost impossible,” although “in principle we are not planning to refuse to work for children.” Smelianskaia thinks that “to prepare the audience is unnecessary,” but that you can “work with the spectators so that they become close friends with the theatre,” work that is done after the performance, through discussions: To prepare the audience before the performance seems to me some kind of pedagogical and artistic profanity. I tell you why. Because for many years the


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trend was that before the start of a children’s production a pedagogue or zavlit should be on stage and tell the audience what they were going to see and how they should react and it was all talk without any respect for little people—because they are people, they may be little and not fully grown yet, but they are people. It was disrespectful because it lacked the trust that they could perceive, feel, and understand something. Pedagogical and theatrical experience shows that you do not need to explain even for the youngest children, you just need to draw them in. (pers. intv. 1994)

According to Smelianskaia the Soviet system of theatre for young audiences is in this respect a “bad experience, that we do not have to teach to other countries”: You have to create productions for children, there is no doubt about that, but it has to be created by a fully valued, normal, creative collective. And not by a collective that only works for children. . . . Thank God, we now have entered a period when we are led by a very bright, talented artist, thanks to Perestroika. (Pers. intv. 1994)

CONCLUSION The developments in the Mtiuz since Perestroika are much more radical, and controversial, than those in the Central Children’s Theatre. With the appointment of Genrietta Ianovskaia in 1987 a continuous controversy began. Contrary to the Central Children’s Theatre (which mainly reinforced the direction already initiated by Borodin, adapting it to the opportunities emerging from the altered material circumstances), the Mtiuz asserts that with Ianovskaia’s arrival a new theatre was started (“Teatr” Sedykh 3; Smelianskaia, pers. intv. 1994). Until 1986, the Mtiuz productions clearly reflected the Marxist-Leninist ideology (with, arguably, the exception of All Hope). After the arrival of Genrietta Ianovskaia the repertory geared toward young children remained more or less the same. Ianovskaia responded to Glasnost and Perestroika primarily through highly contextualized and metaphorical productions geared toward older youth and adults, reflecting the altered material circumstances. Her ideological productions were critical of the Soviet regime, dealing with subjects that used to be prohibited or censored. Ianovskaia’s productions are a direct result

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of Perestroika and Glasnost. Unlike the Central Children’s Theatre, Ianovskaia rigorously rejected everything associated with the coercive Marxist-Leninist ideology—including the political aspects, morals and values, and particularly, any ideological educational function in the traditional sense—and embraced the transideological environment as a site for multiple cultural expressions that emerged with Glasnost and Perestroika. Unlike the Central Children’s Theatre, which to a certain extent attempted to “restructure” old ideological paradigms and adapt them to the new material circumstances, the Mtiuz turned to the media in its function as ideological eye-opener, reproducing the images that became available, and (as a medium) moved to the forefront as an instrument of the “invisible ideology” itself. From an ideological point of view it can thus be asserted, that the Mtiuz adapted itself to the altered material circumstances—while at the same time it remained as ideologically charged, in a political sense, as in pre-Perestroika times. While before Glasnost and Perestroika the Mtiuz was a representative product of the stagnant ideology—having accumulated practically all the “tiuzovskie diseases” that came to the fore under the altered material circumstances—it became also representative of the possibilities directly resulting from Perestroika and Glasnost, in organizational structure, in repertory, in production practices, and in audience relationships. Touring Europe, Israel, and Turkey, the theatre became the “business card” of “Perestroika Theatre”—reflecting the policy of Gorbachev’s regime in content and practice—regardless of whether the productions were favorably reviewed or not. Concerning its traditional identity as a theatre for young audiences the success of the Mtiuz came with a price. Theatre specifically for children is definitely neglected, and the repertory, paradoxically, still includes children’s productions that premiered in the early 1970s, such as Evgenii Shvarts’s The Two Maples.15 But Ianovskaia managed to create a company that is for the most part trained by her, “made from the same blood,” sharing her ideals (Smelianskaia, pers. intv. 1994). The initial fame of the company attracted the necessary younger actors (when Ianovskaia came the average age of the actors was forty-three), and, more importantly, talented ones. As a result, not only are the “main” productions well performed, but the quality of the old shows also greatly increased.


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By the mid-1990s it looked like the Mtiuz, was, indeed on its way to becoming “a theatre for all people.” It offered not only “synthetic productions” for family audiences, but also well-performed productions specifically for children and specifically for adult audiences. The young audience is, admittedly, not particularly of Ianovskaia’s (or Kama Ginkas’s for that matter) interest.16 However, as long as the young audience is not completely forgotten, “all people” might (ironically, perhaps) benefit from the new direction of the Mtiuz. In chapter 9 I discuss the developments of the theatre in the last half of the 1990s, including the contributions of Kama Ginkas.


III

A New Millenium x


7. Cultural Shifts and Theatrical Innovation x THE EARLY 1990S The first half of the 1990s was particularly marked by a series of collapses: the collapse of the Soviet Union, of coup attempts, of reforms, ideals, and economic programs. It was a time of war, corruption, and poverty. The political and ideological shifts had affected all areas of life. Ultimately, the events of the 1990s would lead to far-reaching cultural shifts and theatrical innovation that were unimaginable even a decade earlier, but by the mid-1990s the prospects looked grim. The first half of the 1990s was perhaps the most unstable and depressing period since Gorbachev started his reforms. As noted before, by 1990 Gorbachev had entered his conservative period. He came to realize that the concept of a restructured, humane, democratic socialism, under the guiding role of the party may well have been a mere illusion (see also chapter 1). The 1991 coup, its contradictory explanations, and its ultimate failure was illustrative of the predicament of the Soviet Union, the party, and the ideology. As Yeltsin’s chief aide at the time, Gennadii Burbulis, said: The putchists revealed the depths of the system’s deterioration and collapse. All the long-term decay of the military, the political system, the economy was all expressed by the August coup. After that our goal was simply to give some shape to the collapse. (Qtd. in Remnick, Resurrection 21)

The man who rose to the occasion and placed his stamp on the last decade of Russia’s political and cultural life in the twentieth century

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was Boris Yeltsin. Yeltsin’s rise to the top, as has been pointed out repeatedly (Aron, Yeltsin; Remnick, Resurrection), was a sign of changing times in and of itself. Yeltsin was not part of Gorbachev’s inner circles to begin with. He was a party secretary in the Urals, best known for agreeing to destroy in 1975 the house where the Romanovs were executed. He had the mixed reputation of being intelligent, erratic, energetic, and easily offended. Ironically, Gorbachev brought him to Moscow on the advice of Ligachev, the party traditionalist, who would become Yeltsin’s fiercest enemy (Aron 132, 200–201; Remnick, Resurrection 17–18). In time, Yeltsin and Gorbachev grew to hate each other, which, according to one of the most prominent journalists in Moscow at the time, Sergei Parkhomenko, was the real engine for the collapse of the union (qtd. in Remnick, Resurrection 17; see also Aron, Yeltsin and Gorbachev, Memoirs). Yeltsin was dismissed in 1987 as first party secretary of the Moscow Party organization because he criticized the slow pace of reforms and challenged Ligachev and the “personality cult” of Gorbachev in a closed Central Committee session. But he did not leave politics (nor was he required to) and emerged as an elected deputy to the Soviet parliament in 1989; in 1991 he was elected president of the Russian Republic.1 It was Yeltsin who stood on the tank outside the White House to defend the White House against the 1991 putchists. A few months later he was instrumental in dismantling the Soviet Union in an agreement with the president of the Ukraine and the chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Belarus. And in 1993 he attacked the same White House against another group of Putschists, a strange group of communist apparatchiks, Russian nationalists, and Fascists who took an opportunity to revolt when Yeltsin called for parliamentary elections, following a referendum.2 In the end Yeltsin won another victory, but it was bittersweet. Most people were disgusted with both sides, only expressing relief to the extent that a victory for the other side would have been infinitely worse. “The hangover in Moscow was deadening,” writes Remnick, “no more heroes, no great expectations” (Resurrection 80).3 The hero of the times became the nationalist leader Vladimir Zhirinovskii, who in 1991 came in third behind Yeltsin and former Soviet prime minister Nikolai Ryzhkov, and took twenty-three percent of the votes in the December

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1993 parliamentary elections (the ones that upon its announcement facilitated the 1993 coup) sweeping Yeltsin’s Russia’s Choice Party. Zhirinovskii affiliated early on with Pamiat [memory], one of the most notorious of the early nationalist and anti-Semitic organizations in post-totalitarian Russia. In the late 1980s he formed his own party, the right-winged Liberal Democratic Party of Russia. His support came from those who had least to gain, materially and intellectually, from the reforms. Zhirinovskii’s supporters were fed by the power of nostalgia, which he successfully manipulated: communist nostalgia for the order of Stalin and “stable” standard of living under Brezhnev; military nostalgia for the fear that the Soviet arsenal once evoked; nationalistic nostalgia for empire and spiritual purpose (Kelly, “Retreat” 273; Remnick, Resurrection 91). Another formidable opponent of Yeltsin was Gennadii Ziuganov, who, in 1993, became the elected chairman of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation.4 By December 1995, Ziuganov and the Communist Party of the Russian Federation had won an astonishing victory in the Duma. The reformers began to fear the upcoming presidential elections: Ziuganov had become the most likely and favorite candidate to defeat Yeltsin. As Remnick put it: “The race was Zyuganov’s to lose” (295). The events of the early 1990s had shaken not only Russia’s political, but also cultural life. By all accounts the theatre (as well as the arts in general) was at an impasse. The monolithic ideology—the beacon for the intelligentsia to position themselves for or against, in life and in work—was gone. The excitement, and admittedly confusion, of Perestroika and Glasnost, that had thrust the intelligentsia in a transideological environment, forcing them to reposition themselves and find alternative cultural expressions, seemed to have degenerated to a state of gloom. When I visited in the mid-1990s, Moscow’s material circumstances seemed closer to those in the big cities of Columbia or Peru, rather than the aspired Western European paradigms. The events were highly theatrical. As the tanks rolled into Moscow and the shooting began, a live audience was watching from the bridges and houses; others followed the events on CNN.5 In the meantime, theatres played for “empty” houses.6 The number of independent theatres had exploded after the collapse of the Soviet Union, but many

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of these were short-lived.7 Some lamented the death of theatre in its lost ability to speak unspeakable truths through aesopic language, to endow classics with contemporary meaning, and to focus on social issues as opposed to individual, personal issues. The theatre had lost its social status. The concept of theatre as a church, a spiritual leader, as Anatoly Smeliansky described it, had gravely diminished, although, according to Smeliansky, the idea of a theatre-home proved, “remarkably resilient” (Russian 146). Ticket prices were low, but still many could not afford them. By 1996 some leaders seriously doubted if the theatre would survive the cultural onslaught. The words “crisis” and “death” were increasingly used to describe the fate of the Russian theatre. Smeliansky identifies the main question theatres faced as follows: [n]ow that we have our freedom, are we prepared to create a genuinely free theatre that is capable of combining (1) supreme artistic standards plus the ethics of long-term creative collaboration (without which there can be no theatre church), with (2) the ruthless laws of natural selection that are synonymous with the “free market”? (Russian 146)

The theatres were to find new ideological and cultural paradigms, under altered material circumstances. Directors took very different paths to respond, as the previous chapters on the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Moscow Tiuz also illustrate. One reason why the theatre lost power in the early 1990s, was a succession of split-ups, controversies, revolts, and fights within the theatre companies themselves (see also chapter 6 on the struggles of the Mtiuz). The break-ups theatrically illustrated the divisions within the Russian Federation. The Taganka was split up after the return of Liubimov in 1989. The split in the Taganka was partly ideological: the actor Nikolai Gubenko who took with him part of the company was a communist; later he became the last minister of culture of the former USSR. The MKhat split into two independent theatres, both keeping the rights to the symbols and the name. The Gorky MKhAT moved into a newly constructed building on the Tverskoi Boulevard under the leadership of the actress Tatiana Doronina; the Chekhov MKhAT remained at Stanislavsky’s old house at the Kamergerskii, under the leadership of Oleg Efremov. This split was ideological, too.


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While Efremov once again aspired to return to the roots of Stanislavsky’s teachings, Doronina staged Batum, a play by Mikhail Bulgakov commissioned for Stalin’s sixtieth birthday, and for unknown reasons removed from the repertory immediately after opening. Smeliansky notes that the whole audience stood up for the old Soviet national anthem that concluded the play (Russian 144). By contrast, the Chekhov MKhAT put on The Cabal of Hypocrites (Molière), Bulgakov’s play on the author Molière and King Louis XIV, which was only allowed 7 performances in 1936 before it was proscribed. The new production was directed by Adolf Shapiro, artistic director of the Riga Tiuz; Efremov played the role of Molière. Other break-ups took place in the Ermolova theatre and the Nemirovich-Danchenko Musical Theatre. At the same time there was a lack of “big” names in the early 1990s. Legendary figures such as Anatolii Efros and Georgii Tovstonogov had passed away. The brilliant director Anatolii Vasiliev retreated at his School of Dramatic Art in 1992, openly admitting that he did not wish to deal with the realities of contemporary Russian life. Upcoming director Petr Fomenko just started his studio in 1993. Valerii Fokin, who first split from the Ermolova Theatre and then founded the international cultural organization, the Meyerhold Center, spent the early 1990s abroad. Kama Ginkas, too, ventured many of his productions outside Moscow (see chapter 9). An interesting feature of the late 1980s and early 1990s was the blurring of the strictly observed division between the government and the intelligentsia. Smeliansky notes: “In Russia, to ‘go to the government’ is to break one of the intelligentsia’s biggest taboos” (Russian 165). Several of Russia’s most prominent writers and artists, nevertheless, crossed the line and it didn’t go unnoticed. For the first time the Russian intelligentsia had a government that professed the same liberal ideas they had held for decades. Many felt they should side with, rather than fight against the government, or at least that they should take an active part in politics. The playwright Aleksandr Gelman became a good friend of Gorbachev. Andrei Sakharov joined the USSR Congress of People’s Deputies, opposing Gorbachev, but initially siding with Yeltsin. The actor Nikolai Gubenko was the last Soviet minister of culture. And the artistic director of the Lenkom, Mark Zakharov, became a

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deputy in the last Soviet parliament in 1989, and joined the Presidential Council in 1993. Mark Zakharov has been the artistic director of the Lenkom since 1974, and has made one of the most important transformations in the period of freedom (Smeliansky, Russian 155). Before Perestroika, Zakharov, unlike some of the other directors mentioned above, had no pretensions to the top. He did not fall out of favor, he “did not wear a martyr’s crown” (Smeliansky, Russian 139). What he did, and increasingly so in the early 1980s, was to create a young theatrical subculture, making the Lenkom (the official youth theatre of the Komsomol) one of the most popular theatres in Moscow. His “dissidence,” if you wish, was more theatrical than political. In 1981, responding to the blooming independent rock culture, he produced the first Russian rock-opera, Iunona i Avoz’ [Juno and Avoz] with music by Aleksei Rybnikov and the libretto by Andrei Voznesenskii. It was a sensation in Moscow. Up to 1985 it was almost impossible to obtain a ticket, the experience was “like traveling abroad” (Smeliansky, Russian 160), albeit a decade back.8 Zakharov crossed the line of the permissible, though, with Tri devushki v golubom [Three Girls in Blue] by Liudmilla Petrushevskaia, a gloomy picture of Soviet reality—“chernukha” [“kitchen sink”] drama as it was soon labeled (the word entered Russian slang soon after). The production was not released until Glasnost. Zakharov quickly adapted to the changed material circumstances with Glasnost and Perestroika. Where the Brezhnev constituency still went to the MKhAT; the Lenkom attracted the Yeltsin crowd. In 1986 Zakharov grasped the opportunity to stage political theatre with a stormy production of Mikhail Shatrov’s Dictatorship of Conscience, or the “Trial of Lenin.” In anticipation of the new market economy, Zakharov was also the first to allow a currency exchange booth in the theatre and started to rent the space out as a nightclub after performances.9 Eventually he himself joined politics, and politics joined his theatre. Within ten years the Lenkom became the officially sanctioned theatre of Yeltsin: in 1997 Yeltsin addressed the company for their seventieth birthday and gave each of the stars a Zhiguli automobile (Smeliansky, Russian 166). Mark Zakharov, then, can be seen as illustrative for successfully adapting to the new material circumstances and cultural shifts, creating an alternative language for the theatre, and a new constituency of


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theatre goers, also identified as “the new Russians.”10 Because of its close connections with the Russian regime of 1990s, Zakharov’s theatre may function the most proximate to an ideological state apparatus in Althusserian terms, simultaneously illustrating the workings of an invisible ideology by producing a discourse of social reality that is taken for the image of social reality itself. Three other directors, who made their names in the late 1980s to early 1990s need to be mentioned here too, as they are to a great extent products of the changing times. First is Lev Dodin who started, as has been mentioned earlier, as an apprentice of Zonovyi Korogodskii at the Lentiuz, the Leningrad Theatre for Young Spectators in 1967. He had to leave after five years, becoming a “free lance” (wandering) director. Finally, in 1982, he became the artistic director of the run down Maly Theatre in Leningrad. He turned this theatre into an international success, and somewhat of an anomaly in the Russian theatre world: since 1985 the theatre has divided its time by spending 6 months at home and 6 months touring abroad. Roman Viktiuk shocked the Russian audience with his openly gay theatre, starting with his production of Jean Genet’s The Maids in 1988. The production, with male actors in all roles, was a landmark. Viktiuk’s popularity grew quickly, causing him to put up productions at an alarming rate, which did not necessarily improve the quality. The critics, however, seem to be more subject to homophobia and prejudice, than anything else in their responses (see also Freedman, Moscow xviii). Smeliansky, for example, mentions Viktiuk’s name only in a paragraph that describes how some directors were “cashing in” on, among others, “previously forbidden themes” (Russian 194). Lastly, Konstantin Raikin and his Satirikon theatre need to be mentioned. Not mentioned at all by Smeliansky, this popular actor and theatre manager took over the theatre from his father in 1987 and by the end of 1995 “his theatre had unquestionably become one of the best in town” (Freedman, Moscow xvii). It was in Raikin’s theater that Viktiuk staged the controversial The Maids. It was Raikin who invited first Petr Fomenko, and then Valerii Fokin to stage two productions (The Magnificent Cuckold by Fernand Crommelynck, and The Metamorphosis, an adaptation of Franz Kafka’s story, respectively) that became hallmarks for the changing times.

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Over the decade, the directors Valerii Fokin, Petr Fomenko, Anatoly Vasiliev and Kama Ginkas turned out to be the most consistent and prominent of the Moscow Theatre scene.11 Yet, in the first half of the decade the future of the Russian theatre, and its directors, seemed entirely unclear. THEATRE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE This uncertainty was also reflected in the position and direction of the theatres for young audiences. The political-ideological changes in the former Soviet Union had significant ramifications for theatres for young audiences as an institutional concept. As has been explained in the beginning of this book, in its broadest, most generalized sense, theatre for young audiences refers to professional theatre specifically for children and youth, performed by adults. The two Moscow based theatres for young audiences, the (former) Central Children’s Theatre, the RAMT, and the Mtiuz, however, both increasingly neglected, or even denied, the one distinguishing characteristic that set them off from other theatres: their target audience. By gearing their repertory toward adults, the theatres (and particularly the artistic directors) require the young audiences to adapt themselves to their aspirations, rather than the theatres trying to connect through their productions with the contemporary young audiences’ perceptions and experiences. The result is that the concept of Soviet theatre for young audiences, or tiuzes, as initiated shortly after the October Revolution, not only ceased to function as a (repressive) ideological instrument of the totalitarian regime, but ceased to be a specific theatre for young audiences in general (cf. Klaic 7). As has been shown in chapters 5 and 6, by the mid-1990s, there was a strong indication that Dmitrievskii’s 1987 question: “Tiuz today: to be or not to be,” had, at least in Moscow, been decided. As far as the two oldest theatres for young audiences in Moscow were concerned, theatre for young audiences in its traditional sense had been outlived. These theatres could not adapt themselves to the rapid ideological shifts without losing their identity as theatres for young audiences. By 1996, the (former) Central Children’s Theatre, the RAMT, and the Mtiuz only differed from the adult theatres in that they still had more children’s


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productions in their repertory, and that they still offered some kind of pre- and post-performance education.12 These two features, however, seemed to endure more because of tradition than because of ideological convictions (except in the opinion of the pedagogues). As the capital, Moscow has long served as a model of theatre for young audiences’ practices, particularly for the theatres in the Russian Republic. By the mid-1990s Russia’s tiuzes had turned away from the traditional examples, and started to look for different paradigms. The question for the Mtiuz and the RAMT (and other theatres for children and youth in Russia and the former Soviet republics, that had tried to break free from the “confinements” of children’s theatre) had changed altogether. If they chose not to identify themselves as a theatre for young people, could they survive as a theatre in an increasingly competitive theatrical world? Could they, to speak with Smeliansky, “develop the traditional idea of a theatre-home” (both theatres remained, after all, sizable, state supported, established companies, with an appointed artistic director) “in a situation where everyone was buying or selling?” (Russian 194). While these theatres may profess that they felt “liberated” to make “art,” some theatre for young audiences practitioners and pedagogues simply concluded that they were “selling out” (e.g. Bartenev, Kolosova, Levan’shina, Levitskaia, Mikhailovna, pers. intvs.). THE MID- AND LATE 1990S: POLITICAL CONTEXT Meanwhile, Russian politics, and daily life, had lost most of its reformative spirit. Yeltsin became increasingly conservative, firing liberals (starting with the economic reformer Egor Gaidar), and replacing them with nationalist bureaucrats. Zhirinovskii took credit: “I have shoved him forty-five degrees to the right, and I will keep shoving” (qtd. in Remnick, Resurrection 106). Yeltsin, of course, had the almost impossible task of building a modern democracy in conditions of economic and social anarchy. While comparisons with Latin American, most often a Pinochet style government, were frequently drawn, Russia had nothing comparable: no democratic tradition to fall back on, no rudimentary capitalist or market economy principles. Everything was always regulated by the state: work, health, education, culture, economy.

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Bribery and corruption had always been part of Soviet life, from the top down, but now it took on unimaginable proportions. Since the state still controlled all goods the temptation for the politicians was great. The majority of the new commercial and financial enterprises was corrupt. A new Mafia was born; Russian Al Capones roamed the streets. The capital flight increased to a peak 25 billion in 1998. Russia watched a small percentage of its population get richer and the majority grow poorer. In addition, or as a result, other problems were now openly identified and caused great concern. Over the decade, the suicide rate rose by 60 percent since 1989; among boys between the ages 15–19 it doubled. The total number of young people aged between 15–29 decreased: according to the Russian State committee on Youth affairs, the number of teenagers in 1998 had fallen almost 10 percent from the number in 1989. The average age of men dropped down to 58. In general, the death rate exceeded the birth rate in Russia by 70 percent. Real spending on education fell by one third, the number of years of mandatory education was cut. The drug addiction rate for teenagers rose by thirteen times over the 1990s. The number of registered HIV cases in Moscow in the first nine months of 1999 (2700) was three times as many as in all previous years combined. In all of Russia, there were about 1000 registered HIV positive cases in 1995, the number had risen to 118,000 in June 2001, about 80 percent of which are intravenous drug users.13 While one has to be careful to read these statistics in context, the emergence, open discussion, and acknowledgment of the existence of these problematic issues, was new. Particularly in the mid-1990s, many saw the reforms— political, economic, and cultural—as the direct cause of the overall decline. Zhirinovskii was the first to point his finger and instigate the Russian people. Nevertheless, the feared elections of 1996 turned into another victory for Yeltsin, albeit by a relatively small margin.14 Most analysts explain the victory by pointing out that there was no alternative. While many Russians did not agree with Yeltsin and his politics, they were not ready to restore a communist regime either. The 1996 elections made clear that a return was impossible. But the last years of the decade, and of Yeltsin’s reign, were still marked by erratic decisions and Yeltsin’s deteriorating health. Despite his youthful campaign, Yeltsin had to undergo quintuple coronary bypass surgery


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at the end of the election year. In 1997, in a spurt of energy, Yeltsin announced a resumption of radical economic reforms and reduction of the budget deficit. He also signed a peace treaty with Chechnya. And he vetoed a Land Code adopted by the parliament that prohibited the buying and selling of farmland. By the same token, he dismissed in 1998 Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin and the entire cabinet of ministers and nominated thirty-five year-old Sergei Kirenko as prime minister, to dismiss him again a few months later. In that same year the ruble was devaluated, and the reforms seemingly collapsed. In 1999 an explosion demolished a nine-story apartment building in Moscow, which was said (but never confirmed) to be caused by the Chechen rebels.15 Two weeks later Russian troops invaded Chechnya once again. This time, contrary to the 1994 invasion, most Russians approved. In December 1999, Yeltsin unexpectedly announced his resignation and appointed the unknown Vladimir Putin, former KGB agent, as his successor. Scholars and political analysts, both Russian and foreign, are divided over the Yeltsin legacy. The debate over whether he did too much or too little; whether he was a closeted dictator, a genuine democrat, or merely a “friend” of democracy; whether he took or missed opportunities, continues. Leon Aron, in his extensive biography of Yeltsin, concludes: [i]n the end, at almost every critical juncture, despite the mistakes that preceded the decision, he [Yeltsin] moved in the direction of greater political liberty over authoritarian constraints; market over state control of the economy; society over state; and integration into the world. . . . (735)

There is little disagreement that Russia is still a state in transition. As the heir of Yeltsin, Vladimir Putin—who is characterized as neither a staunch reformer nor a democrat, albeit he is a believer in market economy—had to carry the country into the twenty-first century.16 CULTURAL SHIFTS The elections of 1996, and its irreversible outcome, somehow seemed to relax Moscow. More than before, the altered material circumstances were looked upon as facts of life, the negative side effects as necessary

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elements in the transideological and transcultural climate that had been created. Rather than looking back to an idealized past with nostalgia, people started to look to the future. The intelligentsia repositioned itself and aligned itself with the emerging Russian middle class, independent of the state. It became possible to live a dignified, and for some increasingly comfortable life without the state’s support. As the playwright Aleksandr Gelman put it: Really, how much better it is to be a rank and file citizen, with all the inconveniences inherent in this state, than to be a nachal’nik [boss, someone with power of official office]. You are a free man! You are the owner of your own body, brain, time . . . We love life, not power. We are patriots of life. And for that life likes us . . . And those who, forgetting everything, rushed into national politics . . . have lost freedom in a free country. (Qtd. in Aron 728)

Despite the negative statistics mentioned before there was progress, if not for all. John Freedman, theatre reporter for the Moscow Times since 1992, rather optimistically points out that despite the calls for “crisis” and “death” all theatres were really undergoing a process of renewal. Freedman, perhaps because of his “outsider’s” point of view (he lives in Moscow since 1988, but was born, raised, and educated in the United States) was able to see through all the gloominess on stage and in the theatre world in general: For all the pessimism and sarcasm that infiltrates Moscow’s impression of itself, I firmly believe that the first half of the 1990s unleashed a variety of styles, directions, approaches and talents which will lead to the innovation of the future. (Moscow xvi)

Indeed, by the time the new millennium arrived, Freedman’s optimism proved to be warranted. Thus, while Freedman acknowledges the overall tendency to turn to the classics and dismiss new avant-garde playwrights, he also points out the “myth of the collapse of modern dramatic writing.” The lack of new play productions, according to Freedman, was not so much due to an absence of new plays, but was in part the fault of the directors raised and educated in the Soviet period,


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who simply did not know what to do with these plays (Moscow xiv). Even the most innovative directors, such as Kama Ginkas, Valerii Fokin, and Petr Fomenko, turned in the first place to idiosyncratic adaptations of the classics for their acclaimed productions. In a 1996 article in the Moscow Times, Freedman counts 28 productions of Ostrovsky, 15 of Chekhov, 12 of Gogol, 10 of Molière, and 14 dramatizations of Dostoevsky (Moscow 253). Considering that Chekhov wrote four major plays, Gogol two, and Dostoevsky didn’t write a play in his life, these numbers are quite astonishing. By the same token Freedman praises “the small stage boom,” the experiments of innovative directors with alternative theatre spaces, concluding in August 1995 that: “with perestroika fading into history and the 21st century coming even closer, Moscow theater is looking bolder, healthier and more innovative all the time” (Moscow 252–253). CHILDREN AND YOUTH By now, children started to occupy an unprecedented place, particularly in the big cities. Where children used to be shielded from the realities of life—indeed the tendency was to keep them young and innocent as long as possible—this had become virtually impossible.17 Children could not escape what they saw on the streets and in the media; they were co-opted by the advertising, the products in the kiosks, the images and life styles projected by the media. In 1991 Barbie was introduced, becoming quickly the most popular doll for Russian girls in the age group 6–13. In 1993 a Barbie contest was held in which both boys and girls designed costumes for themselves and their Barbies. The winner and his or her family received a free trip to Disney World in Orlando, Florida (Zelensky 153). Disney and other cartoons started to flood the nation, quickly followed by Russian off-shoots (which according to the teenagers in Adelman’s book are much better than the American—or other foreign country’s—originals). In 1996 Ulitsa Sezam, the Russian version of Sesame Street was aired. The program followed the guidelines of the Children’s Television Workshop, but based it on the uniqueness of Russian children’s culture, responding to the needs of the contemporary Russian child. One of the main aims was to offer an alternative to the lost voices of authority of parents and teachers, to help them figure out

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how to change focus from the collective “we” (hallmark of Soviet-socialism) to the individual “I” (the new ideal), and to teach them how to recognize and control one’s own feelings.18 These aims were not limited to preschoolers, they were discussed on all levels of education. The attitudes and responses to child and childhood in the “new” Russia had thus changed drastically from pre-Perestroika times. The older youth, meanwhile, found a different diversion in the night dance, as an independent form of youth culture. Growing out of the independent rock culture of the 1980s, all-night dances on “house music” quickly followed similar trends in Western European youth circles.19 While the house parties were initiated by the independent rock generation, a new generation of youth took over in the late 1990s. The “New Young” [Novye Molodye] has its own ideology, heroes, and lifestyle, not seldom characterized by school drop-out, unemployment, and black market practices. Whatever “culture” may mean for this highly diversified group of young people, theatre is at its very best only a small aspect. However, while recent studies, particularly on Russian culture, tend to focus on unprecedented phenomena, the overall image may be misleading, particularly for the “outsider.” As in most nations, the capital features the extremes. Although the phenomena described in these works are certainly observable, and occupy the lives and minds of the Moscow citizens, they are emphasized by these same citizens because they still view them as out-of-hand anomalies. By the late 1990s, the “anomalies” (which, of course, manifested themselves in their own culturally determined praxis) became more accepted as inescapable, necessary, and perhaps even irradicable features of a “democratic,” transideological, and transcultural society. In all the chaos, people adapted and found a way to live their lives, be it by written or unwritten rules.20 The children and youth of the post-Perestroika generation had to become instrumental in the (re)formation and (re)positioning of Russia’s culture, and its theatre. THEATRICAL INNOVATIONS Financially the situation had actually improved by the mid-1990s, primarily because theatres had “caught on” to capitalist means for


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augmenting their income. When inflation started to hurt their subsidies, federal and municipal theatres joined the emerging independent theatres in their search for private funding. The new Russians, thirsting to belong to the global elite, quickly recognized that philanthropy provides status, and started to donate funds to struggling cultural institutions. By 1996 state spending on culture increased. In addition, the established theatres had found an extra way of fund raising by renting out spaces for offices or other small enterprises (see the Lenkom mentioned earlier and the Russian Academic Youth Theatre (RAMT), chapter 8). The theatre community, on the other hand, was not as tight a place anymore as it used to be (or was perceived to be). According to Smeliansky, a main change was that each theatre, and director, now had to fend for him or herself (Russian 202). How the theatre world had diversified itself was illustrated by the opinionated speeches at the centenary of the famous meeting between Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko in the Slavianskii Bazar, celebrated by the Moscow Art Theatre on June 22, 1997 (Smeliansky, Russian 212–216). Smeliansky’s description of this event is both a prologue and an epilogue. The speeches of the directors cited in this chapter show the increased variety of Russian theatre, a promise for “true culture” as a site of selfreflection as Epstein defines it: “the realm of active, objectified, and multifaceted freedom, which characterizes the individual’s attitudes as well, in terms of freedom to accept or reject various cultural forms, to participate or to decline participation” (285–286). By contrast, John Freedman described the centenary of the Moscow Art Theatre itself, in October 1998, as “a shameful, nationally televised celebration featuring four hours of drunks telling drunk jokes” (“Theatre Awards”).21 In the same article he identifies Kama Ginkas as “man of the year” and “Mr. Workhorse” (see chapter 9, for Ginkas’s accomplishments in the 1998–1999 season), and the rise of new plays as the trend of the year: 38 in 1998–1999 as opposed to 26 in the 1996–1997 season, and the mere 10 to 15 in the years before. As the last year of the millennium, 1999 generated various evaluative reports, both by Russian and foreign observers. Robert Kaiser observes in the Washington Post that “the new Russia is in the midst of a cultural boom, one of the great surprises in today’s Moscow.” He also notes that theatres that were half empty a few years ago are now full, and not only

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for “high art” plays (à la Liubimov and Ginkas). Be that as it may, Aleksei Filippov in an editorial in Izvestia on December 30, 1999 only partly rejoices. He observes a split in elitist, experimental small stage productions (e.g. Ginkas) and grand commercial enterprises (Zakharov and others), leaving all others out: “Those who would like the middle: the theatre-platform, high-quality mass theatre, geared towards the numerous educated middle class that have inherited the new life from the Soviet times, disappear from the auditorium . . . And that, of course, we have to bitterly regret.” Freedman to a great extent affirms this observation in the prefaces to Moscow Performances and in his weekly reviews in the Moscow Times. In July 1999 Dragan Klaic, professor of Theatre Studies in the Netherlands and director of the Theatre Institute Netherlands, wrote a report on a retreat he comoderated with Anatoly Smeliansky to which twenty (unidentified) Russian theatre personalities were invited. The goal of the retreat was to examine the perspectives of the Russian theatre as a system, to identify chief obstacles and limitations, and where possible map out key objectives for change. The general tone of the report is pessimistic, and in the light of this book it reads as if it describes the early 1990s situation rather than the new millennium.22 Nevertheless some interesting thoughts came to the fore. Despite the rather grand tradition of the theatre houses (which operate as repertory theatres with a permanent company, technical, and administrative staff ) the participants were eager to explore different options, complaining that the large repertory companies were stilted, hard to manage or change, and financially unprofitable. This led to a discussion of a what a theatre without a permanent ensemble may look like, and how it could operate (as a production venue with a varied program of productions made elsewhere, or as a production house, offering artistic opportunities to various in house projects and teams). While some of the most prominent directors (Fomenko, Fokin, Ginkas) are of course already moving in that direction, the focus of this group was whether this could be state or municipally funded, organized, and operated.23 Too much reliance on outside funding, e.g. the Soros Foundation, was felt as humiliating and detrimental— helpful but not the solution to all financial problems. The Soros Foundation, in particular, had become a main source of funding for independent projects, and stimulus for innovation.24


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Among others it helped fund the Lyubimovka festival of Young Playwrights in 1997 (the 1996 festival was canceled because of lack of funds), and the second and third part of the “Joan of Arc” stories, directed by Fomenko student Garold Strelkov at the Debut Center at the House of Actors (Freedman, Moscow II 108, 62). Finally Klaic’s report mentions the absolute absence of Russian theatre journals. Indeed, the main traditional theatre journals and magazines, Teatr and Teatral’naia Zhizn’ [Theatrical Life], were, although officially still in existence, issued at great intervals. In 1995 Teatr was not issued (it is usually published six times a year), the 1996 and 1997 years were combined in one volume, and in 1998 and 1999 it ceased completely. Teatral’naia Zhizn’ was issued equally erratically. Both were resurrected in a new form in 2000, Teatr has among others Zakharov, Raikin, and Fokin on the advisory board. Two other events need to be noted to illustrate the (albeit much debated) increase in diversity and move toward innovation. In 1995 the Golden Mask Awards were established, awarding prizes in Russian theatre, opera, operetta, ballet, and puppetry. Initially the nominees were all from Moscow, in 1997 productions from the provinces were invited as well as from the “other capital,” St. Petersburg. The festival, including its nominees and award winners, has been controversial from the start (see Freedman’s reviews in Moscow Performances and ongoing in the Moscow Times) but it does offer a site for seeing national theatre, now that the traditional “gastroly” (tours) have, for financial reasons, become virtually impossible. One of the most encouraging theatrical events of the new century has been the 3rd International Theater Olympics, organized by the Chekhov International Theater Festival and the International Confederation of Theater Associations. The previous two Olympics were held in Greece (1995) and Japan (1999). The 2001 Olympics, which ran from the end of April until the end of June, under the artistic direction of Iurii Liubimov and Mark Zakharov, featured two new productions for young audiences. The RAMT premiered Alfred de Musset’s Lorenzaccio; the Moscow Tiuz featured Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution, staged by Genrietta Ianovskaia. An international production, The Polyphony of the World, directed by Kama Ginkas, was hailed as the most stunning theatre event of the new millennium.

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THEATRE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE In the turbulent 1990s theatre for young people lost its explicit ideological function, but the altered material circumstances also generated new opportunities. Defying all predictions, the RAMT and the Mtiuz did not go under nor ceased to make productions geared to the younger audience. In the new transideological and transcultural environment these theatres increasingly became sites of self-reflection, of interaction among all existing and potential cultures. The course and directions of the RAMT and the Mtiuz, as the focus theatres of this book, are described in detail in the next two chapters. Here I just briefly describe some new developments in Moscow that became possible only because of ideological and cultural shifts. Sergei Kazarnovskii initiated and leads a very successful private art school for all ages. Music, art, dance, and theatre are central in the curriculum. Learning through theatre is the focus of the school, since theatre is a “synthetic art form.” “Theatre as a System of Humanitarian Education” is the title of an extensive program by Kazarnovskii and his pedagogues that includes the rationale, goals, and methods of his school. Although there are no pedagogical models for integrated arts teaching, such as the use of drama methods (the Soviet model of special art schools is that of vocational training schools), Kazarnovsky is working on establishing international connections with art, theatre, dance, and music education specialists to teach his faculty. As such, he has set up an exchange program where foreign university students can work with his school age students. Thus far, however, performance by children is one of the school’s main features. Students of the school enter festivals, tour internationally, and perform as actors, among others in Kama Ginkas’s K.I. iz “Prestupleniia” [K.I. from “Crime” ] (see chapter 9). From its pilot days under the Soviet regime, as Children’s Theatre “Studio-69” in 1981, the “Klass—Centre” as it is called now has been affiliated with the Moscow Tiuz. In the 1990s it expanded greatly, and developed into the current private school. Kazarnovsky works also with Misha Bartenev, a playwright and one of the founding members of the “Vol’shebnyi Dom” [The Magic House] project. This international endeavor aims to work collaboratively with other countries to stage the classics for young audiences, particularly


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teenagers. Bartenev envisioned the Magic House as: [a]n international artistic meeting place, [which] could result in renewed inspiration in the power and magic of the theatre for all the inhabitants of this house, Russian directors and directors of other nationalities. In the long term the result could be better classic theatre for young people in Europe and a greater participation of young people as a theatre audience. (The Magic House Report)

The EUnetART organization,25 with its headquarters in Amsterdam, became involved and in 1997 a “family” of companies was formed under the Magic House’s roof. A program of exchange was discussed, and a cycle of shows identified. Two more meetings (which included workshops and performances) took place in St. Petersburg and Berlin respectively. The project was still discussed in the new millennium, and meetings, workshops, and productions were in the planning.26 Finally, one non-Moscow based enterprise is the annual Rostov Minifest, according to the press release “the only international festival of performances for children and youth,” held at Rostov-na-Donu. In 1996 it was organized in conjunction with the XII World Congress and General Assembly of ASSITEJ International. The festival has the dual function of offering creative workshop for those who work in theatre for children and youth, and giving the general public an overview of the processes that take place in theatre for young people around the world. The Minifest is not limited to dramatic productions but offers street theatre, rock-opera, musical performances, and performances by children. These new endeavors are by no means exclusive. On my last visit to Moscow in May 2000, many new companies were mentioned: with children and/or for children; musical, puppetry, dramatic, dance theatre, story theatre, movement theatre, or combinations of these; based on European, old Soviet, or newly invented models. It was simply beyond my time and scope to investigate them all. One thing stood out however: neither the Russian Academic Youth Theatre (RAMT) nor the Moscow Tiuz was a role model for these new companies. The oldest theatres for young audiences in Moscow each went their own way, somehow completing the process they started consciously or unconsciously in the 1980s: they took off their children’s shoes and grew up.


8. Shaking the Past: The Russian Academic Youth Theatre x

T

he former Central Children’s Theatre, now the Russian Academic Youth Theatre (RAMT) was in the mid-1990s still one of the largest theatre for young audiences companies in the world, with some 70 actors, 4 directors, an orchestra of 20, several designers and over 30 staff members (Na Teatral’noi).1 But in 1996 they had to give up their small stage to the Bolshoi theatre and rent out a large part of their building to private businesses (among others a woodworking shop and a one-man copy shop). Under the Soviet regime, in its official ideological function, the image of the theatre as first rate, especially in its children’s productions, was incontestable. By the mid-1990s the theatre struggled to keep up its reputation, not only in their new productions for mixed audiences or adults, but also in their productions for children. The rise of Glasnost and Perestroika contested the traditional ideological function of the theatre, and its perpetuated image of a cultural haven for youth of all ages. The name change was an attempt to defy the negative image, and reestablish its reputation, but as the pedagogues acknowledged “it will cost a lot of time” (Tikhonova, pers. intv. 1996). Despite the upbeat tone of the 1996 anniversary publication Na Teatral’noi Ploshchadi, sleva ot Bol’shogo [On Theatre Square, Left from the Bolshoi], the early to mid-1990s was for the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT at best an uneven road, at worst downhill. While the theatre tried to stay away from the political and ideological turmoil, it could not help but be affected by it. The financial dilemma, leading to market solutions mentioned earlier, was just one aspect, but it illustrates the decline in status of the theatre quite graphically. While the theatre

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Figure 8.1 Façade of the Central Children’s Theatre. 2000. Photographed by author.

seemed to recover with respect to repertory and practices over the last half of the decade (following the general trend as described in the previous chapter), the physical decay was hard to hide. The proud façade of the RAMT (figure 8.1) (housed in “one of the most beautiful

Russian Academic Youth Theatre

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theatre buildings in Moscow” according to the 1994 programs) was in 2000 obscured by the Bolshoi theatre’s box office entrance; big holes in the wall visibly marked chunks of fallen down plaster; the lower level foyer featured a stand where one could buy everything from t-shirts to the latest electronic toys; the upper foyer and cafeteria were in dire need of paint. Irina Brovkina, former pedagogical director and now head of the ticket department explained the financial situation of the theatre in May 2000: We receive very little from ticket sales. Because we have very cheap tickets. But we cannot make them more expensive—although we did raise the prices a little bit—because our audience consists of children and youth, that is our direction. It will be a shame if, because of prices, we will lose that spectator and deprive them from the possibility to come to the theatre. Especially since it is, after all, a theatre for them. Therefore, in principle [money comes] of course from the state. But what does that mean? The state only gives us money for salaries. The rest we all have to earn ourselves. Now it is like that. They used to give us money for the upkeep of the building, for the electricity bill, public utilities, etc. etc. now only for wages. . . . But we do not only earn from tickets. We also have leases, we rent out our auditorium with the stage, and when another theatre comes, and we have our day off or a day that we don’t have a performance, they come and play their production and pay us a certain price for that. And besides that we have the leases in the building. We have some little shops as you have seen, the xerox shop, those are all places in our building that we lease out, and that goes to mounting the productions, the upkeep of the building, and some additional salary because the state wages are very low.

Sponsors as a source of outside funding have, according to Brovkina, become more demanding: We had patrons who gave money complimentary, just like that, because they love the arts, they did not need anything back. You don’t have those anymore. Now if someone gives money than he wants something in response. . . . On the posters you see the “Information Sponsors”: The newspapers Trud’, Moskovskaia Pravda, Kul’tura . . . they publish information on theatre, the repertory etc. But those sponsors who just gave money and that’s it—of course you don’t find those anymore.

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Thus the RAMT (as, in fact, most if not all theatres) kept struggling materially over the decade. Artistically, that is in the repertory and practices, however, a change became apparent, particularly toward the end of the millennium. REPERTORY As mentioned in chapter 5, the 1990s premieres were artistically uneven. A low point was the 1994 premiere of Kapitanskaia dochka [The Captain’s Daughter], an adaptation of a well-known story by Aleksandr Pushkin. The play was meant for a family audience of adolescents and their parents. It follows the adventures of the young officer Grinev quite literally, in an apparent attempt to stage the entire novel. In and of itself the story of the love between Petr Andreevich Grinev and Maria Ivanovna, daughter of Captain Mironov, is captivating. It contains duels and fights, features the historical rebel Pugachev, describes narrow escapes, and has a happy ending, Catherina II intervenes. On stage this translated in a massive use of scenery and people, the construction of an entire fortress on stage with moveable fences that can indicate different locales, the use of lighting and a drop cloth to indicate different atmospheres. Even the quite large main stage of the RAMT looked crowded with thirty-five people on stage, including the musicians. Director, Iuryi Eremin, who also adapted the play, intended to stage a “decidedly old fashioned” play, according to the critic Zaslavskii. But the attempt to portray this well-known novel on stage turned out a weak illustration of fascinating literature. When I saw the premiere in May 1994 with a partly invited audience, the play was received by the (well-meaning) audience with indifference and embarrassment (during the opening reception the subject of the play was rather dramatically ignored.) The fall 1994 reviews confirm the “out-datedness” of the play, and the blatant refusal to place the play in a contemporary context. Not all critics perceived this as a negative. Grigorii Zaslavkii applauded Eremin’s attempts: “without revealing new theatrical forms, Eremin dismisses life that rages behind the stage . . . he builds bridges to another reality, where the good prevails. Despite everything” (“Khochu”). T. Sergeeva, too, was happily surprised, and evaluated


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the production primarily as a good example for contemporary youth. She laments early on in the review that what started to happen in the auditorium in the Perestroika years was inconceivable: the whistling, yelling, fighting, before the start of each performance. But happily enough that seems to have ended, she notes; at The Captain’s Daughter the audience did not run to their coats, but instead greeted the actors. Nevertheless, Sergeeva critiques some of the mass scenes and the rapid pace and alternating episodes in the play, which overshadow the philosophical undertones of the novel (“Potomki”). What is most interesting in these two reviews is that this production, in all its old fashionedness (“the way we liked it so much 15 years ago,” according to Sergeeva), confirms the “new” direction of the RAMT in the first half of the 1990s: a focus on the classics, without any overt or intentional links to contemporary life “outside.” The Captain’s Daughter has been on and off the repertory until the year 2000. A 1993 premiere of Bérénice by Racine, directed by artistic director Borodin, gave the same impression. Although the play was more innovative in its staging, the theme, action, and acting were “tastefully” classical, as several critics put it. In the program the theatre acknowledged that it now openly followed the course it intended for years: to play for a “mixed audience.” Maria Knebel, the theatre’s famous 1950s director (see chapter 3), is noted as the main force behind this direction, as she instigated in the theatre a “serious, ‘unschool-like’ attitude to the classics.” Bérénice, Racine’s play that deals with the impossible love between the Queen of Palestine, Bérénice, and the Roman Emperor, Titus, is an intimate neoclassical tragedy and staged by Borodin according to neoclassical principles. The most innovative aspect is that the play is acted on the magnificent marble stairwell of the theatre (by design of Stanislav Benediktov). The audience (45 at most) is moved around from watching the action from below, then from one of the second staircases left and right, and finally from above. As such, the point of view nicely illustrates the descent of love and rise of duty. The stairs are lit by candles in red cups, reinforcing the intimacy of the production. Bérénice was well reviewed. Mariia Malkina praised the passion, the unusual staging, and the classic acting. She also connected the theme of the play—impossible love and moral (“nravstvennyi”) duty—with what

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she observed to be Borodin’s theme: the impossibility of happiness. Tatiana Proskurnikova pointed out the benefits for a young audience: “for youth it is particularly important to feel part of the world civilization.” They need different impressions, she notes, next to a Michael Jackson concert (he was on tour in Russia that year) contemporary youth must experience a classic, such as Bérénice. Finally, John Freedman calls the production “a fine example of making a ‘rigid’ classic come to life in a modern context” (Moscow 62). Much of Bérénice’s success is contributed to the longevity of Borodin. Although not all critics agree, Borodin is generally credited with keeping the company united, and alive. In a 1995 article on Borodin and his accomplishments, Boris Poiurovskii praised his hard work from the moment he became the artistic director of the Central Children’s Theatre in 1981. From the beginning, Borodin paid attention to the classics in the repertory and respected the older generation of actors: while he rejuvenated the company with young actors, trained in his own studio, he also considered the older, experienced generation “indispensable” for the theatre: “they are its foundation” (qtd. in Poiurovskii, “Svoi”). Poiurovskii scorns the indifference of the Moscow theatre critics, asserting that the productions of the RAMT on tours abroad receive stellar reviews, “even in the USA.” In another interview that same year, Borodin laid out his visions. Asserting that he believes in the enlightening mission of the theatre, he adds that this is not inherently connected with the concept of children’s theatre, but imbedded in the tradition of Russian theatre in general (Meerzon 30). In this interview Borodin rejects the notion of a “production” or “language” specifically for young people; stating that he makes theatre for himself and his actors, regardless of the audience. He refutes the notion that his theme is fate, or the impossibility of happiness, but rather identifies it as “the courage of life.” Odna noch’ [One Night] by Evgenii Shvarts, which premiered on Victory Day, May 9, 1995, exemplifies Borodin’s ideas. “I work with Shvarts because I am searching for a different artistic reality” he explains in Meerzon’s interview. The play is an anomaly in Shvarts’s oeuvre: in a realistic mode it describes one night of the blockade of Leningrad. The action takes place in the basement of an apartment complex— Borodin staged it in a space below the stage. It is a production without


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villains or heroic speeches; a two hour fragment of the lives of ordinary people who get by in a very difficult situation. The production resonates beyond WWII to Chechnya and a hostage incident in Budennovsk. As Bérénice, One Night is staged for a small audience in an alternative space, which reinforces the intimacy of the production. The intimate space creates direct human contact between the performers and the audience, which contrasted with the depersonalization that was felt to go on outside of the theatre. The production answered the “demands of the soul” (Kaminskaia “Nochnaia”). By contrast, the two 1996 premieres, Pollyanna and Malen’kii Lord Fauntleroi (Little Lord Fauntleroy) were elaborate spectacles, staged in the main house. Pollyanna, Eleanor Porter’s 1912 sweet story of a thirteen-year-old orphan girl who decidedly makes everyone in her environment happy, even in the most unhappy situations, is a romantic feel good play. In Russia, the novel, and movie versions, were not introduced until after Glasnost and Perestroika, in the early 1990s, for its clear adherence to Christian morals. In the RAMT production the Christian message is reinforced by three angels who guide the action, change scenery, and in general fulfill the busy function that “some tiuz directors consider to be mandatory for a child auditorium” (Novikova “Prisutstvie”). Director Vladimir Bogatyrev does not shy away from emphasizing the sweet overtones. Watching the play is indeed a two-hour-long dessert, as Novikova states it, in the end you are slightly nauseous. The production vacillates between didactic theatre and sentimental melodrama (comedie larmoyante).2 Nevertheless, the production was also praised precisely for its moralistic overtones, the sweetness, and the happy ending, an antidote to the world outside for young and old (Grigor’eva, “Khotite”). If possible, Little Lord Fauntleroy strikes as even more old fashioned than Pollyanna. Based on what turn-of-the-century American theatre for youth pioneer Constance D’Arcy Mackay called “the first professional play designed for children” (Mackay 15), Frances Hodgson Burnett’s Little Lord Fauntleroy (1888) is as close to a Victorian turn-of-the-century production as one can imagine, in both content and form. This is reinforced by the reintroduction of the generally abandoned, indeed scorned at, tradition in Russian theatre for young audiences, “travesty”: the practice to cast petite women in boy roles. Precious little Lord Fauntleroy

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is played by a woman, Larisa Moravskaia, and this does not go unnoticed by the audience. “It’s a girl, see!” the 12–13 year old boys behind me hasten to point out, and continue to critique the rest of the performance on “boy” or “girl” behavior. Even without travesty, though, it must not be easy for a contemporary (male and female) audience to identify with the good, obedient, polite, generous, loving, and lovable little lord. There is, of course, as Novikova observes in her joint review of Pollyanna and Little Lord Fauntleroy, a certain charm to forgotten “grandmother’s” literature and theatre, if only because of its simple messages: be good, and love and pity your neighbor. But these lessons need to be taught to a contemporary audience through a contemporary aesthetic (“Babushkin”). While both Pollyanna and Little Lord Fauntleroy as staged by the RAMT are interesting from a historical perspective, little effort has been made to reach its young audience. Critic Boris Poiurovskii is generally very favorable to the theatre and in his review of Little Lord Fauntleroy he credits the acting “exactly as in the old Art Theatre.” But even he criticizes the extensive adaptation by Nikita Voronov, the somewhat dragging direction by Anna Nekrasova, and, most of all, the use of travesty: “not because of the acting, but because of the principle” (“Urok”). Aleksandr Sokolianskii confirms that Larisa Moravskaia’s passionate impersonation of the little lord is the only vitalizing factor in an otherwise dragging production (“Review”). The 1886 novel, Little Lord Fauntleroy, was published and reprinted several times in prerevolutionary Russia. It tells the fate of Ceddie, a poor American boy, whose father, an Englishman, passes away and has no one left but his mother. Then his grandfather, a British earl, sends for him as his only heir, the Lord Fauntleroy. The good-natured boy leaves for England where he immediately steals everyone’s hearts, including that of his grumpy, self-centered, unpopular grandfather. Ceddie is a “good” boy, and it is this goodness of heart that encompasses the message of the play, and is emphasized in both adaptation and direction. It is also the message that reviewers pick up on, primarily noting the contrast with the cruel outside world, that is contemporary Moscow. Aleksandr Sokolianskii marks that the production totally conforms with the strategies of artistic director Borodin, who “is convinced that the main task of the theatre—and especially children’s


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theatre, especially now—is to awaken virtuous feelings through tragedy.” While Sokolianskii does not take issue with this in principle, he does somewhat cynically note that the moralizing tone and content of Little Lord Fauntleroy will hardly have the desired effect. He hopes, instead, that the play was chosen because the older generation of the theatre simply loves this old fashioned book and wished to put up a popular production in old fashioned operatic style. Despite the theatre’s desire to leave the outside world as it is and focus on “universal values,” Sokolianskii’s and Novikova’s reviews are naturally written from a contemporary perspective, perceiving and situating the production in the transcultural and transideological environment that characterized post-Soviet Russia. Novikova’s ironic description of the final moments of the play—the grand reconciliation party, which “makes you wish for the spoonful of lemon juice in apple jelly”—illustrates that you cannot perceive meaning outside of your material context. Describing the happy ending that ties it all together, she notes: “How familiar—how New-Russian! Everyone dances!” Nonetheless, Pollyanna and Little Lord Fauntleroy were both still on the repertory of the RAMT in 2000, played for sold out houses, and were generally well-received by the audience. While they can hardly be characterized as innovative, and play relatively unnoticed in Moscow theatre annals, as such, they seemed to fill a gap in the contemporary Moscow theatre scene. In 1996 Sokolianskii was still wondering if the RAMT would be able to keep up with the current theatre scene. By 2000 it looked like the theatre has carved out its place. Over the second half of the decade the theatre consolidated its course, with occasional idiosyncratic, but mostly quite predictable productions. In interviews in 1996, 1997, and 1998 Borodin is optimistic about the future, repeating his dominant aims of connecting old and young (in the system of the theatre-home, the repertory, and the connection with the audience) and voices only one concern: the decay of the theatre building and the lack of funds to fix it. “We hope the foundation keeps up” he muses metaphorically (“Nadeemsia”). The 1997 season featured The Little Green Bird by Carlo Gozzi, which received two reviews: “Why Do Children Need Carlo Gozzi?” and “What Was Carlo Gozzi Thinking?” (Grafov,“Zachem”; Gubaidullina, “O chem”). Gubaidullina marked that the production is more buffoonish

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than comedia del’arte, and that the problem of egoism, which permeates Gozzi’s play, is de-emphasized. Grafov, on the other hand, watched the audiences and notes that contrary to the majority of the productions, where the children run to their coats in relief that it’s over, they, in particular, are captivated by Gozzi’s play, grasping the “eternal truths,” such as the concept of gratitude. Grafov asserts that it is the visual beauty of the spectacle, the playful acting, and the masterly direction by Feliks Berman that speaks to the young audience. The original 1913 avant-garde production, Pobedy Nad Solntsem [Victory Over the Sun], a futuristic opera written by Aleksei Kruchenykh, with a prologue by Velimir Khlebnikov, music by Mikhail Matiushin, and designs by Kazimir Malevich, caused a scandal at that time. The authors dreamed to shake up the audience by creating a “revolt of colors and sounds . . . where passions burn and the spectator is ready to start a fight” (qtd. in Strutinskaia, “Bukvo”). The opera is created as an aesthetic, dialogical manifest on the overthrow of former values (first of all the sun) and the creation of a new world. The director of the 1998 production at the Russian Academic Youth Theatre, Aleksandr Ponomarev, understood that the contemporary audience would be more difficult to surprise, and tried to find another way in the material. The music by Matiushin was replaced by a score by Stefan Adrushenko, the costumes were not Malevich’s but were redesigned by N. Kislitsina and A. Kaleichuk. Ponomarev did not attempt to resurrect the 1913 production. He ignored the social program of the Futurists as “utopic.” He adapted the opera by “deabstractifying” it, using the dadaist child logic within the piece to make it accessible to the contemporary audience. The production could be perceived on two levels (cf. the Moscow Tiuz’s Goodbye America!): as part of the history of the Futurist movement in the early 1920s, or, for those who were unfamiliar with the Russian futurist and avant-garde movements, as something completely unusual. Ponomarev, apparently, tried to reconcile these two perceptions as much as he could. The music, costumes, and set design were not so much an attempt to recreate the original, but intended to provide signifiers that would help the audience to access the unusual, and by extension get a flavor of the original. The images and words seemed to operate by the rules of a child’s dream and followed its logic, rather than the logic of a neo-futurist


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manifesto. Ponomarev does not defend his choices, he simply presents them as something that “can happen everyday” (Victory), which is, according to Pavel Rudnev, the strength of this production (“Skromnyi”). Victoria Nikiforovna, on the other hand, seems to vaguely regret Ponomarev’s choices in this particular production and suggests that he should try his hand on cabaret, a difficult but “promising” genre. Elena Strutinskaia praises the fact that the production can be perceived on two levels (with or without historical knowledge) equally successfully (Bukvo-zvuki). The acting is highlighted in these reviews, which ironically adds to the many surprises of the production: the majority are “RAMT aboriginals” (Nikiforovna, “Kollaboratsionist”). Victory Over the Sun marked a turning point in the repertory of the RAMT. While the traditional productions remained on the repertory, the new, unusual productions caught the attention and entered, together with the “crowd pleasers,” the repertory of the new millennium. Another indicator of “change” was the resurrection in September 1998 of the “Guardian Board,” a forgotten tradition that originated in the old Moscow Art Theatre. According to the press release, this board would be called upon for organizational, financial, and informational support; to promote the realization of creative projects; and, to stand up for the interests of the theatre in governmental constructs, international organizations, and the media. Members of the newly installed board included representatives from government institutions and social organizations: among them deputies from the governmental Duma of the Russian Federation and the Moscow city Duma; the vice president of the Moscow Cultural Council and the vice minister of Higher Education; the vice-director of the Rakhmaninov Parisian Conservatory and the director of the French Cultural Center in Moscow; a representative of the association of business collaborations with foreign countries; the owner of the bank “Menatep”; and some representatives of the mass media, such as the chief editor of Literaturnaia gazeta, a producer of the children’s and youth programs, and the chief editor of the journal Metsenat Klub (Iur’eva, “Vozrozhdenie”). The intent was to both broaden the scope of the theatre and reinforce its indispensable position for many reasons; including political-historical, social, cultural, and educational. In a way, the revival of this traditional board, made up of people with very different ideological backgrounds,

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illustrates Moscow’s transideological environment as a site of interaction among all existing and potential cultures. While in the former Soviet Union the official position and cultural function of the Central Children’s Theatre was clear cut and forcibly prescribed; in the Russian Federation the function and cultural position of the succeeding Russian Academic Youth Theatre is at the same time open and all-embracing, including the traditional Marxist-Leninist discourse, albeit in humanist terms, of pre-Perestroika times, but likewise contemporary discourse generated by the images of the invisible ideology. This is also illustrated by Tatiana Shakh-Azizova’s portrait of Borodin, in November 1998. Shakh-Azizova counters the critics of the tiuzes, who maintain that theatre for children is finished, outdated, unprestigious (to which some reply that “childhood itself is unprestigious”), and unnecessary (“Litso” 8). Instead she points out the longevity of the tiuzes (80 years) and its unexpected ability to surprise and endure. One of its leading forces in Moscow, however humble, is, according to Shakh-Azizova, Aleksei Borodin, artistic director of the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT since the early 1980s. During his tenure he and his company staged a variety of productions, from classics, to fairy tales, to contemporary plays; experimented with different styles, and created a tight, albeit huge, theatre-home for his employees, a genuine “family theatre.” It is therefore, writes Shakh-Azizova, all the more surprising that there is no coherent or comprehensive analysis of Borodin and his work (8). Contrary to what has been suggested at places in this book, Shakh-Azizova does not blame this so much on a lack of quality, but again seeks the cause in the general disdain for children’s theatre, coupled with the laid-back attitude of Borodin, who merely wants to produce his work in peace, not seeking sensation.3 Shakh-Azizova sees in Borodin the savior of “the citadel,” as she calls the pre-Perestroika Central Children’s Theatre, a task he took on quietly but determinedly, steadily turning the ossified theatre around, fusing the old with the young, the traditional with the innovative, in theatre personnel, styles, and repertory. In her analysis of Borodin’s productions at the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT, we find the work of a creative, versatile, and beloved director. She ignores any hint to the dictatorial qualities that others resent, but depicts him as a quintessential unifying force who, rather than stifling his directors and casts, inspires


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them and gives them the opportunity to try out their ideas, be they outmoded and traditional (e.g. Pollyanna), or wildly controversial and innovative (e.g. Victory). His overall concern in all productions is a fusion of past and present, and an attempt to reach and portray the universal qualities of humanity. Most conducive to its longevity, however, is the theatre’s ability to talk to, or better with, its audience, according to Shakh-Azizova, always finding the right tone, no matter what play or style. The eulogy of Shakh-Azizova4 may be read with skepticism, however, she does raise a few salient points. The RAMT is one of the few traditional Soviet theatres that made the ideological shifts without changing leadership, or even altering much of its traditional make up and practices. The theatre did survive the difficult times, and lived through the crisis of the mid-1990s, which may well be attributed to Borodin’s leadership. And, unlike the early 1990s when the theatre seemed to take full refuge in the classics, its repertory had become more diverse. Houses that were half-empty and very noisy during the early and mid-1990s filled up again and became noticeably more attentive. Even the reviews seemed to have picked up, and RAMT director Eduard Boiakov played a major public role as the founder of the Golden Mask Awards (the Russian annual theatre awards), and the organizer of events like the roundtable discussion Dragan Klaic describes in his “Blue Report” (see chapter 7). THEATRICAL INNOVATION In the years 1999–2000, several new productions opened on the stage of the RAMT. The majority are geared toward older youth or adults, none of these claim or seem to be specifically intended for children. First, Aleksandr Ponomarev, the director of the controversial Victory Over the Sun, made another idiosyncratic avant-garde production, Shaman i Snegyrochka [The Shaman and the Snow-Maiden based on “Snegurochka” [“The Snow-Maiden”] by Aleksandr Ostrovsky, “Snezhimochki” [“Snowywet”] by Velimir Khlebnikov, and Russian ceremonial songs. The production (on the repertory announced as a play by A . Ostrovsky) fuses the classic fairy tale with buffoonery, parody, and songs. As in Victory Over the Sun, the production is a “new”

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version of Snegurochka that operates on its own logic, rather than being a simple update (Khemlin, “Chuzhaia”). It is of note that this second production by Ponomarev is perceived in light of the first: while the eclecticism of Victory was considered postmodern, revealing new artistic realities, the postmodernism of Shaman is regarded to be a trodden path for modernists (Agisheva, “ ‘Snegurochka’ ”). That does not mean that the production is not well-received, indeed Agisheva considers it a “beneficial” production for the RAMT, a theatre that is “as always intelligent,” but looking for some kind of change (“ ‘Snegurochka’ ”). The same search for new forms and expressions is evident in Borodin’s own production of Marsianskie khroniki [The Martian Chronicles], which opened at around the same time as Snegurochka. Based on Ray Bradbury’s novel of the 1950s, the play premieres and starts at the same time, February 1999. There is a war, London and Los Angeles are destroyed, people decide to leave the planet Earth to try their luck (that is, a peaceful harmonious life) on Mars, only to find out that life on Mars and life on Earth are frighteningly similar: by 2026, the situation on Mars is as violent as it was on Earth. While it is a different genre for Borodin, he remains true to his “old” themes. Central in the play are the inability of people to connect and understand each other, their individual loneliness. “Human feelings do not depend on which planet they are born” (Gubaidullina, “Chuzhaia”). Borodin uses both the oldest and the youngest actors of the company in this production, reinforcing the ties of past, present, and future, which emphasizes the “universality” of the play’s themes (Romantsova, “Tragediia”). This is an ensemble play: actors are listed by name only. While it is science fiction, and Moscow has been well-acquainted with spectacular effects of science fiction movies over the last decade, Borodin stayed, according to most critics “tastefully,” away from trying to recreate or match the scenic possibilities of the film industry. His longtime collaborator and scene designer, Stanislav Benediktov, created a simple set with a transparent pyramid, lights, and signs with diagrams and data. The Martians and the earthlings look remarkably, and deliberately, alike. According to Elena Diakova, the stage image does not parody the reality of 1999, but breathes it (“My zhili”). Surprisingly, perhaps, to most critics, the play captivates the “tineidzhery” (teenagers) in the audience: “Aleksei Borodin made an infallible choice—he knows his audience well”


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(Borshagovskii, “Marsianskie”). Strange words and actions don’t seem so strange to this audience. For these young people, the play’s slogan “in order to survive we have to stop trying to find out what the meaning of life is”—may resonate their ideas of living in a transideological world. Borshagovskii thinks that the Marsianskie Khroniki illustrates the difficulties of a creative search for change, and that with this production Borodin has proven how flexible, contemporary, and alive the RAMT is (“Marsianskie”). In the fall of 1999 a new play by Mikhail Bartenev and Aleksei Slapovskii premiered at the RAMT: Dvoe v temnote [Two in the Dark]. The play is set in current times, somewhere in the north Caucasus, in the basement of a destroyed house. A Russian girl and a local boy are stuck there. At first they regard each other with fear and apprehension, then they fall in love. In a time of war the message sounds simple and clear: love crosses borders regardless of racial and ethnic tensions. The play is unprecedentedly timely—the premiere happens to be the day after the 1999 Moscow terrorist attacks—which is paradoxically the cause of its main criticism. Despite the claims of the authors that this is a “love story” it is hard not to make any comparisons to Chechnya. The play is referred to as a “project” rather than a production, and presented as such. In the foyer calls are made to donate money for the less fortunate, exemplified by the authors who have donated their honorarium. The project is heavily sponsored which becomes clear in the program with, among others, a quote from the vice president of the governmental Duma, Mikhail Gutseriev, who labels this a hopeful play for youth. The program itself reads like a manifest: of responsibility, the power of love, the tendency to stick your head in the sand and disappear, the possibility of communication and empathy between people from different backgrounds and nationalities. While both Mikhail Bartenev and producer of the project Nataliia Orlova deny the local connection, claiming the universality of “a contemporary Romeo and Juliet” (“Dvoe” program), it is impossible to perceive the play outside of the material circumstances that frame its perception. Meaning is generated precisely because it is so firmly situated in the volatile context of Moscow’s (and Russia’s) most recent war. But it is exactly the reality of this war, fought not only in the Caucasus, but now just a few blocks away, that ironically takes away from the play’s impact. The realistic set

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is too illusionary, the lights too bright, the music too contrived (Kaminskaia, “Utrom”). Leonov adds the unfortunate choice of seating the audience on stage where they can neither see nor hear the actors as a main distracting element (“Liubov’ ”). These critics maintain that there is a difference between a play and a project, a work of art and agitation, despite the good intentions of the authors and the debuting director, designer, and actors. Art and life—they are two different things. One can illuminate and inspire the other. Two in the Dark, although still on the repertory in 2000, did neither. As a juxtaposition of metaphors, the “real” Romeo and Juliet also premiered in the fall of 1999. The production clearly caters to a young audience: “not [to] Shakespeare scholars. Thank God” as one of the critics put it (Suslovich, “Romeo”). This Romeo and Juliet is void of elitist mannerism, added psychological motivation, or obscure symbolism. Instead it features spectacular sword fights, loud contemporary music, and two attractive, young, and very recognizable heroes. The thoughts and feelings we read in Shakespeare between the lines, are in this production literally shown. The text has been cut to the minimum, and the play communicates through movement to the maximum. As a result the “unusual” production is able to touch and surprise even those who know the text of the play by heart (Diubankova, “Deti”). Director Mikhail Shevchuk, a well-known actor, movement instructor, and fight choreographer of the Maly theatre, successfully transformed the classic story and play to an ultra contemporary production. “This is not a production for an elitist, chosen group of intellectuals,” characterizes Anna Vladimirova, “but for an ordinary young audience who is interested in seeing their problems” (“Pechal’naia”). The design, by Stanislav Benediktov, adds to the grand impression: an open stage, framed by the stylized façade of a square from the Middle Ages, climbable through ladders and scaffolding. Flags, poles, ropes, and the famous balcony are lowered from the ceiling and incorporated in spectacular movement. The audience is captivated.5 The critics (Dubiankova, Suslovich, Vladimirova) love it. Two new productions opened in the year 2000. Orfei i Efredike [Orpheus and Euridice], is a very contemporary, multimedia version of Anouilh’s play Euridice, edited by Eduard Boiakov and directed by Iurii Urnov. It attracted a mixed audience to a full house. Sevil’skii tsiriul’nik


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[The Barber of Seville] by Beaumarchais, on the other hand, is a classic period production. According to Pavel Rudnev the RAMT has been in need of a comedy to attract the audience and increase its popularity “which continues to drop sharply over the last few years.”6 A “happy classic,” maintains Rudnev, is one of the most popular genres of the contemporary stage (“Vol’gotnyi”). Whether that is indeed the case is arguable, but regardless The Barber of Seville, directed by Sergei Aldonin, a student of Mark Zakharov, is well-received by the audience (“I can’t stop laughing”) and by those critics who are simply delighted that someone tackles a classic comedy without adding deep thoughts, obscure connections to the present, and heavy symbolism (Dolzhanskii, “Ispanskii”). CONCLUSION And thus, the RAMT seems to have regrouped, and more importantly, survived as a theatre proper. In the spirit of this book, however, a crucial aspect comes to the fore: the decline of the theatre as a theatre for children and youth per se. In 1996 the Pedagogical Section was still intact and operating (see chapter 5), in the year 2000, however, the pedagogues had all but disappeared from the theatre or were transferred within the theatre. Irina Brovkina, for years the pedagogical director with a staff of three to five pedagogues, had officially become the “Head of the Ticket Department.” The “Muzei,” the archives, the preservation of which was proudly mentioned by the pedagogues five years earlier (and provided much of the material used in this book), didn’t exist anymore: “unfortunately we don’t keep archives now” (Brovkina pers. intv. 2000). Neither did the theatre keep up with technology: they did not videotape their productions (although Our Town was at the moment (2000) taped for television) and at the start of the new millennium the theatre had neither email nor website. The spacious rooms that had housed the pedagogical section—with large windows, a big wooden desk, and a comfortable couch—and where I interviewed Brovkina and her staff before, were reassigned. To interview Brovkina in 2000, I had to ascend a narrow stairwell to a small, windowless, closet-like space above the administrator’s office, a space Brovkina shared with the administrator who was also present at the interview. Brovkina seemed

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relatively undaunted by these changes. To my question on what happened with the pedagogical section, she said it was suspended three or four years earlier. “But,” she continued: It has become clear that we cannot do without it. We have to work with the audience, regardless. We need our circle of spectators around the theatre, a club of “friends of the theatre” and so we have started to revive that. We have invited a former employee, who used to work for us, Irma [Safarova, see chapter 5) . . . she was head of the personnel department for the last couple of years. . . . She will become the director of the pedagogical section, and then we have also invited a young girl who used to be one of our activists. She graduate from the psychology department of the Moscow State University, and is now a psychologist, and she will also work at the pedagogical section. The third person will be Sergei Rozov, he is a director and dramaturg . . . and that will be our new pedagogical section. They will start working next season, in September [2000].

According to Brovkina, these new pedagogues are not so much interested in changing as in reviving the traditional pedagogical paradigm: They want to organize again a “club of friends of the theatre” they want to organize another “Aktiv” [club of youth theatre activists) at the theatre. You will remember: we had schools who ushered for us, helped out, they discussed the premiers, they published a [manuscript] journal, newspapers. They [the new activists] will come to the premiers of the productions and write down their impressions, they review those productions, they meet with the artists, the director—so all the pedagogical work with the spectators, our spectators [will be resurrected]. And then I personally requested that they revived the theatrical celebrations. We once had “the opening of the season,” “Papa, mama and the theatrical family” . . . , we also had days of special get-togethers, when all generations of our friends would meet [January 4], and I would like that those celebrations would be held again. Because . . . everyone can come to the productions, you buy a ticket and you come. But friends of the theatre are people who are “our” people at the theatre, who are just a little bit more than the ordinary spectator, and I would like that back again.

Perhaps the most significant revelation—a sign of the changed material circumstances under which the theatre has to operate while still trying


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to maintain, or revive, the tenets of the past—came at the end of the interview. Brovkina added: Our administrative leadership has changed. We have a new director . . . Liubyi, Vliadislav Viktorovich. He is, by the way, not a theatre person, that is, he doesn’t come from the theatre but he worked in business. But the artistic director is still Borodin.

Thus, the RAMT has entered the next millennium. It tried to shake the past—particularly the ideological-educational connotation imbedded in the idea of a special theatre for children and youth, which subordinated it to the “grown-up” theatre. While it held on to the pedagogical section until well into the last decade, the theatre eventually dissolved this component that was so crucial to a theatre for children and youth under the Soviet regime that a tiuz would be unthinkable without it. Particularly in the first half of the decade the theatre continued to distance itself from the “outside” world by emphasizing the humanitarian content and universal values in classical productions. After the name change from Central Children’s Theatre into Russian Academic Youth Theatre the theatre has not produced any new plays that were labeled and advertised for children. New productions were geared to a family audience and older youth. This was partly an attempt to change the make up of the audience. Decades of forced field trips, made all theatres for young people wary of groups (see Part II), and they persistently tried to attract parents with children. But despite Borodin’s rejection of the notion of a “production” or “language” specifically for young people— his assertion that he makes theatre for himself and his actors, regardless of the audience (Meerzon 30)—the theatre carries its past as the first professional state supported theatre for children and youth on its shoulders. To a certain extent, the theatre has been unable to change that perception—in its own eyes, and in that of its audience. Perhaps the young audience is the one feature that makes the RAMT unique, stand out, and builds a loyal audience. “We cannot do without [pedagogical section],” maintains Brovkina. “Our audience consists of children and youth. That is our direction” (pers. int. 2000). Indeed, the popularity of its children’s and family productions, older ones (such as Dream to Be Continued ) and new(er) ones, such as Pollyanna, attest to the fact that

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the RAMT fills a gap, and may perhaps still be the only state-subsidized professional theatre that gears at least a vast part of its repertory to children and youth. The theatre tried hard to take off its children’s shoes, but may turn out that the young audience is its one stable component, no matter how much the past is shaken in other aspects.

9. Provoking Assumptions: Kama Ginkas at the Mtiuz x

M

eanwhile, the Moscow Tiuz had managed to build up a solid reputation, particularly among the adult audiences. The theatre’s productions were generally sold out; “lishnie bilety” [extra tickets] were a popular commodity during the tenminute walk from the subway station to the theatre’s entrance.1 Tickets in 2000 were still modestly priced—although prices had been raised in the last few years—and purposefully so. “Our theatre is a theatre for the intelligentsia,” maintained Marina Smelianskaia, “they are not rich people.” According to Smelianskaia prices were raised just enough so the intended audience could still buy the tickets. “We are very popular among the New Russians. So when our tickets were half the current price they bought them up and sold them for one hundred dollars a piece or more. Now we hold tickets behind and sell them to ‘our’ people” (Smelianskaia and Platonova, Pers. intv. 2000). The popularity of the Mtiuz comes from the combined talents and efforts of Genrietta Ianovskaia and Kama Ginkas (figure 9.1). Ianovskaia’s productions, although not high in quantity, are laboriously thought out, intelligent, and well-crafted. They communicate on a rational as well as an emotional level. They are filled with symbolism, which makes it exciting to watch and analyze them. Rooted in familiar (at least for a Russian audience) literature (Bulgakov’s Dog’s Heart, Andersen’s Nightingale, Marshak’s Mister Twister) Ianovskaia’s metaphorical and allegorical productions are highly contextualized and culturally bound.

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Figure 9.1 Genrietta Ianovskaia and Kama Ginkas. Phota by Elena Lapina and Andrei Turusov.

Kama Ginkas at the Mtiuz

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GENRIETTA IANOVSKAIA As shown in chapter 6 the controversial, politicized content and treatment of subject matter in Ianovskaia’s productions lent the theatre its unexpected success in the late 1980s. The artistic quality, on the other hand, became a controversial issue, contextualized in and of itself. Several sources maintained, particularly in the late 1980s–early 1990s, that the artistic success of the theatre was politicized through the emphasis on the position of Ianovskaia under the old coercive ideology and her alternative status under the new material circumstances, and through the political context of her productions. This is perhaps why her productions, although praised for artistic merit in Moscow, were, from an artistic point of view, lukewarmly received when performed outside of their cultural, political, and social context. As Robert Steijn put it in his review of Dog’s Heart: “without knowing the context, little is left of the production” (22). Nevertheless, Ianovskaia’s next dramatic production, Groza [The Storm] (figure 9.2) by Ostrovsky was again very well-received.2 The production premiered February 12, 1997, and toured to the International Theatre Festival in Avignon, France in 1998. Ostrovsky’s merchant class play tells the story of the doomed love of Katerina, who is trapped in the house of her dominant mother-in-law and submissive husband. Assisted by her sister-in-law Varvara, she has a love affair with Boris, the Moscow-educated nephew of the town dictator, when her husband is out of town. Upon his return, a storm approaches. As they are taking shelter, Katerina confesses all to her husband and mother-in-law, after which she drowns herself. The revisionist production does not so much focus on Katerina’s doomed love, but on the atmosphere that facilitated her tragedy, as the title in fact indicates. Ianovskaia, with designer Sergei Barkhin, created a place where, in the words of John Freedman “dreams collide with brute force,” a world in which “intellect, gentleness and insanity go hand in hand, and crude intimidation is the keeper of order” (Moscow II 48, 46). This was the second attempt by Ianovskaia to stage the production. At the first try Ianovskaia could not get the casting right, nor the location of the play. “I wanted to stage the production in a warehouse or

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Figure 9.2 The Storm. 1997. Mtiuz. Photo by Ken Reynolds.


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an abandoned factory” she said (qtd. in Dolzhanskii, “Vtoroi”). The current production takes place in the theatre, but it might as well be a factory or warehouse. The stage and auditorium are backstage, behind a brick wall. Stage and audience, 80 people at most, are divided by a tin trough set into real dirt over the entire width of the stage: the river Volga. A rain machine hangs high up in the flies. Scaffolding on the sides and back have thunder sheets which are operated by the “storm men” who watch the play unfold, change the props, and deliver silent commentary (cf. the silent couple in Goodbye America!). Russian nesting dolls, and other “folk” ornaments are scattered around. Among the thirty-five productions of Ostrovsky’s plays at the time of the premiere (Freedman, Moscow II 45), this production clearly stands out, both because of its unusual interpretation and its highly theatrical and suggestive set. The production is filled with signifiers, or, as Davydova puts it, “[e]verything breathes meaning” (“Za zerkal’noi”). Thus the “Russian” costumes Ostrovsky indicates in his play, acquire in this production a slightly Soviet look. The closed, vertical set—where even high up in the flies there seems no way out, and where the river Volga is set off by two mirror doors stage right and left, one of which eventually leads Katerina to her grave—gives the impression that the play unfolds in a large Kommunalka (Soviet communal apartment) rather than a small village (Davydova, “Za zerkal’noi”). These signifiers and their inevitable varied interpretation and perception cause the most “controversy” in the many, predominantly favorable, reviews. With The Storm Ianovskaia created once again a production that was critically acclaimed, yet also a source of ideological debate. Does Ianovskaia in The Storm “debunk” national myths by focusing on the archetypes of “our” national consciousness (Agisheva, “Elektrichestvo”)? Or is she presenting the classic play free from the “nauseating” traditional Soviet teachings (Krymova, “Te zhe razgovor”)? Does Ianovskaia challenge the Soviet notion of Katerina as “a ray of light in the dark tsardom” (Goder, “Zabud’te”) or does she highlight it by her interpretation of Katerina as innocent, pure, without “protesting pathos, or poetic musings” (Zaionts, “Luch sveta”)? As with Goodbye America! Ianovskaia evokes with this production a debate that roots in preconceptions and assumptions. She challenges preconceived notions through theatrical signs and

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signifiers, offering a simultaneously highly intellectual and highly emotional production. As in Goodbye America!, it is the cultural-based context that supplies the meaning in this production, at least for the (Soviet) Russian audience. Ianovskaia attacks the revolutionary legends of her youth: in The Storm she challenges the Soviet textbook interpretation of the play (e.g., Minaev, “Genrietta” 53). A quick glance at the review titles is telling: “What Didn’t Pass at School” (Grueva, “To, shto”); “Forget About ‘The Ray of Light in the Dark Tsardom’ ” (Goder, “Zabud’te”); “Imagination at Eye of this Storm” (Freedman); and, “ ‘The Storm’ as It Is” (Tarant, “ ‘Groza’ ”). Minaev remarks that Ianovskaia’s production is not so much the play The Storm as a critical paper on the play.3 However, also without the cultural baggage and background the production remains an innovative staging of a classic Russian play, and is perhaps more readily accepted for its artistic merit than for its ideological-cultural impact. The excerpts of reviews quoted in the 2000 playbill (a rather extensive program complete with photographs, review excerpts, and a bibliography of Ianovskaia and designer Sergei Barkhin in Russian, English, and French) highlight the theatre’s intention, illustrating its aesthetic objectives and sociocultural commentary. “The production captures that very moment when a girl becomes a woman. It portrays the gap between feeling and rationality, between Jesuitism and Christianity,” prefaces Ianovskaia. The selected quotes focus on articulating that gap: The play combines everyday reality with metaphysics, tragedy with parody, lyricism with farce, and serious lectures with mad cries. So the storm begins, with an all-destructive wind that sweeps away, chatters and tears asunder, then churns together the pieces that cannot be joined. (Gubaidullina, “Slovno,” qtd. in “Groza” program)

Other excerpts focus on the theatrical achievement of both Ianovskaia and Barkhin: “I wonder whether we are not witnessing the last act of great stage directing, the most important theatrical achievement of the departing century” remarks Agisheva (“Elektrichestvo,” qtd. in “Groza” program). Although the perception of meaning in The Storm is clearly framed by cultural context, the production strikes as immediate, meaningful,


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and alive, even without its cultural baggage. Ianovskaia’s The Storm is a prolific site for the production and perception of meanings, and, as such, it functions as a paradigm for the interdependence of meanings and material conditions in a transcultural and transideological environment. The Storm received numerous awards. Ianovskaia received the “Crystal Turandot” and “The Seagull” awards for best director of the season. The actress Iuliia Svezhakova was awarded the “Crystal Turandot” for best debut as Katerina, and the “Komsomolskaia Pravda” award for best dramatic role of the season. Era Ziganshina received the Stanislavsky award for her role as Kabanova. The Storm was one of the highlights of the Golden Mask Awards of 1998, for which it received nominations in four categories (but surprisingly did not win in any). Ianovskaia’s productions are undeniably “director’s theatre.” Among the reviews of her production there are always some remarks on the sometimes overbearing presence of the director’s hand. Iuliia Svezhakova, who received several awards for her debut as Katerina in The Storm notes: “My success in the role of Katerina is completely her [Ianovskaia’s] achievement. When they ask me: who is your Katia? I answer: it’s Genrietta Ianovskaia” (Kaminskaia, “Vnachale”). Ianovskaia has not staged many productions since her tenure at the Mtiuz, but those she did direct clearly bear her stamp. They are profoundly rooted in the sociocultural history of the country and perhaps that is the reason why her productions are not merely perceived as academic pursuits (although she has been criticized for ephemeral, intellectual symbolism), but for a Russian audience also as highly artistic endeavors that speak to the emotions.4 The same can be said to a certain extent of the intimate, minimalist, visual productions of Ianovskaia’s husband, Kama Ginkas, although his productions deliberately communicate through intuition and emotion. According to Aleksei Fillipov “the couple Ginkas-Ianovskaia exists outside of the laws of common sense and the generally accepted” in the theatre (“Teatry”). First, Fillipov explains, a husband-director cannot have a director-wife; second, a wife-artistic director cannot have a husband who is “just” a director; and third, a husband-director and wife-director cannot be both so talented at the same time (“Teatry” 54). Yet, the above is exactly the case.5

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KAMA GINKAS Although not officially affiliated with the Mtiuz, Ginkas has staged productions in the building since Ianovskaia’s tenure as artistic director. Initially, he worked primarily with outside actors, using the Mtiuz as a Moscow based performance space for productions that he initiated elsewhere (e.g., K.I. iz prestupleniia [K.I. From Crime] was originally perceived and staged in Finland). With the shift in status of the Mtiuz shortly after the premiere of Dog’s Heart and the subsequent increase in quality of actors and productions, Ginkas started to work more with the Mtiuz actors. Currently, shortly after the turn of the century, Ginkas is hailed as one of Russia’s most innovative directors. His productions, mostly based on the work and life of Russia’s well-known literary figures— Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and Pushkin—communicate through intuition and emotion, reportedly leaving the audience member with a sense of revelation, of newly understanding something hitherto distant and obscure. Although Kama Ginkas is perhaps even less than his wife characterized by, and inclined toward productions for young people, his affiliation with the Mtiuz and his increasing use of the theatre’s space as his “home base,” as well as its core actors, make a discussion of his work indispensable in this book. Moreover, unsuspectedly, one of his later productions, a staging of Pushkin’s poem The Golden Cockerel is specifically intended for children, and considered one of the most original and controversial productions for children in Russia. Kama Ginkas’s work is often explained by pointing to his birth and upbringing. He was born in 1941, in Kaunas, Lithuania, about six weeks before WWII spread to Lithuania, and spent his early childhood in the ghetto. Here, according to Smeliansky, “[a] ludic approach to death entered the very genes of Ginkas’s art, determining the source and brio of his theatre” (Russian 168–169). He was one of a handful of children to survive; his parents escaped from the ghetto with Kama in a potato bag before the children’s turn had come to “take action against” (i.e., be shot), following the fate of the elderly and the sick. His mother repeatedly told him “Kama, you live in spite of Hitler” (“Festival d’Avignon” 43; Glushenko, “Zhizn’ ” 71; Oves, “Kama”; Sotnikova, “Komnata”). He went to a Jewish school, learned both Lithuanian and


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Russian, graduated from the Vilnius Conservatory as an actor, and enrolled in Tovstonogov’s workshop in Leningrad in the early 1960s.6 Since Lithuania was at that time the Soviet window to the West, Ginkas was more familiar with Western avant-garde theatre forms than his Russian colleagues. “I was considered the ‘Baltic symbolist,’ ” he told John Freedman, “I wasn’t ‘Soviet,’ I was ‘Baltic,’ which meant ‘Western.’ And, of course, symbolist was automatically bad” (qtd. in Freedman, “Russian” 10).7 Ginkas attributes his visual imagery, his view of humanity, and his methods of expression to a large extent to the photos in the journals he received from Poland: “I read and learned what I could from photos. What I couldn’t [see] I completed in my imagination” (qtd. in Freedman, “Russian” 10; also Fuks, “Koridory”). He met Genrietta Ianovskaia in 1962. Shortly after graduation, they went together to Krasnoiarsk, Siberia, to direct in the local Tiuz.8 A few years later years they returned to Leningrad to become, in Smeliansky’s words “hopelessly fringe figures” (Russian 168). However, it was in the years that Ginkas was unable to work, that he perceived his productions of the last two decades. “I sat at home and fantasized productions. . . . [They] were all devised in my head back then. That was compensation for my inability to work” (Freedman, Russian 11). If a theme needs to be identified in Ginkas’s work then it is a strong preoccupation with what goes on in our minds and souls in moments of life and death. In a 1999 interview with Olga Fuks, Ginkas rejects that his productions all highlight the theme of “death” (a point put forth by many critics, including Anatoly Smeliansky), suggesting instead that he is intrigued by life, particularly by living on the edge. “Death is part of life, and thus it is part of my productions” (“Koridory”). In his interview with John Freedman, Ginkas states more metaphorically that he pursues the theme of “crime and punishment,” explaining that for him crime has to do with the original sin, that is, the first knowledge. Thus for Ginkas crime consists of a desire to know oneself further, to realize oneself, to transgress, to leave some sign about oneself, to be different. “It does not have to be murder. . . . What I am interested in is a man who commits a crime, desiring to know himself ” (qtd. in Freedman, “Russian” 11–12, see also Fridshtein, “Kama” 44). Perhaps this is indeed best explained by one of the few productions he staged of an existent and well-known play, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, which he directed

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in Finland in 1996. In Ginkas’s interpretation: “Macbeth is a young man who loves his wife and she loves him. Basically they are told, ‘you have an opportunity.’ It is very difficult to reject that allure. True, it’s a crime but it is easy enough to justify to yourself. My Macbeth is about Life which lures and deceives. Lures and punishes” (qtd. in Freedman, “Russian” 12–13; see also Fridshtein, “Kama” 44; Sedykh, “Prestuplenie” 73). In an interview with Iurii Fridshtein in Teatral’naia Zhizn’ Ginkas elaborates on his interpretation of Shakespeare, adding that it is precisely the inevitability of the characters’ actions, their predisposition to live on the “edge,” to grasp opportunities, to play with fate, that makes these characters “tragic” (44). This is what attracted Ginkas in Hamlet, the first production he staged back in Leningrad in the 1970s—so unorthodox that it immediately ousted him—and 25 years later in Macbeth. It is also an underlying idea, almost the “Leitmotiv” of all his other work. Ginkas tries to reach his audience through theatrical provocation, through a juxtaposition of the earthly and the divine, naturalistic and fantastic elements, verbal and nonverbal signifiers. The perception is initially emotional rather than intellectual (despite the fact that he is generally perceived as an “intellectual” director). “Often, especially with new audiences—his productions hurt” asserts Smeliansky (Russian 173). This “hurt” happens frequently by laughing through tears, light and black humor strike the audience off guard, reinforcing the emotional impact of the production. In interviews Ginkas asserts that he loves to “provoke” his audience. As such he sees no barriers (Oves, “Kama”). He is concerned with the audience, not so much with their intellectual opinion (“I don’t need you critics, at the exit”) but with their immediate, emotional reaction as they exit the auditorium (Fuks, “Koridory”). Ginkas likes to play with the spectator, to break the fourth wall, to use the theatrical ambivalence of presence and absence, fiction and reality. “What I want is that whatever happens in the production will become, if only for a second, a part of your life” (Ginkas, “Pochemu” 83). Ginkas deconstructs the text before the eyes of the audience, strips it from its familiarity, and presents it back on a gut level. Perhaps most impressive in this all is that he is able to maintain the aesthetic picture, where everything, everyone, every move has its place.


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Admittedly, not everyone is drawn in his productions every time. Anatoly Smeliansky, for one, cites two instances where he believes it “did not work.” Smeliansky’s evaluation is evidently subjective though: in reference to K.I. he goes on to debunk the use of small spaces over the excitement of the full-scale theatre (Russian 176–177),9 and at The Execution of the Decembrists he felt that Ginkas’s artistic images were competing with the daily images from the war in Chechnya (Russian 178–179). Nevertheless, in the end Smeliansky, too, concludes that “[i]t is the extraordinary overall picture, the agility and resourcefulness of his imagination, that satisfies one’s eyes—and what greater pleasure is there in the theatre?” (Russian 179). It is frequently commented that there are no “bad” actors in his productions. Ginkas attributes that to the lessons he learned from Tovstonogov, in particular the overarching responsibility of the director for all facets of the production, including the actors. “There are almost no bad actors,” he asserts, “As the director I answer for my actors . . . I am obliged to give an actor a task that corresponds to his gift” (Freedman, “Russian” 9–10). As a director, Ginkas knows exactly what he wants. While he denies a specific “Ginkas Method” he adds that his success with the actors is probably due to not enforcing anything on the actor, bur rather to bring out the artist in the context of the play and the role (Sedykh, “Prestuplenie” 72). As such, he is demanding, both of himself and his actors.10 In a 1998 article in Teatral’naia Zhizn’ Ginkas elaborates on how he perceives the relationship between the director and the actor: “ it is the interrelation between a man and a woman, where the artist always, regardless of gender, is the woman, and the director always, regardless of gender, is the man.” For Ginkas, both actor and director are pathological figures, dependent on one another (“Patologia artista”; see also “Pochemu” 85–88).11 To position Ginkas within the theoretical precepts of this book is an arduous task. Living and working in a transideological society, Ginkas and his work are seemingly void of any overt political stance. His work is mostly focused on individual human beings who push their personal fate. In a rather philosophical article (2000) Ginkas writes that he does not believe in human equality—someone will always strive to be different, to stand out of the crowd even when placed in the most comfortable circumstances (Iskusstvo Kino). He denies that he makes “emotional

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copies of reality,” asserting that he “live[s] only partly in reality” (Fuks, “Koridory”). Moreover, he believes that many of the fights his generation of directors had put up in pre-Perestroika times (for individual style, right of expressions, deviation of realism) are redundant under the current material circumstances. Instead, Ginkas focuses on the eternal problems of “people, who try to touch the great and the unknown” (Fuks, “Koridory”). His productions are “art,” in and of itself, art that communicates effacing the barriers of language and culture. Ginkas intuits and gives theatrical form to those questions that occupy all, but that no one can answer. His productions tackle the impossibility of grasping the meaning of life or articulating a “universal” justice. As such, Ginkas is situated in an Epsteinian transcultural world. He may be the quintessential example of a person subject to multifaceted freedom, that characterizes both his individual attitude and his freedom to accept and reject various cultural norms. Undeniably, this freedom only became possible after the ideological and material shifts that took place with Glasnost and Perestroika, including the nomination of Ianovskaia as artistic director of a dying theatre in Moscow. He can work in Moscow or Helsinki as he pleases. He is not bound to any particular theatre, and can choose his own actors. He is free to realize the scripts he composed over decades. He lives for and through his productions: “I don’t take an emotional copy of reality, but of myself,” he says, “[a]nd the questions that occupy me are the same—in Moscow, in Istanbul, or in Stratford-on-Avon” (Fuks, “Koridory”). Nevertheless, his productions are framed by the material circumstances under which they are perceived and generate meaning. As will be shown below, Ginkas’s productions impact on various semiotic levels: within the micro—often strictly literary—world of the production itself; within the individual relationships between the artists and the audience; and within the particular associations with the material world outside. This is not the place to discuss Ginkas’ work exhaustively, but four productions, all staged in the last decade of the twentieth century, deserve some more in-depth attention in the context of this book. K.I. iz “Prestupleniia” [K.I. from “Crime” ] (figure 9.3) is perhaps the most exemplary “Ginkas” play, given all that has been said above. The play tells the life, or rather the death, of the half-insane Katerina Ivanovna


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Figure 9.3 K.I. from “Crime.” 1994. Mtiuz. Photo by Viktor Bazhenov

Marmeladova, widow of the drunkard Marmeladov, who by accident ran into Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the hero of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. The text is a montage by Dani Gink, Kama Ginkas’s and Genrietta Ianovskaia’s son. It is a monologue of heroic proportions—anyone who has read Crime and Punishment and remembers Dostoevsky’s picture of the hapless Katerina Ivanovna can but imagine the actor’s task. The actress, Oksana Mysina, is assisted by three children (of Kazarnovskii’s school, see chapter 7). Rather extraordinarily, though, the children are not explicitly partaking in the action to evoke an emotional reaction in the spectator, instead they function as mediators between Katerina Ivanovna and the audience: most of the time they sit on the side and watch the action along with the spectator. One may assume that a great many of the Russian audience, and certainly Ginkas’s audience, has read and studied Dostoevsky which situates this production firmly in a Russian cultural context. In addition, however, the material context of 1994 Moscow generates meanings that may be perceived, and emotionally felt, without any in-depth or even superficial knowledge of Dostoevsky or Crime and Punishment. The production’s relationship to “reality” is so close that one critic starts

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his review by inviting his readers to imagine themselves in a subway car with about fifty passengers—at one station a unseemly looking woman enters who starts to harass the passengers “probably an ordinary city idiot, we have many of those” (Sitkovskii). Indeed, the spectators (fifty at most) are “attacked” by Katerina Ivanovna as soon as they enter the upper foyer of the Mtiuz, where the production starts. Katerina Ivanovna welcomes each spectator as if a guest to the funeral banquet of the late Marmeladov. Most spectators feel like the unfamiliar guests, described in the novel, some of them are addressed by name, Rodion Romanovich (Raskolnikov), Petr Petrovich (Luzhkin), Amalia Ivanovna/ Ludwigovna. Mysina, the actress, breaks the fourth wall over and over again, dragging the spectators into the production and grabbing hold of them without letting go. When she invites the audience in the “White Room,” (after this production the “White Room” became a theatrical expression in the Moscow theatre world, see Sokolianskii “Dom”) she suddenly slams the door in the face of the audience, an act that more than anything evokes the “physiological” reaction in the spectator that Ginkas is aiming at. At the end of the production Ginkas pulls off a highly effective, heart wrenching, theatrical image. The dying Katerina Ivanovna climbs a white ladder, Jacob’s ladder, and starts pounding the white ceiling: “let me in, it is me, me.” “If in the painting “The Scream” by Edvard Munch the mouth is the most important—then [in K.I.] the whole face screams,” writes Lana Garon in Dramaturg (119). Although, as pointed out above, the production naturally does not draw in every spectator all the time, it is particularly this production that evokes critical discussion on crossing the barrier between stage and personal space, the comfort level of the spectator, the aim to evoke a physiological reaction in the spectator that defies intellectual perception. Ginkas, as mentioned, is not concerned with crossing the line, but he is concerned with reaching the audience on this gut level, and evidently succeeds in doing so. While some critics find Ginkas’s theatrical metaphors at times overpowering and overly provocative, none of the critics denies their potential effectiveness, nor the mastery of Ginkas’s direction. Aleksandr Sokolianskii writes that this production (as well as Pushkin. Duel. Death., Ginkas’s second production in the “White Room,” see below) evokes a certain shame in the audience, shame for being carried away by other people’s tribulations. “We return to the real


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world a little bit different. Maybe we changed for the better” (“Dom”).12 K.I. won Kama Ginkas a Crystal Turandot for best director of the season. It is of note, that none of the reviewers explicitly commented on this production performed under the auspices of a theatre for young audiences, although the heading of one review reads “Kama Ginkas Again Staged Dostoevsky for a Young Audience” (Sokolianskii).13 The review does not go into the subject. But in 1998, Ginkas did stage, unexpectedly, a small, intimate “fairy tale for children and adults:” Zolotoi Petushek [The Golden Cockerel], by Pushkin. 1999 was the 200th anniversary of the birth of Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin, Russia’s national poet. The occasion led to various performative and commemorative events related to Pushkin, whose name has been commodified by practically every entity imaginable: from literary movements, to the communist regime, to the manufacturer of the “Ai da, Pushkin” candies,14 to the couple in love. Ginkas, much to the surprise of the critics, staged after two years of silence three works connected to Pushkin: the television movie Graf Nulin, the documentary play Pushkin. Duel. Death., and the theatrical fairy play The Golden Cockerel. Ginkas’s staging of Pushkin’s well-known fairy poem, Zolotoi Petushek [The Golden Cockerel], was received with mixed reviews. Some reviewers thought the production quintessentially Ginkas, primarily highlighting the theatricality, the balance between light and black humor, and the relationship with the audience that characterizes most “Ginkas” productions (e.g. Freedman, “Ginkas’ ”). Others thought the production an anomaly in Ginkas’s work. First of all, evidently, because Ginkas “the most un-child oriented of all our directors” made a production for children; second, because for some reviewers it missed the poignant emotional impact of his other work (e.g. Dolzhanskii, “Ne boitsia”). Overall, however, this production was critically acclaimed, too, not in the last place because it seemed to communicate equally well to both children and adults; “an ideal children’s theatre production” as Anastasiia Timasheva calls it, “because neither children nor adults are bored” (“Triller-Test”). Pushkin’s poem tells the fate of the old tsar Dadon, who has conquered many empires and now wants to retire. He is hampered in

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doing so, however, by his constantly attacking neighbors. Dadon then asks the help of a wise old eunuch, who presents Dadon with a magic cockerel that warns of invaders. Dadon promises in return to fulfill the first wish of the eunuch. Although Dadon’s two sons are killed in war, in the end he does conquer the enemy and brings home a beautiful tsaritsa, instantly forgetting the slaughter of his sons. When the eunuch demands the girl as his reward, Dadon breaks his promise, for which he is punished gravely—the moral of the story. Aside from some repetition, which is particularly in the beginning used to establish the world of the play, not a word of the text is altered, omitted, or added. Ginkas conveys the poem solely through theatrical means, clearly demonstrating his directorial style. The play starts in the foyer of the second floor of the theatre. The audience (around sixty totally) is seated facing the stairwell to the third floor, children in front on soft pillows, adults on bleachers behind them. There is no particular set, no theatrical lighting. Then a clown the narrator, comes down the steps, and the play begins. Huge roles of butcher paper are carried down the steps and hung on each side, lights go on, and suddenly we are in the theatre. The theatricality of the production is established: the set is decorated as needed with a generous use of paint and scissors; candle light offers mysterious effects; old Tsar Dadon is a skinny actress, wearing a paper crown; the cockerel is a stick with silver foil “wings” and his warning a sound not remotely like a cockerel. All actors are dressed in black leotards over which they adorn different pieces of clothing. All are acting in comedia style. The narrator, in particular, often addresses the audience, that is the kids, much to their delight. The production starts in a playful tone. The glorious tsardom is represented by dumping a bucket of black soil on the stairs—to show his power Dadon places three little flags in the heap. The warring neighbors “attack” the sleeping Dadon by painting his hands green and yellow. Sound effects are made by the cast with voice and whistles. The wise eunuch is a clownesque figure, evoking giggles in the audience. But as one critic mentions, Ginkas wouldn’t be Ginkas if he “just staged a children’s production” (Timasheva, “Triller-Test”). Not for nothing is the play dedicated to both children and adults and with the arrival of the cockerel, which incidentally looks somewhat like a cross, the tone of the production changes. The remainder of the production is quite differently


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perceived by the children and adults in the audience. As the war begins, the two killed sons are represented by two shirts, drenched in red paint slapped over the paper walls on top of the stairs, dripping. “Amputated” plastic arms and legs come tumbling down the stairs. While the children scream in delight, an adult audience member is heard whispering over and over “Koshmar” [“Nightmare”]. At the end, the tsaritsa doesn’t just disappear as the poem indicates, but grasps the golden cockerel and kills both Dadon and the eunuch, as an embodiment of death itself. The emotional impact may be “less painful,” as Dolzhanskii observes (“Ne boitsia”) but it is nonetheless stunning. At the same time deadly serious and farcical, Ginkas apparently makes fun of himself, the poem, and his audience—using the same successful techniques that mark his other productions. In the light of the subject matter of his other work, The Golden Cockerel obtains a particular irony: a fantasy of crime and punishment for children. Interestingly, the production is in its structural aspects somewhat reminiscent of the old Soviet children’s theatre tradition. Dolzhanskii, for example, observes that the Soviet children’s theatre, notwithstanding all its other deficiencies, was very strong in making good poetry visible on the stage, augmenting it with actors and action. We also see some of the very theatricality that marked the children’s productions of the early 1920s (see chapter 2). In addition, Ginkas uses the traditional travesty (female actors playing young boys) in his own way: the old tsar Dadon is a thin, young actress, who puts on a huge crown, and in general all roles but two (including the narrator) are played by women. Depending on how you look at it, structurally the production “teaches” a lesson, a lesson on “making theatre” that speaks to all ages. Ginkas’s playful use of theatricality is inspiring to point that it could give children the impression you can “try it at home.” But as several critics observe, Pushkin’s poem is far from a children’s fairy tale: not only does “good” not concur “evil,” there is no “good” at all in the poem (e.g., Levinskaia, “Soblazny”; Sokolianskii, “Bor’ba”; Vasil’kova, “Ia–ne kritik”). The choice of the poem, becomes in this sense a metaphor for the production: somehow Ginkas is able to unify seemingly incongruent elements: a fairy tale poem that speaks to both children and adults; a theatrical style that is at the same time a reminder of traditional Soviet children’s theatre but communicates as the complete

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antithesis; the particular use of traditional travesty; the juxtaposition of theatrical playfulness and serious impact; the unification of the chaotic world inherent in the poem. Mashukova observes that the production functions as a bridge between the two repertory shores of the Mtiuz: between the adult productions of Ianovskaia and Ginkas on the one end—and the innocent rather traditional children’s theatre productions on the other end (“Dlia starykh”).15 The best reviews acknowledge the ambiguity and the different levels of communication and perception in this production, without making an a priori value judgment. These reviewers, most importantly, recognize in this production the respect for the children and the trust in their ability to grasp the material, form their own opinions and articulate their emotions (Kholodova, “Skazka”; Mashukova, “Dlia Starykh”; Solntseva,”Razreshennoe”). Kama Ginkas takes his audience seriously, asking them the same questions he asks his adult audience during the post performance discussions: What did you feel? Where did you smile? Feel sad? The choice of this Pushkin fairy tale deliberately juxtaposed another Ginkas production on Pushkin: Pushkin. Duel’. Smert’ [Pushkin. Duel. Death] (figure 9.4). Ginkas asserts that with The Golden Cockerel he wanted to transfer the stage rhythm of Pushkin’s poetry, the tonality in which the poem was written.16 Simultaneously he intended to show Pushkin the avantgardist, by bringing out the visual imagery imbedded in the text (Sedykh, “Igrai”). With Pushkin. Duel. Death. Ginkas had another goal in mind; it is not Pushkin’s work that is central here, in fact it is not featured at all, but Pushkin the person. His “anti-celebratory” composition (Kaz’mina, “Nepozvolitel’naia”; Sokolianskii, “Tot”), perpetuates a multiplicity of Pushkins through a multifaceted composition of documented memories, and anecdotes about Pushkin, conveyed by his contemporaries. Ginkas identifies the work as “an apology to the Poet” (Folkinshtein), and an attempt to “pay my duties” (Sedykh, “Igrai”). Twenty years ago, in the early 1980s, Ginkas broke through in Moscow with a creation called Pushkin and Natali, which actually premiered in an apartment in Leningrad. The composition was based on the letters of the poet. Ginkas evoked the spirit of the national poet through irony and parody in a one-man show with a recurring actor in his productions, Viktor Gvozditskii. As Ginkas recalls, he was unemployed,

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Figure 9.4 Pushkin. Duel. Death. 1999. Mtiuz. Photo by Ken Reynolds.

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without money yet longing to stage something, hence this one-man show in his apartment. The production changed his fate, opened up the Moscow theatre scene, and set the tone for his later works. In some sense, Pushkin. Duel. Death. continues where Pushkin and Natali ended. The production is composed by Ginkas from letters and documents of and on Pushkin, and takes place in the last few days of his life. Twelve actors, in their roles of friends and family of the poet (among them poet Prince Viazemskii and his wife, Pushkin’s friend the poet Zhukovskii, the Nashchokins, and Sollogub, admirer of Pushkin’s wife and challenged by Pushkin to a duel himself ) sit around a long rectangular table and discuss who Pushkin was, how the duel with d’Anthès would turn out, and contemplate his dying and death. The production takes place in the “White Room,” in front of a maximum of fifty spectators. The costumes are black and white. The table has a white tablecloth. The black and white sharply contrasts with the sparse colorful props: a large feather fan, Pushkin’s death mask, a vial of spilled oil. The production is clearly divided in three parts as the title indicates. “Pushkin” is anecdotal, lively, and funny. Sokolianskii compares it to a story by the surrealist Daniil Kharms17 on Pushkin: “Pushkin loved to throw stones. As soon as he saw a stone . . . (“Tot”). In “Duel” the tone gets more serious. Who is dueling, with whom and why? This is not about Pushkin the artist but the man and his honor. Or is it? In “Death” the question is an “if only” one: could they have prevented Pushkin’s death? But the idea behind the production is far more complicated. In many ways this is indeed an “anti-anniversary” play. Pushkin is not revered, his work not featured. The image of Pushkin is multifaceted, contradictory. As mentioned above, Ginkas identifies the idea of the production as an “apology to the Poet” (Folkinshtein, “Neiubileinyi”), who has been torn to pieces, appropriated, and commodified by every person and power, attributed to adhere to every possible ideological and cultural view. He is a national icon, “nashe vse [“our everything”] as referred to in many reviews. In an interview with Mariia Sedykh, Ginkas declares that his production challenges this image, as well as the idea that his death was an unfortunate coincidence of circumstances. In Ginkas’s interpretation, Pushkin was a genius who wanted to be like everyone else. For Ginkas, Pushkin was a man who lived life on the edge, who challenged himself to the utmost, who “sought his own destiny”


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(Sedykh, “Igrai”). Pushkin’s happiness was interconnected with free choice, even if it turned out to be a deadly one. This makes Pushkin a typical Ginkas “hero,” a man with a desire to know himself further, to realize himself, transgress, be different, leave some sign about oneself. Ginkas’s suggestion that Pushkin chose his own death—based on his personal analysis of Pushkin’s correspondence—diametrically opposes the traditional hagiographies of Pushkin, which attribute Pushkin’s death usually to a corrupt regime, and fault the higher society of Petersburg, the court and the establishment (van het Reve 148). Despite its intellectual content, the power of this production lies once again in its emotional impact. The Russian critics, imbued with Pushkin’s life and work from childhood, find the production a welcome breather in the almost embarrassing scale of this celebration (Kaminskaia, “Davno”), the most “subjective and poignant of all Pushkin celebrations” (Kaz’mina, “Ne v etom”), and an ironic diversion of the common fare (Agisheva, “Vysokaia”). Ginkas’s images have such a strong impact that several critics start out their reviews acknowledging that they feel incompetent, even afraid to describe a production as delicate, emotional, and forceful as this one. Some resort to pointing out the stunning metaphors, which are intuited rather than understood (Sokolianskii, “Tot”). Others share their personal reaction: “How he did it—I don’t know. . . . But I am not embarrassed to admit that I cried at this production” (Rassadin, “Sled”). Nataliia Kazmina writes: “You leave [from this production] subdued and down, almost senseless, but also happy. . . . Although I am afraid of looking old fashioned, I am ready to babble something unintelligible about a stunning moral experience” (“Ne v etom”). Ginkas uses in this production many of the same techniques described above, albeit in a different way. He throws the spectators off by either directly addressing them—effacing the boundaries of life and art, actor and audience, and somehow instilling the spectator with a personal investment—or jolting them with unexpected metaphors. One of the most striking theatrical images is (as always with Ginkas) the finale. On the far end of the white table lies a small black velour pillow, on the pillow Pushkin’s death mask. Two chains slowly descend from the ceiling, and are attached to the table by Pushkin’s lackey, and in an inverted burial ceremony the table rises up to the ceiling. The mourners left behind hang on, ripping off pieces of cloth.

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The last one to let go is Nashchokin, allegedly Pushkin’s “best friend.” “[This] is Ginkas at his simplest and most powerful,” writes John Freedman, “It must be felt to be appreciated” (“Duel”). The two productions, The Golden Cockerel and Pushkin. Duel. Death. won the All-Russian festival “Russia Is My First Love . . .,” Kama Ginkas was honored best director of the festival, Arina Nesterova (King Dadon and Nashchokina) best actress. In 1999 Ginkas directed his own adaptation of a short story by Anton Chekhov Chernyi Monakh [The Black Monk] (figure 9.5). Over the years Ginkas had directed various productions of Chekhov abroad, but The Black Monk was his first Chekhov production in Moscow. Although Ginkas had shown a clear affinity for and personal connection with his most frequently staged authors in Moscow, Pushkin and Dostoevsky, Chekhov’s work seems to rather naturally match Ginkas’s theatre.18 Chekhov’s motto that no one is either accused or justified, and that we may perhaps never know why we live and suffer, is represented in the ambiguous endings of his plays and stories. As shown above, this is also a leitmotiv of Ginkas’s work. It is this ambiguity that makes both artists’ work simultaneously paradigmatic and idiosyncratic, contributing to the longevity of Chekhov’s work and the current success of Kama Ginkas’s productions. The Black Monk tells the story of the academic Kovrin, who, plagued by his nerves, takes a rest in the country with the famous gardener Pesotskii and his daughter Tania. One evening Kovrin tells Tania the legend of the Black Monk, who appeared thousands of years ago in several mirages, then disappeared. Legend tells he will reappear in two thousand years which could be any minute now. Shortly after, Kovrin indeed meets the monk and starts a philosophical relationship with him. Although he does realize that he may be sick, the monk convinces him that he is a genius: “geniuses see ghosts” (Ginkas, “Black” Ts.15). In the strange and enduring sense of happiness that Kovrin experiences he marries Tania. Soon Tania finds him talking to an empty chair and with the help of her father she has him cured. The monk disappears, but so does Kovrin’s sense of happiness and brilliance. He comes to hate his wife and father-in-law and leaves them. Years later, living with another woman and sick with consumption, he receives a letter from Tania, blaming him for her father’s death, the demise of the

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Figure 9.5 The Black Monk. 1999. Mtiuz. Photo by Elena Lapina.

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famous garden, and her own misery. As he tears up the letter the monk reappears. Kovrin instantly believes he is a genius again, but his body cannot hold his genius, he starts coughing up blood and dies, happy once again. At the beginning of the production Ginkas, together with set designer Sergei Barkhin, paints a poetic, lyrical world. The action takes place in an unusual space: the upper balcony of the theatre. The audience is seated on three sides of a small platform fenced in by birch branches and covered with peacock feathers: the garden. A birch gazebo is placed upstage and overlooks the empty auditorium. The actors move through the feathers in earth-colored costumes, and speak initially in a calm, understated tone. The opera quartet of Verdi’s Rigoletto underscores the action. Chekhov’s text is conveyed word for word. The actors speak their direct speech as well as the comments from the author, talking about themselves in third person. Oddly enough this does not distance the audience from the characters, but rather deepens the perception in a rather surreal way. Several critics comment on the extraordinary task of the actors, who are “playing prose, not a play” (Sedykh, “Kak dym”). Both text and subtext are conveyed. The play, two and half hours without intermission, spellbinds the audience. As in his other productions Ginkas plays with the spectators, through light and dark humor and unexpected effects. The vast, empty auditorium becomes an abyss from where the monk comes and goes. Kovrin, metaphorically balancing on the birch edges, at one point disappears in the dark, causing an audible physiological reaction in the audience, quickly followed by laughter. As the play unfolds, the atmosphere becomes more gloomy, graphically represented by an increased number of open patches in the peacock feather garden and the darkening colors of the costumes. At the end stagehands come and board up the gazebo. The peacock feathers are taken down and lay trampled on the platform. The earth-colored costumes have turned dark. The reappearance of the monk is a “typical Ginkas” finale, he breaks out of the boarded up gazebo to console Kovrin. Man and illusion are reunited, life is meaningless without it. And Kovrin dies with a smile. John Freedman calls The Black Monk the most “poetic” or lyrical of Ginkas’s Moscow productions.19 It also seems to be the most transparent


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metaphorical representation of Ginkas’s “theme” of living on the edge and the desire to realize oneself, to transgress. The location of the play on the balcony, with the stage balancing on the edge, enveloped by the vast, dark expansion of the auditorium, gives neither audience nor actors a way out, except to jump. The characters reinforce the metaphor by dangerously balancing on the birch fence, or simply jumping in, calling from, or suddenly appearing out of, the “abyss.” The search for self-fulfillment is, of course, a Chekhov theme, and for the duration of the play, at least, it becomes the audience’s, too. The monk asks the central question “do you want to be a genius or part of the herd” to Kovrin, but also to the audience. It is the more striking because Ginkas’s monk is not a serene, pious, mirage, but a rather severe hallucination. Half-naked, with a sharp featured face and round penetrating eyes, head covered with a tight cap, the monk jumps around like an acrobat, one moment hanging upside-down from the gazebo, the next jumping up from the abyss. His gestures and expressions are intense, grotesque. He does not attract Kovrin, he overwhelms him. Yet it is clear that the monk only comes to those who wait for him. Here Chekhov and Ginkas meet. Here we see crime and punishment, the eternal strive of people to transgress their boundaries, to live life to the utmost, and the impossibility thereof. Both Chekhov and Ginkas are ruthless in the sense that they seem to take away the most humane of human characteristics: their illusions, their dreams. At the same time their respective, and in this case coinciding, work leaves you with that particular melancholic yet uplifting feeling of having experienced something great, meaningful, and utterly human.20 The central place of the monk, with all the mysticism it evokes, traditionally situated this Chekhov story as somewhat of an anomaly in his work, despite the fact that Chekhov himself labeled the story “medicinal.” Under the Soviet regime all mysticism was suspect. In Kama Ginkas’s production the mysticism of the monk becomes deceptively concrete. Mariia Sedykh asserts that the mirage of the monk is extended in an optical illusion that operates on several levels: in the translation of prose to the language of theatre (beyond dramatization); in the cosmic endlessness of space; in the coinciding of the artists’ absolute authenticity with their almost absurd conditions (“Kak dym”). Gubaidullina talks about the seduction of illusions, or delusions; not only

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the illusionary monk, but the dreamed-up love of Tania, the heavenly but rather useless garden, and, “the strongest hallucination”: the Rigoletto quartet coming from all sides of the theatre, and the a-capella songs of the actors (“Razplata”). This production would have been impossible before Glasnost and Perestroika. In the transcultural environment of the late 1990s in Moscow, however, it becomes an utterly moving, personal, and enriching experience. The Black Monk was hailed as one of the strongest productions of the season, capable of making even the most seasoned and cynical Ginkas critics “jump off their seats” (Davydova, “Bezdny”).21 Although Aleksei Fillipov, in his review of Pushkin, doubted if Ginkas could pull off yet another production on essentially the same topic, using similar theatrical tricks (“Igraem”) Kama Ginkas seems clearly able to. Unlike other Moscow directors who suddenly gained fame because of their idiosyncratic productions, like Roman Viktiuk for example, Kama Ginkas’s productions somehow fail to become stale and strike as both unmistakably “Ginkas” and refreshingly “new.” All four productions described above still played for sold out houses in 2000, while Ginkas was working on his adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s The Happy Prince on the main stage. CONCLUSION Although Kama Ginkas at times still works abroad and with non-Mtiuz actors, the predominant “home” of his work is now unmistakably the Moscow Tiuz, and his name is directly associated with the theatre. Genrietta Ianovskaia clearly caused and directed the initial changes in the theatre, but Kama Ginkas, as shown earlier, has been instrumental in sustaining and strengthening the cultural role of the theatre and overcoming the baggage of the past. The Moscow Tiuz believes that the status of the theatre has been changed so successfully over the past fifteen years—from a marginal theatre for children and young people, legitimized and commodified by the Soviet regime, into an “art” theatre that is free to adhere to a plurality of complex cultural and ideological images—that a name change, still contemplated in 1996, had become a nonissue by the year 2000 (Smelianskaia pers. intv.).22 Ianovskaia embraced the transideological environment as a site for multiple cultural expressions that emerged with Glasnost and


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Perestroika. Early on, she transformed the Moscow Tiuz from an instrument of the official regime into the vanguard of “Perestroika” theatre. In her own productions she used the cultural and ideological images that became available, and moved the theatre in this sense to the forefront as an instrument of Claude Lefort’s “invisible ideology” itself. She strengthened the position of the theatre by offering a home to Kama Ginkas’s critically acclaimed works, which are increasingly identified as “Mtiuz” productions, using both the space and actors of the theatre. The renewed image and status attracted young, talented actors. Although the pedagogical section has all but disappeared, the Moscow Tiuz still offers award winning productions for children, celebrates several (children’s) holidays with free performances for children, invites orphanages and other social institutions to bring their children for backstage tours and the like (Platonova pers. intv. 2000). One of the most popular productions for children of the spring 2000 season was the 1997 production Kto tsarevnu potseluet [Who Will Kiss the Princess], by well-known poet Iulii Kim. Evaluating the reviews and productions of the last fifteen years, and the status and image of the theatre at the beginning of the new millennium, it seems that Ianovskaia, despite all the controversy, has reached her goal. The Moscow Tiuz is not anymore what its name literally implies: a theatre for the young spectator. It managed to transgress the boundaries of the institution, reinvent itself under altered material circumstances, position itself as a site for multiple cultural expressions and become, indeed, in the eyes of many an art theatre for all ages.


Afterword x

T

his book has undergone a long, and rather arduous journey during which I constantly had to position and reposition myself. I started out with the premise that Soviet Russian theatre for young audiences was among the best in the world, if not a leader. This impression was based not so much on personal observation, but on preliminary research, including accounts from the early 1980s, in English and Russian, that hailed the Soviet theatre for young people as such. Having visited, studied, and worked in the Soviet Union throughout the 1980s (1980–1989), I was quite aware that the theatre for young people was an official instrument of the totalitarian regime. By the early 1990s I wondered how the changes in ideology, cultural climate, and material circumstances had affected these theatres in the new Russia. I expected to find a once glorious theatre in crisis—in fact the title of one of the first papers I wrote about this research was titled “Russian Theatre for Young Audiences in Crisis.” I also expected to inform a primarily American audience on how supported, subsidized theatre could make a difference in young people’s lives. I felt an affinity for the Russian theatre, for its presumed magnitude, its spiritual role and leading function in Russian (Moscovian) daily life. As it turned out, I had to significantly adjust my assumptions and adapt my study to the material disclosed. The findings of my journey are described in this book, that begins, historiographically, with the crude revolutionary beginnings of Soviet theatre for young people shortly after the October Revolution of 1917, and ends with the rather sophisticated productions of Genrietta Ianovskaia and Kama Ginkas. Ironically, both took and take place in the same building. In 1918, Nataliia Sats helped to establish the Children’s

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Theatre of the Moscow Soviet—a state-subsidized children’s theatre for puppets, ballet, and marionettes—in this building and in 1921 it became the house of First State Theatre for Children. Both the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Moscow Tiuz credit these first developments as the beginnings of “their” theatre. The course of these two Moscow based theatres, and their adaptation to ideological and cultural shifts, have been the focus of this book. Other important Russian theatres for children and youth, such as the Leningrad Tiuz, or the regional tiuzes (according to some the hope of the tiuzes in Russia) are left out, in an attempt to center the study and avoid overgeneralization. Nevertheless, any concluding remarks will be framed by personal subject positioning, interpretation, and ways of unpacking the materials disclosed. Given this caveat, what are some of the conclusions a work like this generates? First of all, Dmitrievskii’s 1987 question “Tiuz Today: To Be or not to Be?” seems, at least where the two oldest theatres for young people in Moscow are concerned, decided. In its original form of state supported, professional theatres for children and youth, with the specific function of ideological and aesthetic enlightenment of its young constituents— theater for children and youth could not survive the ideological and cultural shifts. Theatre for young people in Russia changed from a government institution, an instrument to perpetuate and legitimate the official ideology of Marxism-Leninism into an art form for young people that adheres to and realizes in its theatrical practices the ideologies and cultural paradigms to which it has submitted itself, producing mirror structures which function side by side in a transideological society. The course of the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Moscow Tiuz have, in this respect, been paradigmatic of the many choices and opportunities Russian theatre for young audiences faced. As these two theatres are in the capital, they were traditionally positioned as examples to be emulated. For all intents and purposes they have lost this exemplary function. Nevertheless, as some of the oldest dramatic theatres for young people, it is noteworthy that they survived the ideological and cultural changes, adapted themselves, however differently, to the altered material circumstances, and found their place in a transcultural and transideological society.

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Contrary to early predictions the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT and the Moscow Tiuz were able to take off their children’s shoes and grow up, while still partly preserving their identity as theatres for children and youth. They are contestants and participants in national and international events such as the Golden Mask Awards and the 2001 International Theater Olympics (see chapter 7). The latter featured two premieres by the RAMT and Mtiuz respectively: Alfred de Musset’s Lorenzaccio, and Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution, staged by Genrietta Ianovskaia. An international production, The Polyphony of the World, directed by Kama Ginkas, was hailed as the most stunning theatre event of the new millennium. In its altered form the Moscow Tiuz is primarily perceived as an “art” theatre, a theatre for the intelligentsia. Particularly, the productions of Kama Ginkas are criticized as “elitist” and exclusionary, if only because of limited seating. Ianovskaia’s productions are notoriously controversial because of her ideological, culturally contextualized interpretations and provocative metaphors. The RAMT adapted itself less radically and less controversially to ideological and cultural shifts. Despite a threatening staleness in the early 1990s, it has managed to rebound by staging productions for family audiences, among other productions, that are perhaps less critically acclaimed than those of the Mtiuz, but currently attract full houses, and to some extent “fill a gap.” In the late 1990s, the RAMT rose to a more pivotal position in Moscow’s theatre world through instigating administrative reorganizations, organizing roundtable discussions, and housing festivals (see chapters 7 and 8). From May 10–June 1, 2002 the theatre housed the International Festival of Theatre for Children. By soliciting productions for this festival that are geared specifically to young spectators from 5 to 14 years old, the theatre’s search for identity under the altered material circumstances seemingly came full circle and brought it back to its roots. The call for participants clearly positions the theatre: “The festival is dedicated to the 80th anniversary of the Russian Academic Youth Theater, the oldest Children’s Theatre in Moscow.” It is interesting to note that the organizer, Vladimir Urin, was also most critical of the traditional practices of the Tiuzes in the 1987 discussion “Tiuz Today: To Be or not to Be?” and the most vocal proponent for radical change. Part III is, admittedly, the most subjective part of the book. Because I was able to observe most of the productions discussed in this chapter,

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and shared my initial impressions with the audience and (Russian) friends, I was able to form a personal opinion that did not always coincide with the reviews I read afterwards. I indicated this as much as possible, but it needs to be noted that particularly this last part reflects my theories, biases, and interpretations. I have already elaborated on my decision to include a chapter on Kama Ginkas in this book. The complimentary evaluation of his work is, as shown, corroborated by most, if not all critics, many of whom consider him the most innovative and creative director in contemporary Moscow. His first production in the new millennium at the Mtiuz, an adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s fairy tale The Happy Prince, was again hailed as a “startling, penetrating, deeply atmospheric” production with a “truly stunning” finale, a production that is “quintessential Ginkas” but which nonetheless “looks like nothing he has done before” (Freedman, “Happy”). In January 2004 I traveled to Yale Repertory Theatre where Ginkas stayed for a seventeen day run of his adaptation of Chekhov’s short story Skripka rotshil’da, or Rothschild’ Fiddle. Set and costumes were designed by long-term collaborator Sergei Barkhin, and the production featured his favorite actors; among them Arina Nesterova, who played Dadon in The Golden Cockerel and Nashchokina in Pushkin. Duel. Death, and Igor Iasulovich, the monk in The Black Monk. This was not the first appearance by Ginkas in the United States. In August 2003, Ginkas and Ianovskaia were already at Bard College with K.I. from “Crime” and The Storm, and an American version of Chekhov’s The Lady with the Lapdog, directed by Ginkas, premiered at ART in September 2003. In English, the theatre is now referred to as The New Generation Theatre, although in Russian it remains known by its acronym, Mtiuz. The new name is coined in the book Ginkas coauthored with John Freedman, Provoking Theatre: Kama Ginkas Directs, which was published at the time they went to Bard. The Moscow theatres for young audiences have successfully adapted to the cultural and ideological shifts. They managed to overcome their unprestigious reputations, expanded their repertories, and attracted a new audience. As such, they contributed to changing the cultural climate in Russia’s capital. Glasnost and Perestroika opened up, what culturologist Mikhail Epstein calls a “transcultural world”: a collective

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state of awareness involving a plurality of cultural expressions (288). In this climate both theatres have become sites of cultural transformation. The journey of the Moscow theatres for young people does not end here. They continue to search for new forms, reflecting a plurality of cultural expressions, as a site for self-reflection. They will keep on growing.


Notes x INTRODUCTION 1. Lars Kleberg’s Theatre as Action: Soviet Russian Avant-Garde Aesthetics, for example, gives an original account of the discrepancy between the ideal and the reality of the Soviet 1920s. For a brief account on theatre in the time of socialist realism, conforming to and resisting the dominant ideology, see Inna Solovyova’s article in A History of Russian Theatre, edited by Robert Leach and Victor Borovsky. For a highly evocative and insightful exploration of Russian history as theatre and cultural performance see Spencer Golub, The Recurrence of Fate. Harold B. Segel’s Twentieth-Century Russian Drama has several chapters that deal with subversive elements in drama, including dissident dramatic literature. Anatoly Smeliansky’s The Russian Theatre After Stalin, gives the compelling perspective of the insider. In addition, you can find occasional articles in journals, such as the Tulane Drama Review. Introductions to anthologies of translated plays, such as Michael Glenny’s The Golden Age of Soviet Theatre, are often quite informative, so are the introductions to works on specific playwrights.

1

FROM MARXISM–LENINISM TO PERESTROIKA AND GLASNOST

1. This has often been associated with violence, although there is no concrete evidence for that. For Marx, every state is a dictatorship, in that it is an expression of the hegemony of a ruling class. Just as the bourgeoisie uses the capitalist state to suppress the proletariat, the proletariat should use the socialist state to control the remains of the bourgeoisie. This does not necessarily have to happen in a violent or suppressive way; the “dictatorship” just indicates that the one class (the proletariat) controls and restricts the other (the bourgeoisie) (de Geus 16).

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2. It needs to be noted that Marxism has not been the only influence on Soviet ideology. Mikhail Epstein points out several different ideological doctrines that influenced what he calls “Soviet Marxism,” including the teachings of the French Enlightenment; Slavophile ideas of the spiritual preeminence of the Russian nation; Tolstoy’s ideas of simplification; mythological beliefs of a coming golden age, immortal heroes, and future happiness; and ideas of Russian revolutionary democrats and populists (Chernishevskii, Dobroliubov). According to Epstein the incorporation of different ideas in Soviet Marxism was necessary for its power and survival: just as the Bolsheviks needed a party of a “new type” the new Soviet State needed an ideology of a “new type” (153–154). However, while these and other ideologies influenced Soviet ideology in the course of time to various extents, Marxism can still be seen as the basis for subsequent adaptations and reinterpretations. 3. For example, see his imperialism theory in Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism, written in 1916. Lenin maintained that the export of surplus capital and the exploitation of the colonies created the possibility to “bribe” the masses, by giving them better wages. However, imperialist nations would inevitably declare war upon each other in a longing to expand their colonial possessions. The chaos created by these wars would still pave the way for a socialist revolution. (Lenin interpreted WWI as a war between imperialist nations.) 4. In What’s to Be Done Lenin formulates his doctrine of the “iron cohort”: I assert: (1) that no revolutionary movement can endure without a stable organization of leaders maintaining continuity; (2) that the broader the popular mass drawn spontaneously into the struggle, which forms the basis of the movement and participates in it, the more urgent the need for such an organization, and the more solid this organization must be (for it is much easier for all sorts of demagogues to side-track the more backward sections of the masses); (3) that such an organization must consist chiefly of people professionally engaged in revolutionary activity; (4) that in an autocratic state, the more we confine the membership of such an organization to people who are professionally engaged in revolutionary activity and who have been professionally trained in the art of combating the political police, the more difficult it will be to unearth the organization; and, (5) the greater will be the number of people from the working class and the other social classes who will be able to join the movement and perform active work in it. (185–186) 5. These parties were: the Socialist Revolutionaries (representing the peasants and capable of violence); the Constitutional Democratic Party (Cadets, who

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were liberal-democratic and revolutionary only as a last resort); the Octobrists (liberal-democratic, for constitutional monarchy and anti-revolutionary); the Union of the Russian People (extremely right-wing, in favor of upholding the orthodox church, autocracy, and Russian nationalism); and the Russian Social Democratic Labor Party (RSDRP) (Marxist forerunners of the CPSU, led by Lenin and founded in 1898) (Ponton 20). 6. See Epstein, for the connection between ideology and language and the development of Soviet-Marxist “ideolanguage.” Based on Marx’s notion that “ideas do not exist in separation from language” Epstein maintains that especially Soviet-Marxist ideology confirms the force of the union between language and ideas. Subsequent chapters in this book will provide numerous implicit and explicit examples. 7. The party holds that the moral code of the builder of communism includes such principles as: — devotion to the cause of communism, love of the socialist homeland, and the socialist countries; — conscientious labor for the good of society: he who does not work, neither shall he eat; — concern on the part of each for the preservation and growth of public wealth; — a high sense of public duty, intolerance of violations of the public interest; — collectivism and comradely mutual assistance: One for all and all for one; — humane relations and mutual respect among people: Man is to man a friend, comrade and brother; — honesty and truthfulness, moral purity, guilelessness and modesty in public and private life; — mutual respect in the family and concern for the upbringing of children; — an uncompromising attitude to injustice, parasitism, dishonesty, careerism, and money grubbing; — friendship and brotherhood of all peoples of the U.S.S.R., intolerance of national and racial animosity; — an uncompromising attitude toward the enemies of communism, peace and the freedom of peoples; — fraternal solidarity with the working people of all countries and with all peoples. (Qtd. in Evans 91–92) 8. Brezhnev defined developed socialism as “that stage of maturity of the new society, when the restructuring of the totality of social relations on the collectivistic principles internally inherent to socialism is being completed.”

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9. Nevertheless, Gorbachev did see the apocalyptic nature of his policies: We understand well that both the international prestige of socialism and its impact on world processes will depend in many ways on how this works out in our country. I would say we are simply doomed to the success of our restructuring because we have no right to allow a different outcome. (Speech in Cuba 1989, qtd. in Woodby Gorbachev 3) 10. As Evans points out, some conflicts in the former Soviet Union were considered to be either illegitimate or non-legitimate because they were contradictory to the ideology or the socialist phase toward full communism that was officially reached (213–218). 11. It needs to be noted that these surveys, and all media reports in general, are received with some inherent skepticism by the public: “Russians have few illusions about the media” (see the figures in Wyman 78–80, 107–109). Nevertheless, the role of the media in its substantially increased diversification has markedly influenced Russians’ world perception. 12. It is of note that Althusser did not specify a particular ideology in this essay. As a French neo-Marxist he discusses in this article the means by which ideologies in general are perpetuated. Margaret Majumdar points out that Althusser’s work as a whole is not a single, coherent, systematic body of thought (vii). Posthumously published work, particularly his “autobiography” L’avenir dure longtemps [The Future Lasts a Long Time] (1992), illustrate the contradictions and paradoxes in Althusser’s ideas, making him “the accursed child of more than one history” (Elliott vii). As an esteemed member of the French Communist Party, Althusser faced the dilemma all communist intellectuals of his generation faced, particularly in France, where, as Hobsbawm observed in 1964, “the party increasingly was the socialist movement, leaving it meant political impotence . . .” (qtd. in Elliott 190). In L’avenir dure longtemps Althusser states that “objectively, there existed no possible form of political intervention in the party other than the purely theoretical, and, moreover, one based upon the existing or recognized theory so as to turn it back against the party’s use of it” (188–189, qtd. in Elliott 191). 13. Epstein goes a step further in asserting that the process of enveloping multiple ideologies into one all-comprehensive, omnipresent ideological environment creates a universalist or “de-ideologized” ideology, which, in contrast to totalitarian ideologies “tries to eliminate all oppositions and use the entire range of ideas as if they were complementary” (160). These totalizing, or universalizing tendencies of Epstein also come to the fore in his theories of the transcultural (see end of this chapter). Epstein seems to acknowledge this tendency in the following comment: “Russian philosophical

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tradition places a premium on wholeness, which has placed a number of cruel tricks on the event of Russian history and spawned a political totalitarianism that ironically tried to envelope all of life into a single ideological principle. This consequence determined the specific boundaries of Soviet transculture in its attempt to attain a free multidimensional totality opposed to totalitarianism” (301). Kelly, Pilkington, Shepherd and Volkov in their introduction to Russian Cultural Studies (1998) criticize Epstein’s “Lotmanesque emphasis on wholeness, totality, and integration” as well as Epstein’s insistence that self-reflection on culture is made possible by existing achievements of high culture, reinforcing the exclusion of disregarded cultural practices and phenomena (12–13). From a material position I agree with this criticism, nevertheless I also find Epstein’s theories useful and intriguing, particularly because they are formulated from a Russian cultural position, rather than an outside Western academic point of view. 14. Epstein maintains that the closest English equivalent of “culturology” is cultural studies, but that, unlike cultural studies, culturology indicates a whole, indivisible discipline that cannot be reduced to a number of special studies (Epstein 284, cf. note 13).

2

THE HISTORICAL ROLE AND CULTURAL FUNCTION OF RUSSIAN THEATRE FOR YOUNG AUDIENCES

An earlier version of this chapter has been published as “Der Kampf zwischen Kunst und Pädagogik: Zur historischen Rolle und ideologischen Funktion des Theaters für junge Zuschauer,” Kinder- und Jugendtheater in Russland. Ed. Wolfgang Schneider and Gerd Taube. Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 2003, 2–22. 1. Writing under the official doctrine of Marxism-Leninism, which rejected any ideological critique, one was expected to glorify the contributions of the revolution, Marxism, the Soviet state, and its leaders. Quotes from Lenin were mandatory, and contributions from the state to the overall benefit of the subject in question were to be highlighted. Regressions or failures should be downplayed or ignored. (See also Epstein’s discussion on Soviet Marxist “ideolanguage” 101–163.) 2. The term children’s theatre causes much confusion since it generally refers to theatre by and theatre for children, professional or amateur. While George Shail, in his study “The Leningrad Theatre of Young Spectators, 1922–1941” seems to use the term in this broad sense too, Lenora Shpet makes it very clear that she talks about professional theatre specifically for children and youth by adult artists. However, she also points out that the

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3.

4.

5.

6.

7. 8.

9.

Notes difference between theatre by and theatre for children was only officially delineated in 1919, at a meeting of the working class theatre (401 note 8). Several sources deal with the establishment of theatre for young audiences in the former Soviet Union. The main ones in English are the 1958 and 1980 dissertations of Gene Sosin and George Shail respectively, and in Russian the histories of Aleksandra Gozenpud ( 1954–1961, 1967) and Lenora Shpet (1971), and the autobiographies of Nataliia Sats (1960, 1972). Nataliia Sats undoubtedly did much to establish and sustain theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union, but her autobiographies are highly subjective, and the information needs to be assessed in the wider political and personal context. Aleksandra Gozenpud’s historical essays clearly reflect the official Soviet ideology, and need to be interpreted as such. Lenora Shpet is less blatantly ideological, although her work does contain the necessary rhetoric. Sosin wrote under difficult circumstances, when the Soviet Union was still a closed society, and he never had a chance to conduct on-site research. Shail’s lengthy 1980 dissertation is one of the more current scholarly works in English on the history of theatre for young audiences in the Soviet Union. His work is informative, but at times he also perpetuates the Soviet rhetoric. The name of this official publication of the TEO and thus the Narkompros, “Igra [Play],” is in this context significant too (Shpet, Sovetskii 116). 10 Momonovskii Alley, later 10 Sadovskii Alley, now again Momonovskii Alley. The theatre has been housing theatres for young audiences since the ballet and puppet theatre first moved in 1918. From 1941 until this day it is the home of the Mtiuz, one of the focus theatres of this book. Ironically, Nataliia Sats’s Moscow State Children’s Musical Theatre, founded in 1964, meets this description in content and practices to a great extent (see e.g., Victor Victorov The Natalia Sats Children’s Musical Theatre). Socialist realism became the official doctrine for all the arts and literature in the Soviet Union in the mid-1930s (see further). The term “tiuz,” an acronym of “teatr iunogo zritelia,” (theatre of the young spectator) or plural “teatr iunykh zritelei” (theatre of young spectators), was coined by Aleksandr Briantsev, the founder of the Leningrad Tiuz, or Lentiuz, in 1922. The Lentiuz became a model for many new theatres for young audiences companies in the Soviet Union, who adopted not only many of the practices of the Lentiuz, such as the set-up of the pedagogical section, but also the acronym “tiuz” (see Shail’s dissertation). According to the 1996 anniversary booklet of the Central Children’s Theatre, Rozanov and Elena Volkova were the “first pedagogues” (Na Teatral’noi).

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10. The pioneers is a Soviet youth organization for children ages 10–15, founded in 1922. The official uniform of the pioneers was a white shirt or blouse with a red handkerchief; the official slogan was “vsegda gotov [always prepared].” 11. The word “igra” in Russian means game as well as play (play of children, theatre play, the playing of actors). Shail translates the term as game-play, although “play-production” is actually a more correct translation of “igro-spektakl.” 12. The Little Negro Boy and the Monkey, produced by Sats in 1927, was still performed in 1994 by the Children’s Musical Theatre in Moscow (founded by Sats and, after her death in 1993, continued by her husband). 13. By 1930 there were twenty theatres for young audiences, by 1932 forty two, and in 1940, just before WWII, there were more than seventy state-subsidized theatres for young audiences in the Soviet Union (Shail, “Leningrad” 84–85, 681). 14. During the New Economic Policy (NEP), which lasted from 1921 to 1927, a partial return to private enterprise was allowed, especially in farming and private industry. This instigated a feeling of freedom, which led to many daring, avant-garde experimentations and innovations in theatre, art, and literature. The theatre practices of directors such as Meyerhold and Tairov have become an inspiration for many theatre artists outside the Soviet Union. 15. A sign of Soviet coercive practices is that Briantsev not only omits Meyerhold from his accounts, but also virtually ignores the contributions of Nikolai Bakhtin whom he mentions but four times, briefly, in his memoirs (published 1979). Both Meyerhold and Bakhtin fell in disrepute with the Soviet regime in the 1930s. 16. Like Morton and other translators I refer to the three separate age groups as “children” (up to ca. 10 years of age), “adolescents” (ca. 11 to c. 14), and “youth” (ca. 15 years and older). 17. The circumstances of Nataliia Sats’s exile have never been revealed. Reportedly she ended up in Alma Ata, where she founded the Kazakh Theatre for Children and Youth, which she directed from 1944–1950 (Sats, Novely; Teatral’naia Entsiklopediia). She returned to Moscow probably sometime in 1953. In 1964 she founded the State Musical Children’s Theatre. She never went public with any of the circumstances surrounding her arrest, imprisonment, and exile. She died in January 1993. 18. Indeed, although the Central Children’s Theatre was meant to be the model for all children’s theatres in the Soviet Union, the Lentiuz kept setting the tone. Briantsev’s concept of a “synthetic theatre,” including music, songs, acrobatics and dance, and the operations of the pedagogical section were,

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from the beginning, widely imitated. Many of the founders and members of the new tiuzes had been seeking advice from or were trained by Briantsev, Bakhtin, and other members of the Lentiuz (Shail, “Leningrad” 778–779). 19. This theatre is one of the focus theatres of this book. Following popular reference in written and oral accounts, I will throughout the text interchangeably refer to the theatre as the Mtiuz or the Moscow Tiuz.

3

THAW AND FREEZE

1. Malenkov remained a high-ranking party official, which in itself was a clear indication of relaxation in policies. Likewise, after being forced from office in 1964 Khrushchev could stay in Moscow until his death in 1971, complaining that he had not enough time to “expose Stalin” to the full (Smeliansky, Russian 29) . 2. The Thaw (“Ottepel”) was the title of a short story by Ilya Ehrenburg published in the magazine Znamia (5) in 1954. The story advocates universal, human values, divorced from political categories. 3. Afraid of criminals, Khardzhiev (1903–1996) emigrated in 1993 to the Netherlands. His collection, which he wished to keep intact, was smuggled out of the country. In Amsterdam he fell prey to unscrupulous practices of high officials, emigrant “friends,” eminent slavists, and notaries. After his suspect death, some of the most important pieces of his collection, which he intended for the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, were sold. Over 15 million dollars fell in the hands of those that caused the demise of the collection (Rottenberg). 4. Virta and Lavrenov, in agreement with the cultural politics of Zhdanov, maintained that the basic principle of conflict between positive and negative forces no longer applied in Soviet society, since all social antagonism had been resolved and life had become happy and harmonious. The only conflict that was left was between the good and the better, disagreements did no longer exist, only misunderstandings (Ruhle 515). 5. The world famous director Iurii Liubimov, for example, directed The Good Person of Schezuan in 1962, as a student project at the Vakhtangov school and continued his experiments with Brecht’s plays and Brechtian techniques at the Taganka Theatre of Drama and Comedy, of which he became artistic director in 1964. 6. The Soviet Republics had usually two children’s theatres, a national tiuz and a Russian tiuz. 7. Knebel was a student of Michael Chekhov, who founded the Second Moscow Art Theatre Studio in the 1920s. Chekhov developed a new acting

Notes

8.

9. 10.

11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

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method that would draw on the actor’s energy, rather than character psychology. His ideas were met with opposition within the MK, and in 1928 he emigrated, first to Berlin, later to Paris and New York. Smeliansky compares the heroes of Rozov’s plays to Hamlet, who in Okhlopkov’s first postwar production (1954) struck a special chord: “Hamlet was tackling the problems of Soviet young men, or rather Soviet youths were beginning to tackle Hamletesque problems” (Russian 6–7). Bulgakov’s Molière had not been performed since it was banned at the MKhAT in 1936. While Efros admired Rozov’s work he also acknowledged that Rozov had his shortcomings, the principal one being his tendency to moralize “in his plays as well as in life” (Repetitsiia 74). For a more detailed description of My Friend Kolka! see Smeliansky, Russian 61–62. See e.g., Rezhisserskii teatr: Razgovory pod zanaves veka [Director’s Theatre: Conversations at the Turn of the Century] Moscow, 1999) and two 1998 articles, one by Shakh Azizova, “Vernost’ [Loyalty],” in Kul’tura, and an interview with Central Children’s Theatre actor Antonina Dmitrievna by Sergei Konaev in Teatral’naia Zhizn’. The actor hacking up a three pieced suit, symbol of the bourgeoisie, was Oleg Tabakov, impersonator of multiple Rozov characters at the Central Children’s Theatre, later a star actor at the Sovremennik and the MKhAT. He is best known in the West for his role as the title character in the movie Oblomov. This play, that in many ways foreshadows Rozov’s career as a playwright for adults, recalls the suffering and pain of the war. Rozov adapted the play for the screen; under the title The Cranes Are Flying, it won the 1958 Cannes Film Festival Best Picture Award. It needs to be noted once again that the Leningrad Tiuz fares the best in this respect. Zinovyi Korogodskii, Briantsev’s successor as artistic director at the Lentiuz, managed to keep the theatre and productions lively and interesting (Shail, “Meeting”). However, because the focus of this study lies on Moscow, I will not elaborate here on the Lentiuz’s endeavors. These activities were often limited to the urban centers. Indeed, much of the “cultural Thaw” was only experienced by the cultural intelligentsia in those sections of society that had access to, and were active in, producing such cultural capital and bypassed large, less culturally active and urbanized sections of Soviet society. In 1984, for example, the Komsomol was empowered by the Ministry of Culture to execute a directive which included the blacklisting of bands

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Notes and songs not to be played at discos; the Ministry also stipulated that 80% of the materials played by rock groups had to be written by members of the Union of Soviet Composers. Rock was seen as the major cause of the “stupefaction effect,” the inability to appreciate “real culture” by inculcating blind consumerism (Pilkington, Russia’s 79–80; “Future” 374).

4

THE CHANGE IN CULTURAL FUNCTION WITH GLASNOST AND PERESTROIKA

1. The confusion in terminology is still rampant. “Children’s theatre” and “theatre of the young spectator”: (“tiuz,” teatr iunogo zritelia, pl. “tiuzes”—see chapter 2, note 2) is used interchangeably in the Russian materials, referring to what I hitherto mostly identified by its U.S. terms: theatre for young audiences, theatre for young people, or theatre for children and youth. All terms are used interchangeably in the text. 2. A new form of circulation in the 1970s and early 1980s was the khamizdat (kham means boor); the printing of a limited number of copies of controversial works for the Central Committee or just the Politburo. These works sometimes found their ways to the broader public, or the West, through the children of these high officials (Lovell and Marsh 69). 3. 1987 is generally to be considered the year when Perestroika took real effect. “By the autumn of 1986, in Gorbachev’s speeches, the theme of acceleration of development was linked with a strong stress on the necessity of restructuring, which the general secretary was soon to describe as ‘radical’ and, by 1987, to characterize as ‘revolutionary.’ By that time the whole world identified the term Perestroika with Gorbachev’s program of radical reform in Soviet social, economic, and political institutions” (Evans 161). 4. See also a 1986 article by O.S. Bogdanova, Deputy Director of the Institute for General Upbringing, and S.V. Cherenkova, “Sovremennyi starsheklassnik [The Contemporary Senior],” qtd in Kuebart 117–118 in which they discuss the divergence between the learning of moral values and the appropriate behavior and the trend to increasing individualization of personal development and “destandardization of moral growth” (21). For more on the political socialization of school children, see Kuebart. 5. No specific studies were identified. 6. As decreed by Lunacharskii in 1918, adult theatres were required to have at least one children’s production in the repertory, usually performed on Saturday and/or Sunday morning. Reportedly, these productions remained unaltered in the repertory for years, were acted without much enthusiasm or qualitative merit, and were generally considered to bring

Notes

7.

8.

9.

10. 11.

12.

13.

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little prestige. (The Moscow Art Theatre had in the 1990s still Maeterlinck’s Blue Bird in the repertory as its children’s show. This is the famous production directed by Stanislavsky before the October Revolution.) By this time the term “molodezhnyi” (youth) theatre is generally used to refer to theatre primarily directed to older youth or young adults—although the term remains multi-interpretable (see also the following chapters). The ideas of abandoning the forced field trips, and loosening the rigid age groups was not entirely new. Galina Kolosova talked about the two “revolutions” in the tiuzes, both instigated by Korogodskii from the Lentiuz in the 1960s: 1) selling tickets through the box office, rather than to entire schools, and 2) targeting to a mixed audience (pers. intv. 1996). Liudmilla Ulianova founded a “children’s home theatre” for the youngest generation from 3 to 7 years old (an age group that traditionally went only to puppet theatre), a theatre that only came into existence “thanks to Perestroika” (in Abelia 130). See chapters 5 and 6 for a more detailed discussion on the different directions of the Central Children’s Theatre and the Mtiuz. For a discussion on the parallel developments in Russian children’s literature see Maria Nikolajevna, “Russian Children’s Literature Before and After Perestroika.” The Russian word “nravstvennost’ ” refers both to morality and moral behavior. In Tolkovyi Slovar’ Russkogo Iazyka [The Explanatory Dictionary of the Russian Language], 1938, nravstvennost’ is described as (1) the totality of norms that determine a person’s behavior; (2) a person’s behavior proper; and, (3) moral characteristics. In Ozhegov’s Slovar’ Russkogo Iazyka [Dictionary of the Russian Language], 1978, nravstvennost’ is described as the rules that determine a person’s behavior; the spiritual and mental characteristics, that are indispensable for a person in society, and also the fulfillment of those rules, behavior. “Kommunisticheskaia nravstvennost.’ ” I have translated the frequently used term consistently with moral(s). This is, of course, partly due to the fact that scholarly research, published in books and dissertations, is often slow in reacting to current trends. Although I was able to find journal and newspaper articles on general trends in theatre for young audiences, articles on new pedagogical theories in theatre for young audiences in Russia were remarkably scarce. Taboridze saw audience etiquette as a first requirement, and gave the following example for teachers to prepare their students: We will get to know many interesting things. Therefore during the performance you have to sit still, not make any noise, and not talk to

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Notes

your peers who are sitting next to you. In the theatre a performance lasts for several hours. After each act there is an intermission. If you have something to say to each other you can do that during intermission. But even then you cannot be noisy. Imagine: more than 200 people are visiting the theatre, what happens if they all start talking at the same time? In the theatre prevails always a joyful, festive atmosphere. And we have to go there beautifully dressed, in well-ironed clothes, in shining shoes, with smoothly combed hair. Before the beginning and after the end of the performance boys should help girls to take off and put on their coats. In the foyer of the theatre hang the portraits of the actors. It is desirable that you look at them and remember them. We will talk about them. (76) 15. This was a problem of the entire intelligentsia in Russia, causing some to characterize the post-Perestroika climate as “chaotic” and “confusing,” rather than “transideological” and “transcultural.” As Lovell and Marsh point out: the intelligentsia’s relationship to power was transformed. Soviet intellectuals, whether conformist or oppositionist, could always position themselves ideologically in reference to one monolithic political authority. After Glasnost and Perestroika, such a response would fall short in light of the social, cultural, economic, and political challenges that faced the country (73, 76–77). 16. It has to be noted, too, that, although founded on the same principles, theatres for young audiences in the Russian Republic and the rest of the former USSR were influenced by different cultural circumstances which also had their influences in the theatres’ functioning as an ideological instrument of the totalitarian regime. Thus, the Tbilisi Theatre for Children and Youth maintains it has always been less controlled by censorship and was thus able to produce plays that were forbidden in Moscow. It is one of the reasons why this book focuses on two Moscow based theatres. 17. Shvarts’s fairy tales (for children and adults) also appeared in several film versions, the best of which are directed by Mark Zakharov, artistic director of the Lenkom (see chapter 7).

5

CENTRAL CHILDREN’S THEATRE

1. There is still confusion about the actual founding date of the Central Children’s Theatre. In the notes of the 1994 program, for example, it says that the Central Children’s Theatre was founded in the 1930s—in the

Notes

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

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1996 program it reads the theatre was founded in the 1920s. In the 1996 anniversary booklet, it is officially dated as 1936, but in a continuum with The Moscow Theatre for Children (1921–1936)—The Central Children’s Theatre (1936–1992)—The Russian Academic Youth Theatre (1992–1996). See chapter 2 for the first transition and later in this chapter for the second transition. As has been pointed out in the previous chapter, the “adultization” of the repertory, frequently quoted as one of the most dangerous threats to the tiuzes, was not a new phenomenon, and although accelerated by, it was certainly no direct result from Perestroika and Glasnost. With the disappearance of the controlling and prescribing force of the Ministry of Culture, the theatres, including their artistic directors, obtained the freedom to pursue their desires (Kolosova, pers. intv. 1994; Mikhailova, pers. intv. 1996; Shapiro, pers. intv. 1994). This is not considered negative in itself. Although the older generation complains about the fact that everything they fought for and dedicated their lives to had been gradually destroyed (Levitskaia, Mikhailova), others, including directors, actors, and designers, see it as a healthy development for the theatres, in that they can try their creative powers on something other than productions specifically for youth: “When you play repertory theatre and you have ten performances per month, is it necessary to have ten performances for children?” (Shapiro, pers. intv.). Andrei’s father is the local physician. Due to the lack of monetary gain it was relatively normal and silently accepted in the former Soviet Union to bribe physicians and other public service people with presents. Arlekino thinks, therefore, that it must be relatively easy for Andrei to get him the desired jeans, especially since he also offers him to pay for it (to which end he has sold his scooter). Although the inside reactions to the production are ultimately the most valuable in the context of this book, it is interesting to note that foreign visitors compared the production to West Side Story, albeit adapted to Soviet circumstances. Sergei Mikhalkov had been writing for children and children’s theatre for almost 50 years. Many of his plays premiered at the Central Children’s Theatre. In 1978 the theatre revived Kon’ki, ili vospominaniia o shkole [Skates, or Memories of School], which premiered in the Central Children’s Theatre in 1939; his play Sombrero played over 1000 times in the Central Children’s Theatre in the 1970s (V Sovetskom 14, 34–37). I saw the play in May 2000. By then the “Soviet” references had been removed or down played. Dream played for a full house of young children, mesmerized throughout the visual spectacle of music, dance, lights, costumes

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7. 8.

9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

Notes and stage effects. As an adult, I thoroughly enjoyed this production, which was (in 2000) far removed from some painful experiences I had in the early and mid-1990s (see later this chapter, and chapter 8). This was confirmed by my observations and conversations with the audience, varying from 9 to 14 years old, in February 1996. In the same interview, Bartenev and Kolosova talked about the unsuitability for the Russian public of Western plays for young audiences, because they miss “something real, some serious, significant content” (Kolosova). “There is a problem that they play out in one form or another and sometimes they play it out better and sometimes they play it out worse, that depends on talent, on who works with it. But there is almost no allegory, no form of parable, no depth” (Bartenev). My personal experience during a performance of Ivanushka, in May 1994, was quite different. During the two-hour performance the audience was restless and inattentive, they seemed to get lost in the words, despite the visual ploys. There was ample use of lighting, music, and slapstick to draw the audience in, as well as some audience participation questions (What now? Where to go?). The design and the use of the rotating stage was fascinating. Nevertheless the performance only seemed to reach the first few rows. It is noteworthy, though, that about half of the audience of this particular performance consisted of fairly large groups, obviously on a “kultpokhod” [field trip], who are notoriously harder to reach than children under parental guidance. It is of note here that unlike Pitfall this play did not have to go through a laborious process of approval by the Ministry of Culture. Although the thematic content of this play is much harsher, and the social and political critique much sharper and more direct, “this production came to the stage unrestricted, quiet, as if the theatre did not show a tough and veracious contemporary drama, but a fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood. The blessings of the times . . .” (Borshchagovskii, “Miloserdie”). The Star-Child was still on the repertory in May 2000, playing for a captivated audience of mostly parents and children. The house was sold out. One of the performances I saw in the RAMT in 1996, an adaptation of Ajar’s novel La Vie Devant Soi [Life Before Us], which premiered in January 1993, lasted 1 hour and 10 minutes longer than the announced 2 hours in the program. It was acted so poorly and had so many technical mistakes, including missed cues, that it was almost unbearable for the audience (mostly 12 to 16 years old) to watch. The reluctance to put up “topical” plays in theatres in general in Russia, and in the tuizes in particular, is reinforced by the repertory system.

Notes

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Plays that run less than a year, or even two years are generally considered failures, in several respects, economic as well as artistic. 14. Dramatization has been traditionally considered to be appropriate only for the youngest age group. 15. Although the theatre in 1996 changed the indication of age groups on its repertory poster, dividing it into “plays for adults” and “plays for children,” the pedagogical section still operates according to the same principles, conducting the same kind of work (Tikhonova, pers, intv.).

6

THE MOSCOW THEATRE OF THE YOUNG SPECTATOR

1. The Mtiuz has the same confusion about its founding date as the Central Children’s Theatre. Some say it was founded in the 1920s by Lunacharskii (Andreev), others chose the beginning of the traveling Mtiuz, an initiative of “enthusiasts” in 1924 (Platonova), others when it merged with the Gostsentiuz in 1941. The different opinions depend upon whether the founding is dated to the initiation of the building as a theatre, the initiation of the first Mtiuz, or the merger of the theatres under the name Mtiuz. 2. “Travesty,” petite women playing boys and children’s roles, was an established tradition in the tiuzes which became controversial with Glasnost. 3. Zhigulskii reportedly left on his own initiative. He has been a freelance director in Moscow and Suzdal and tried to start up a touring company (Levitskaia pers. intv.). Ksenia Levitskaia, pedagogue at the Mtiuz for 20 years, left the same year. 4. The Ministry of Culture was in charge of appointing artistic directors, although the theatres, especially when Perestroika progressed, could express their preference. The fact that a third of the tiuzes went without artistic directors reflects the general interest as well as the priorities of the Ministry of Culture. 5. Nicholas Rzhevsky adapted and translated the novella in English as Dog Heart (New York: Slavic Cultural Center Press, 1998); Michael Glenny translated Chervinskii’s adaptation as Heart of a Dog, in his anthology Stars in the Morning Sky (London: Hern, 1998). I have translated the title as Dog’s Heart, following the original (sobach’e serdtse instead of serdtse sobaki) and translations in other languages (Dutch Hondehart, German Hundeherz). 6. I have seen two performances of Dog’s Heart, one in Moscow in 1988 and one in the Netherlands in 1989. Both solicited very different reactions from the audience (as well as from critics, see further).

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Notes

7. Kama Ginkas is currently one of the most innovative and notorious directors in Moscow. As he is working from the Mtiuz as his home-theatre, contributing a great part to the theatre’s popularity, chapter 9 includes a detailed portrait of Kama Ginkas and his work at the Mtiuz. 8. In the original version Marshak had the porter call his buddies at the other hotels in order to prevent Twister from finding a place to stay. Marshak was forced to remove this verse (it is not in the 1973 publication I used). As an anticapitalist parody, the poem was politically charged from its inception. Even though Marshak was a celebrated Soviet writer of children’s literature and plays, his work was under close scrutiny and subject to censorship of the Ministry of Culture and Enlightenment. According to Rassadin, the poem was published only after the personal intervention of Litvinov, Stalin’s minister of Foreign Affairs, because the poem might affect international relationships. Rassadin recalls his conversation with Marshak when he discovered that the verse was missing: “Samuil Iakovlevich, why did you do that? What a shame! The whole stanza about the hotel crisis is just lost!” Marshak was embarrassed: “Yes, yes, my friend, you’re right, I really have to fix that. But, you see, they advised me and I . . . .” (“Pokhvala”) The Mtiuz put the verse back in. 9. The present theory was published (in Czech) in 1973 (Slavica Slovaca) and as a chapter of Osolsobe’s book Davadl oktere mluvi, zpiva a tanci [Theatre that Speaks, Sings and Dances], Prague: Supraphon, 1974. Later “Principia” were discussed by Anton Popovic in “Testo e metatesto,” in la semiotica nei Paesi Slavi, Carlo Prevignano, ed., Milano: Feltrinelli, 1979; and by Ziva Ben Porat in Poetics Today, 1.1 (1979). For a more detailed analysis of the workings of parody in Goodbye America!, based on the theories of Ivo Osolsobe, see van de Water “Mister Twister or Goodbye America!” Essays in Theatre 16:1 (1997). 10. Indeed, from 1992 on, the artist and staff turnover was more stabilized, leading to a more constant company (although in 1996 one of the veteran actors was filing suit against Ianovskaia—clearly unheard of in prePerestroika times). The results of the stabilization are discussed in chapter 9. 11. The discussion about the name continues in 1996. In 1996 the program notes asked for input on the suggestion to call the theatre 1911, the date of the initiation of the building as a theatre. In a 1994 interview, former Mtiuz pedagogue Ksenia Levitskaia told me that 911 had been suggested, just the previous Friday, because it was the international dialing code for

Notes

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

7

257

America, commenting “I just think she [Ianovskaia] is a psychologically unhealthy person.” Before Perestroika the pedagogical section used to consist of six people, plus the head of the archives. The literature section had two people. By 1996 the pedagogical section itself had been abolished. The only pedagogue left, Svetlana Platonova was in charge of the educational division of the literature section, headed by Marina Smelianskaia. The pedagogical work described here, and the philosophy behind it, continued virtually unaltered in the new millennium. I had two interviews with Svetlana Platonova, and several informal conversations. Svetlana described her work in essentially the same way in both interviews. Because the answers were more concise I used quotes from the 1996 interview. Svetlana Platonova described the coercive system of repertory formation as follows: The artistic director carried a placard to the Art Council, about the size of that wall. We had an economic plan, and that plan was for the productions for the coming twenty years. The productions were by theme, e.g. Revolutionary—productions about the revolution and about Lenin; productions about the Comparty [sic]; productions of romantic nature; foreign classics; Russian classics; fairy tales etc. From that “Plan for the Theatre” only one production was realized and that enormous placard stands now in the attic. But we had to live like that. (Smelianskaia and Platonova, pers. intv. 1994) Nevertheless the 1994 production of The Enchanted Rings, directed by Aleksandr Kalinin, won the critics’ award for best production for children, a decision that perplexed the field (Kolosova and Bartenev, Levitskaia pers. intvs.). Both smirked when I asked them about productions for young people, and referred me to Smelianskaia and Platonova.

CULTURAL SHIFTS AND THEATRICAL INNOVATION

1. Likewise, neither the 1991 nor the 1993 coup plotters faced severe punishment, most of them stayed in politics. 2. Among them were Aleksandr Rutskoi, Yeltsin’s vice president, and Ruslan Khasbulatov, the leader of the parliament. For a detailed account see Remnick, Resurrection. 3. I went to Moscow 5 months after the 1993 White House battle (incidentally my apartment was less than two blocks from the White House). It was by far the most depressing time I ever spent in Moscow. As I traveled regularly

258

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

9.

10.

Notes to Moscow until 1989, I was well aware of the material and cultural changes that took place in the 1980s up to that time. To witness the preliminary results in 1994, five years later, was a mixed and taxing experience. Spending most of my time within the circles of the Russian intelligentsia, I found that the discrepancy between material and spiritual well-being was paradoxically heartening at best, and utterly discouraging at its worst. The constitutional court ruled in 1992 that communists were allowed to start parties on a local and regional level. The Communist Party of the Russian Federation became by far the biggest of the many communist parties. In this light the comments of the pedagogues of the Central Children’s Theatre/RAMT sound eerily true: if they (the young audience) want contemporary drama, they just have to look outside (see chapter 5). It needs to be noted that in Russian understanding an “empty” house can still be half to three quarters full. John Freedman notes that by 1995 there were approximately ten independent agencies or production companies and over sixty private theatres registered in Moscow, of which only a handful turned out shows of any note or with any regularity (Moscow 247). I managed to see the rock-opera in 1985 in Moscow via “blat” (influence) from the sound booth. At the end of a six months stay, it was indeed a striking experience, vaguely familiar, but something I had not encountered in the months before. I joined the hoards of Zakharov fans. A year later I saw the opera again in the Amsterdam Carré theatre. The auditorium was half empty, both music and staging looked outdated. It was the same experience as I had with the touring Mtiuz production of Dog’s Heart, a few years later: out of its material context the meaning gets lost. A vivid description of this, increasingly common, phenomenon comes from Smeliansky: Evening life and nightlife began to merge. In the first part of the evening Treplev would be standing on the stage, raving about the new theatre, then immediately after The Seagull, if you hung back as you collected your coat, you could watch this new theatre in action. Security men would quietly fill the foyer and set up special gates like metal detectors at an airport. The “new Russians” would hand in their weapons, be given a tag for them, and go off to “relax” in the Lenkom. (Russian 164) “The new Russians” is used ironically, and often derogatorily, to describe Russia’s nouveaux riches, who present themselves as cultured and sophisticated. Many theatre people see them as threat to Russian cultural and

Notes

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

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theatrical life (see also chapter 9). The term originated from the title of a column in the newspaper Kommersant’-daily. This is, of course, subjective, based on both personal and secondary evidence. For more names see e.g. Freedman Moscow Performances I and II, and Smeliansky The Russian Theatre After Stalin, Predlagaemye obstoiatel’stva [Propounded Circumstances], and Rezhisserskii Teatr [Director’s Theatre], a 1999 publication of the Moscow Art Theatre. By 1996 both theatres divided their repertory into just two categories: plays for adults and plays for children. In February 1996 the RAMT had 21 productions in its repertory, 7 of which were specifically identified as productions for children. Lark, Tic-Tac-Toe, and the premiere of Pollyanna among others, were listed under the productions for adults. The Mtiuz had 13 productions in its repertory, 5 of which were identified as productions for children (Goodbye America! was listed under productions for adults). Most of these statistics come from “Facts and Stats of the Yeltsin Era” and are based on reports from Unicef, World Health Organization, The Russian State Committee on Youth Affairs, and the International Institute of International Finance. Yeltsin finished first with 35% in a field of ten candidates; in the run off against Ziuganov two weeks later he defeated the Chairman of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation 54% to 40%. Soon after the attacks, a conspiracy theory started to circle among the Moscow intelligentsia that the regime itself had organized the blast to divert attention from domestic problems. A more detailed and analytical portrait of Putin falls outside the scope of this book. Most Russians I met in the spring of 2000, just after the election of Putin as president, however, echoed the sentiments of Yevgenia Albats, independent journalist and author of KGB: State Within a State, and Lilia Shevtsova, author of Yeltsin’s Russia: Myths and Reality. Russia is a very infantile society. We are accustomed to having a state that was responsible for everything in our lives—medical care, schools, you know, even the way we made kids. The State was responsible for everything; the State got involved in everything. Compared to the sick and incapable Yeltsin, Putin has the image of this guy who is ready to give you his hand and lead you into the bright nice future. All you have to do is just grab this hand and say, “guy, take me in this bright future. I want to go there with you, whatever it takes.” (Albats) Shevtsova declares: “The most interesting thing is that Putin is viewed as a dynamic, strong, honest, civil, modest and adequate leader, which is

260

17.

18.

19.

20.

21. 22.

Notes everything Yeltsin isn’t.” (From transcripts of full interviews for “Return of the Czar,” May 9, 2000.) See among others Elizabeth Kristofovich Zelensky “Popular Children’s Culture in post-Perestroika Russia: Songs of Innocence and Experience Revisited”; Clementine Creuziger Childhood in Russia: Representation and Reality; and Langdon Pearson Children of Glasnost: Growing Up Soviet. For personal views of Russian teenagers on a variety of subjects in the late 1980s see Deborah Adelman The “Children of Perestroika.” According to Zelensky an idealized Soviet childhood was achieved by “an extremely emotional parent-child relationship; a prolonging of childhood well into adolescence through the encouragement of dependency in the child, both physical and psychological; the conscious separation of the child from objective reality through the withholding of information by adults; and the encouragement of fantasy life” (140). See quotes of Rina Sterkina, director of the Preschool Education Division of the Russian Federation’s Ministry of Culture, and Elena Krasnikova, consultant for the Ministry of Education, who helped to develop a program of ethical and philosophical education for elementary through high school programs (Zelensky 142–145). Aleksei Yurchak’s article “Gagarin and the Rave Kids: Transforming Power, Identity, and Aesthetics in Post-Soviet Nightlife” describes this phenomenon in detail. It needs to be noted however, that the emergence and development of the house parties as a youth subculture (unlike the pre-Perestroika Russian youth subcultures) are in many ways much closer to its Western European counterpart than implied in the article. Alexei Yurchak, in an interesting segment on the Russian Mafia—the “Kryshi [roofs],” which had become an inherent feature of business in Russia, including the night dances—positions the Mafia Kryshi as a social control force, an alternative to the lawlessness and orderlessness of the state’s institutional and power structures (98). His positioning (as perceived by the business people themselves) is based, among others, on Katherine Verdery’s What Was Socialism and What Comes Next? Rumors of Efremov’s health and drinking habits had by that time taken on legendary proportions that equaled those of the country’s leader. This may be partly due to the fact that Klaic does not seem to base his, admittedly subjective, interpretations of the three day meeting on any personal observation of the developments of the Russian theatre, either long term or short term. His report seems primarily based on accounts of issues raised by the participants. While many of the issues raised in the report are undeniably present, the process of transformation and change is ignored.

Notes

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23. The following requirements were identified during the retreat: — municipal funds for project financing — several open venues to present the work of independent companies and ultimately to help produce it — information centers and magazines — workshops in a range of skills and competencies, such as communication and marketing, education activities, theatre information processing, production documentation and recording, contemporary dance and music theatre, puppetry and movement theatre — connection with the European networks active in the performing arts, and — an ongoing dialogue within the profession and with the media, cultural organizations, government and the business community. (Klaic 7) 24. The following information comes from the Soros Foundation Website (www. soros.org): The numerous nonprofit foundations created by the philanthropist George Soros are linked together in an informal network known as the Soros foundations network. At the heart of this network are the “national foundations,” a group of autonomous organizations operating in over 30 countries around the world, principally in Central and Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union but also in Guatemala, Haiti, and Southern Africa. All of the national foundations share the common mission of supporting the development of open society. To this end, they operate and support an array of initiatives concerned with arts and culture, children and youth, civil society development, economic reform, education, legal reform and public administration, media and communications, publishing, and health care. 25. EUnetART (European Network of Arts for Children and Young People) is a network of over 100 organizations in 27 countries in eastern and Western Europe. All members are art organizations that in whole or in part professionally undertake activities for children and young people. EUnetART is funded by OC&W (the Ministry of Education, Culture and Sciences of the Netherlands). EUnetART has received financial support from the European Commission, the Council of Europe and the European Cultural Foundation (www.eunetart.org). 26. The Russian ASSITEJ center which had been central in the initial planning and coordination of the project, as well as founding members Misha Bartenev and director Sergei Rozov, appeared nevertheless somewhat disenchanted when I met with them in May 2000. They expressed the feeling that they had “lost” the project, mainly due to financial and

262

Notes organizational demands they simply could not meet. The European partners had taken over (Meeting at ASSITEJ-Russia headquarters, May 2000). By 2001 the initiative had been restructured into the “Magic-Net: A Network Capturing the Diversity of European Cultures” (www.magic-net.org). Magic-Net consists of 15 participating European theatres, linking these theatres to create international European co-productions and connecting professional artists with young people in educational programs. They received 900,000 Euro in funding from the European Commission for a three-year period (2001–2004).

8

SHAKING THE PAST: THE RUSSIAN ACADEMIC YOUTH THEATRE

1. According to Irina Brovkina, the theatre employed 300 people, including 80 actors, in May 2000 (pers. intv.). 2. It is interesting how much is blamed on perceived notions of “American” children’s theatre, such as the obligatory happy end (Novikova “Prisutstvye”), and Pollyanna’s “unbreakable will-power [and] strong character” that characterized the American settlers (Sergeeva “Na ostrove”). 3. Whether this is indeed the case is debatable: is the theatre ignored in the press because it is thought of little consequence or importance, or because Borodin shuns the press? 4. Shakh-Azizova refutes some of the optimism in her article in a postscript to the article. Noting that some significant and administrative changes had taken place after the article was written she acknowledges the uncertain future of the theatre “What will happen? What will stay and what has to go?” (9). 5. The performance I saw in May 2000 had a full house, chiefly with youth 8–18 years old. Most had come in groups. Younger children had come with their parents. There was a very strong sense of social control among the groups. 6. To illustrate his point Rudnev quotes Tovstonogov, who maintained that a theatre needs to stage but three comedies, after which it can stage whatever it desires.

9

PROVOKING ASSUMPTIONS: KAMA GINKAS AT THE MTIUZ

1. On my way to The Black Monk (Kama Ginkas, see further) in May 2000 I was offered 10,000 rubles (ca. $400) for my (complimentary) ticket.

Notes

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2. In 1995 Ianovskaia directed an operetta Zhak Offenbakh, liubov’ i tru-lia-lia [ Jacques Offenbakh, Love and Tru-la-la]. The production still played and toured in spring 2000, but it received considerably less attention than her other productions. In general the production was perceived as pretty, but lacking operetic mastery and ardor”. Nikiforovna calls the production “unwieldy” because of the uncomfortable juxtaposition of Ianovskaia’s serious intentions (Nikiforovna rightly points out that Ianovskaia is too serious and committed of a director to “just” stage trifles) and the lightheartedness of the genre. The company’s video of the production confirms these observations (author’s copy). Because as a whole Zhak Offenbakh—despite its feminist overtones and emphasis on the ( Jewish) artist’s fate—does seem somewhat of an anomaly in comparison to Ianovskaia’s other, politically more engaged, work, I will not discuss this production in more detail here. 3. More precisely, a paper by the critic Dmitrii Pisarev, which was studied in the Soviet schools next to the perfunctory interpretation by Dobroliubov’ (the famous words “ray of light in the dark tsardom” cited in most, if not all, Russian reviews come from Dobroliubov’). 4. One of the critics who does not agree with this view is Anatoly Smeliansky, who asserts that Ianovskaia lost her “lightness” after Dog’s Heart and the crisis that followed within the company (see chapter 6), and that subsequent productions became “top-heavy” (Russian 175–176). 5. Smeliansky explains that they managed because of their different theatrical responsibilities: Ianovskaia, as artistic director, was responsible for creating a theatrical family, she “was building another theatrical ‘church’; Kama was only interested in, and responsible for, the next production” (Russian 174). Ginkas himself muses that he may actually be better off not having his own theatre as it allows him to concentrate on his productions, whether in Moscow or abroad (Interview with John Freedman, “Russian” 6). 6. As students of Tovstonogov both Ianovskaia and Ginkas were influenced by Tovstonogov’s concept of the all-powerful director, the one with whom the theatre stands or dissolves. 7. In an interview with Olga Fuks he adds: “[Being a symbolist] was then worse than a ‘formalist,’ it was almost a spy” (“Koridory”). 8. Ginkas directed among others Mark Twain (Smeliansky, Russian xxx). 9. Ginkas maintains that his “chamber theatre” is a principally different style and look of theatre that cannot be simply explained with the size of the space (Sotnikova). 10. I observed Ginkas work in two rehearsals of his adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s fairy tale The Happy Prince in May 2000, on the large stage. In the

264

11. 12.

13.

14.

15. 16.

17.

18.

19.

Notes first rehearsal he climbed the statue of happiness in which the happy prince was trapped, to show the actor, but maybe even more himself, intricate ways to physically maneuver herself along the statue, which looks like a cage and occupies the whole center stage. During the second rehearsal I attended, Ginkas suddenly stopped the run, called the artists in the house, and, visibly tormented, rebuked the actors for a considerable amount of time, after which he stopped the rehearsal. Reviews and eyewitnesses of the production report it to be “brilliant.” It is of note that Ginkas talks here specifically about the Russian artist, as opposed to the “European” artist. The audience reaction was evident during the performance I attended in 1994, on the videotape of the production (author’s files), and the various anecdotal reports in reviews and interviews. K.I. iz prestupleniia was Ginkas’s third production on Dostoevsky at the Mtiuz. The first was Zapiski iz podpol’ia [Notes From the Underground] in 1989, the second Igraem “Prestuplenie” [Let’s Play “Crime”] in 1991. The candies come in various tastes, each named after a story or poem of Pushkin. On the back you will find the internet address of the factory, “Krasnyi Oktiabr” (“Red October”). Compare Goodbye, America! chapter 6. Interestingly Ginkas considers Pushkin impossible to translate “he disappears in the air.” For Ginkas, the beauty is in the rhythm, the tonality and the composition—“there is nothing to translate” without these linguistic elements. The form conveys the content. This is also his explanation for why Pushkin, Russia’s national poet, is, unlike Shakespeare or Molière, little known or read outside Russia (in Sedykh, “Igrai”). Daniil Kharms was a member of the Oberiu (Society for Real Art) in the late 1920s. His absurd, surreal poetry and short stories became available in Russia only after Glasnost and Perestroika (for an introduction to Kharms, Vvedenskii, and the Oberiuty in English see George Gibian, The Man in the Black Coat). Some critics, like Dina Goder, have a different perspective and assert that Ginkas—by leaving behind his self-authored productions of Dostoevsky and Pushkin, playing a full prose text instead—“started a new phase” (“Chernyi”). In the context of what has been described here, and my own observations, I rather see a variation on a theme. As opposed to Ginkas’s Finnish productions, which, according to Freedman, tended to be more lyrical and more gentle than those he staged in Moscow. In Finland he staged, among others, Life is Beautiful, based on Chekhov’s short story The Lady With the Lapdog (1995), and Chekhov’s The Seagull (1996).

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20. Liubov Lebedina describes in Trud the “bright, almost blessed expression” on the faces of the majority of the audience (“Prizrak”). Fillipov asserts that it is because of these rare and happy occasions that the critics stick with their profession (“Ukhodim”). Shakh-Azizova remarks that like Chekhov’s work, Ginkas’s production doesn’t let you go, it hurts: they are not meant to comfort the soul (“. . . I bezdny”). Inna Soloveva writes that “in general, this production, with its precious sum of devices [priemy] and audacity of tricks, has something higher” (“Korotkoe”). Alena Zlobina wonders what causes the sense of “light” in the cruel and tragic theatre of Kama Ginkas (and in this production) and concludes that it must be the “light of art itself ” (“Balkon”). 21. From the few dozen reviews I obtained, only one criticized the production as long, “boring,” and “overdone,” having all the characteristics of a brilliant production, but not pulling it off (Zaslavskii, “Povorot”). 22. See also note 11 in chapter 6 of this book. While a name change was still debated in 1996, by 2000 the impression was that the Mtiuz had carved out its new position under the old name and had freed itself from previous connotations.


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INTERVIEWS Bartenev, Mikhail. Personal Interview. June 2, 1994. Berdiugina, Nina. Personal Interview. May 25, 1994. Brovkina, Irina. Personal Interview. May 20, 2000. Chutko, Sasha. Personal Interview. May 21, 1994. Dodin, Lev. Interview. Gammage Auditorium, Tempe, AZ. November 1994. Dzhandieri, Nika. Personal Interview. May 24, 1994. Farmakovskaia, Iuliia. Personal Interview. May 27, 1994. Ianovskaia, Genrietta. Telephone Interview. May 30, 1994. Khabalova, Vera and Irina Brovkina. Personal Interview. May 27, 1994. Kitiia, Giia. Personal Interview. May 25, 1994. Kolosova, Galina. Personal Interview. May 24, 1994. ––––––. Personal Interview. February 12, 1996. ––––––. and Mikhail Bartenev. Personal Interview. June 2, 1994. Levan’shina, Tat’iana. Personal Interview. May 20, 1994. ––––––. Personal Interview. June 2, 1994. Levitskaia, Kseniia. Personal Interview. June 2, 1994. Mikhailova, Anna. Personal Interview. February 12, 1996. Platonova, Svetlana. Personal Interview. February 6, 1996. Rozov, Sergei. Personal Interview. May 28, 1994. Safarova, Irma. Personal Interview. May 27, 1994. Shapiro, Adol’f. Personal Interview. May 28, 1994. Smelianskaia, Marina and Svetlana Platonova. Personal Interview. May 26, 1994. ––––––. Personal Interview. May 23, 2000. Stronin, Mikhail. Personal Interview. November 16, 1994. Tikhonova, Margarita. Personal Interview. February 7, 1996.

Index x Page numbers in bold indicate figures. admission prices, 93, 100, 127, 129 see also tickets adult theatres (theatre for adults), 9, 10, 29, 78, 90, 101, 113, 124, 129, 157, 174, 250n adultization (of repertory), 93, 95, 96, 98, 100, 102, 114, 122, 131, 132, 135, 253 Africa, 77 age groups, 52, 59, 94, 103, 127, 132, 134, 138, 147, 247, 255 agitation and propaganda (agitprop), 46, 49, 53, 202 Akimov, Nikolai, 68, 78, 82 aktiv, 133, 204 Aldonin, Sergei, 203 Alienation, 31 Alive Forever (Viktor Rozov, Sovremennik), 74, 249n All Hope (M. Roshchin, Mtiuz), 139–140, 161 All-Russian Children’s Fund, 104 All-Russian Conference of People’s Theatre Artists (1915), 42 All-Russian Conference of Workers in Theatre for Children (1930), 53 All-Russian Review of Theatres of the Young Spectator and Puppet Theatres, 102–103, 122 All-Russian Week of Theatre for Children and Youth, 101–102 All-Union Center for Public Opinion Research, 4, 36 All-Union Committee of Arts Affairs, 57, 58

All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers (1934), 54, 55 All-Union Leninist Communist Youth League, 100 All-Union Review of the Theatres of Young Spectators (1939), 59 Althusser, Louis, 17, 18, 37–38, 244n and ideological state apparatuses, 6, 38, 135, 173 America, 41, 48, 235 American studies, 100 American way of life, 80, 83 see also Goodbye America! Amsterdam, 185, 248n, 258n Anchutka (B. Metal’nikov, Mtiuz), 139, 140–141, 155 Andersen, Hans Christian, 75, 148, 149, 207 Andropov, Iurii, 3, 30, 88–89 anti-Semitism, 153, 156, 169 Arbuzov, Aleksei, 76 arms control, 89 Art in the School (1930), 53 ASSITEJ, 77, 90, 185 ASSITEJ/Russia, 11, 261n ASSITEJ/USSR, 90 atheism, 53 audience, contemporary, 132, 194, 196 family, 122, 148, 160, 163, 190, 273 mixed, 113, 120, 135, 156, 187, 191, 202, 251n school, 101, 159–160 see also field trips

294

Index

audience research, 43, 47, 50–51, 57, 79, 97, 109, 139, 147 see also pedagogy; perception Bakhtin, Mikhail, 39 Bakhtin, Nikolai, 41, 43, 50–52, 78, 247n, 248n Baliasnaia, L.K., 91, 92 Bambi, 96 Barber of Seville (Pierre de Beaumarchais, RAMT), 203 Bartenev, Mikhail, 123–124, 184–185, 201, 254n, 261n see also individual titles Batum (Mikhail Bulgakov, Gorky MKhat), 171 Belarus, 168 Be Prepared! (First State Theatre for Children), 49 Bérénice (Jean Racine, RAMT), 191–192, 193 Beria, Lavrenty, 63 Berlin, 185, 249n Between Heaven and Earth Circles the Lark (Iurii Shchekochikhin, Central Children’s Theatre), 125–127, 259n The Black Monk (Anton Chekhov, Kama Ginkas), 228–232, 229 Black Snow (Mikhail Bulgakov), 144 Blue Bird (Maurice Maeterlinck, MKhat), 44, 251n Blue Report (Dragan Klaic, 1999), 182–183, 199 Bogatyrev, Vladimir, 193 Boiakov, Eduard, 199, 202 Bolsheviks, 26 Bolshevik Party, 54 Bolshevik Revolution see October Revolution The Bolshoi, 58, 103, 105, 129, 135, 187, 189 Bolshoi Drama Theatre, 68, 69 Bondi, Iurii, 45–47, 49 Borodin, Aleksei, 103–104, 113–114, 116, 118, 119–122, 128, 130, 132, 191–2, 195, 198, 199, 200–201, 205, 262n bourgeois liberalism, 50 Brecht, Bertolt (Berliner Ensemble), 68 Brechtian, 120, 148, 248n

Brezhnev, Leonid, 25, 30, 34, 64, 65, 76–77, 82, 83, 88, 172 and ‘developed socialism,’ 30, 31, 243n see also stagnation Briantsev, Aleksandr, 43, 52, 59, 63, 78, 113, 130, 132, 133, 134, 246n, 247n, 248n, 249n Brodsky, Joseph, 77, 148 Brook, Peter, 68, 145 Brovkina, Irina, 131–134, 189, 203–205, 262n Brownian movement (Efros), 72–73 Budennovsk (hostage), 193 Bulgakov, Mikhail, 37, 65, 73, 93, 141, 142, 144, 145, 171, 249n see also individual titles Burbulis, Gennadii, 167 Cabal of Hypocrites (Molière, Mikhail Bulgakov), 171 capitalism, 21, 22, 28, 33, 46, 47, 64, 83, 107, 124, 125, 138, 152, 154, 155, 175, 180, 241n, 242n The Captain’s Daughter (Alekandr Pushkin,RAMT), 190–191 censorship, 29, 56, 66–67, 76, 121, 252n, 256n Central committee, 34, 57, 67, 100, 168, 250 Chechnya, 177, 193, 201, 217 Cheka, 26 Chekhov, Anton, 179, 183, 214, 228, 230, 231 Chekhov, Michael, 69, 248–249n Chekhov MKhat, 170, 171 Chernenko, Konstantin, 3, 30, 31, 88–89 Chernomyrdin, Viktor, 177 Children’s Television Workshop, 179 Children’s Theatre of the Moscow Soviet, 44, 246n Christianity, 18, 193, 212 classics, 55, 59, 78, 96, 113, 122, 129, 132, 135–136, 170, 178, 179, 184, 191, 192, 199, 179, 257n rehabilitation of, 55 Columbia, 169 CNN, 169 Comédie Française, 68

Index communism, 2, 17, 20, 22, 24–30, 33, 35, 40, 46, 54, 81, 83, 244n moral code of the builder of, 29, 30, 78, 71, 79, 80, 108, 243n Communist Manifesto, 20, 23 Communist Party (CPSU), 23, 29, 34, 35, 36, 40, 57, 63, 67, 80, 89, 169, 244n, 258n, 259n Communist Party of the Russian Federation (Genadii Ziuganov), 169, 258n, 259n contract system, 146, 156 controversies (in theatre), 125, 170–171 see also Ianovskaia, Genrietta Council on Children’s Theatre, 53 Council of People’s Commissars, 57 coup (1991), 33–35, 89, 167, 257n coup (1993), 169, 257n Crime and Punishment (Fedor Dostoevsky, Kama Ginkas), 215, 219 Crystal Turandot awards, 213, 221 culture (cultural history), 1, 10, 213 cultural paradigms, 12, 40, 111, 170, 236 as site for self-reflection, 6, 39, 88, 184, 239, 245n culturology, 7, 8, 39, 238, 245n Czechoslovakia (invasion of ), 63 Day of the Pioneer, 47 Delegate Assembly, 50–52 democratization, 33 see also Gorbachev, reforms under Destutt de Tracy, 18 detective drama, 54 developed socialism, 30, 31, 243n Dictatorship of Conscience (Mikhail Shatrov, Lenkom), 172 discourse, 4, 8, 25, 37, 38, 60, 61, 154–155, 173, 198 dissident, 7, 68, 77, 81, 241n diversification (in theatre), 181–183 Dmitrievskii, V., 5, 95–97, 129, 141, 174, 236 The Doctor in Spite of Himself (Molière, State Workshop of Pedagogical Theatre), 47 Dodin, Lev, 29, 78, 110, 173 Dog’s Heart (A. Chervinskii, Mtiuz), 37, 141–146, 142, 148, 149, 150, 207, 209, 214, 255n, 258n, 263n Dolgina, Elena, 123

295

Dorokhin, Iurii, 104 Doronina, Tatiana, 170–171 Dostoevsky, Fedor, 123, 128, 148, 155, 179, 214, 219, 221, 228, 264n see also individual titles The Dragon (Evgenii Shvarts), 56, 82, 109 Dream to be Continued (Sergei Mikhalkov), 118, 118–119, 120, 127, 140, 205, 253–254n drug abuse, 5, 98, 125, 176 in Lark, 125–127 Duma, 169, 197, 201 education, see pedagogy elections: parliamentary (1993), 168–169 presidential (1996), 169, 176–177 Efremov, Oleg, 29, 61, 68, 69, 70, 71, 73–76, 77, 78, 82, 170–171, 260n Efros, Anatolii, 29, 61, 67, 68, 69, 70–73, 74, 76, 77, 82, 113, 171, 249n Engels, Friedrich, 28, 106 Engineer Sempson, 47 England, 48 epic theatre, 68 Epstein, Mikhail, 4, 6, 7, 8, 17, 18, 24, 25, 30, 35, 36, 37, 38–39, 88, 181, 218, 238, 242n, 243n, 244n, 245n Eremin, Iurii, 190 Ermolova Theatre, 171 EUnetART, 185, 261n Europe, 8, 13, 41, 162, 169, 185, 260n, 261n, 262n, 264n Evans, Afred B., 4, 27–35, 244n The Execution of the Decembrists (Kama Ginkas), 217 the ‘experiment,’ 101, 119 fairy tales, 49, 54, 96, 109, 114, 124, 221 for adults, 7, 56, 57, 58 rehabilitation of, 55 repertory of, 42, 43, 45, 48, 54, 57, 59, 108, 198, 257n see also Shvarts, Evgenii Farmakovskaia, Iuliia, 131, 132, 133, 136 field trips (kultpokhody), 6, 61, 92, 94, 97, 101, 102, 103, 105, 114, 130, 131, 137, 157, 205, 251n, 254n

296

Index

First State Theatre for Children, 45–47 Fokin, Valerii, 171, 172, 174, 179, 182, 183 Fomenko, Petr, 171, 173, 174, 179, 182, 183 formalism, 55, 68, 263n France, 8, 47, 209, 244n Freedman, John, 10, 178, 179, 181, 182, 192, 209, 215, 228, 230, 238 Freeze, 63, 76–79 funding, 94, 98, 101, 181, 182–183, 189, 195, 261n, 262n sponsors, 189, 201 state support, 42, 175, 205, 236 subsidies, 42, 44, 101, 157, 161, 206, 235, 247n Gaidar, Arkadii, 59 Gaidar, Egor, 175 Galakhova, O.I., 42 game-play (igro-spektakl), 49, 247n Gelman, Aleksandr, 171, 178 Germany (Nazi), 56 Ginkas, Kama, 13, 29, 69, 141, 148, 155, 163, 171, 174, 179, 181, 182, 183, 184, 207, 208, 209, 211, 213, 214–233 background of, 214–215 Ginkas finales, 227, 230, 238 Ginkas theme, 215, 228, 231 see also individual productions Glavrepertkom, 66 Goethe, Johan Wolfgang von, 123 Gogol, Nikolai, 179 The Golden Cockerel (Aleksandr Pushkin, Kama Ginkas), 214, 221–224, 228, 238 The Golden Key (Aleksei Tolstoi, Central Children’s Theatre), 58 Golden Mask Awards, 119, 183, 199, 213, 237 Golub, Spencer, 10, 56 Goncharov, I., 106, 124 Good Luck! (Viktor Rozov, Central Children’s Theatre), 70–71 Goodbye America! (A. Nedzvetskii, Mtiuz), 149–155, 196, 211, 212, 256n Gorbachev, Mikhail, 1, 3, 4, 12, 171, 148, 162 reforms under, 25–27, 30–35, 88–89, 91, 167–168, 244n, 250n Gorelov, Vladimir, 139

Gorky MKhat, 170–171 Gostsentiuz (State Central Theatre of the Young Spectator), 47, 60 Gozenpud, Aleksandra, 41, 69, 74, 246n Gozzi, Carlo, 128, 195–196 Greece, 183 Grigorenko, Peter, 77 Grotowsky, Jerzy, 77 Gvozditskii, Viktor, 224 Guardian Board, 197–198 Gubenko, Nikolai, 170, 171 Hall, Stanley, 48 Hamlet (Shakespeare, Peter Brook), 68 Hamlet (Shakespeare, Kama Ginkas), 216 The Happy Prince (Oscar Wilde, Kama Ginkas), 232, 238 Hegel, Georg W.F., 19 Hertz, Alice Minnie, 41 ‘high art,’ 182 ‘high sovietism’ (socialist way of life), 30 historical materialism, 20–22 historiography, 9 Hitler, Adolf, 214 HIV, 176 homophobia, 173 Ianovskaia, Genrietta, 29, 69, 130, 153, 162–163, 183, 207, 208, 209–214, 218, 219, 224, 232, 235, 237, 238, 263n controversy around, 137, 141, 144, 145, 146–149, 156–157, 161, 170–171, 211, 233, 256n, 257n see also individual productions ideological function, 1, 3, 4, 13, 27, 34, 87, 111, 184, 187 Ideology: bourgeois ideology, 7, 8, 23, 36–37, 50, 53, 241n function of legitimation and interpretation, 3, 4 , 23–24, 27, 34, 87 humanistic ideology, 11, 108, 109 invisible ideology, 4, 6, 7, 8, 18, 36–37, 38, 88, 162, 173, 198, 233 in post-totalitarian Russia, 4, 6, 8–9, 18, 35–39, 169 totalitarian ideology, 8, 25, 61 see also Marxism-Leninism

Index independent theatres, 169–170, 181 inflation, 181 In Search of Joy (Viktor Rozov, Central Children’s Theatre), 74 intelligentsia, 7, 65, 169, 171, 178, 207, 237, 249, 252n, 258n, 259n interpretation (by audience), 78, 79, 99, 159, 211, 237 see also perception Israel, 162 Ivan the Terrible (Sergei Eisenstein), 65 Jackson, Michael, 192 Japan, 183 junkies, 125–126 Juno and Avoz (Aleksei Rybnikov, Andrei Voznesenskii), 172 Kapustniki, 75 Kazarnovskii, Sergei, 184, 219 Keep Your Eyes Open, 47 KGB, 34, 63, 144, 177 Khabalova, Vera, 131–132 Khardzhiev, Nikolai, 65, 248n Kharms, Daniil, 56, 226, 264n Khlebnikov, Velimir, 65, 196, 199 Khomskii, Pavel, 77, 137 Khrushchev, Nikita, 25, 28–29, 34, 35, 63–64, 65, 67, 76, 77, 80, 248n de-Stalinization politics, 63–64 and full-scale communism, 28–29 see also The Thaw K.I. from ‘Crime’ (Dani Gink, Kama Ginkas), 184, 214, 217, 218–221, 219, 238, 264n King Lear (Shakespeare, Central Children’s Theatre), 128, 129, 134 Kirenko, Sergei, 177 Kirov Tiuz, 113 Kitiia, Giia, 109, 110 Klaic, Dragan, 182, 183, 260n Knebel, Maria, 29, 61, 67, 69–70, 74, 77, 82, 113, 191, 248n Kolka Stupin, 46 Kolkhozes, 53 Kolosova, Galina, 101, 251n, 254n Komsomol, 73, 80–81, 93, 110, 117, 172, 249n

297

Korogodskii, Zinovyi, 173, 249n, 251n Krasnoiarsk Tiuz, 141, 215 Kultpokhody see field trips labor, 21, 32, 77, 95, 96, 106, 124, 140, 153, 243n Latvia, 156 Latin America, 175 Lavrenov, Boris, 67, 248n Lebedev, N.A., 43 Lefort, Claude, 4, 6, 8, 18, 25, 36–37, 38, 61, 88, 154–155, 233 Lenin, Vladimir, 10, 22–24, 25, 26, 27, 31, 82, 106, 110, 138, 143, 172, 242n, 243n, 245n, 247n see also Marxism-Leninism Leningrad (St. Petersburg), 10, 55, 59, 68, 69, 128, 141, 173, 183, 185, 192, 215, 216, 224 Leningrad Theatre of Comedy, 68 Lenkom (Theatre of the Lenin Komsomol), 68, 73, 171–172, 181, 252n, 258n Lentiuz (Leningrad Tiuz), 2, 36, 50–52, 59, 78, 173, 246n, 247n, 248n, 249n, 251n Let’s Play Crime (Kama Ginkas), 155, 264n Let Us Grow with October, 47 Liberal Democratic Party of Russia (Vladimir Zhirinovskii), 169 Likhanov, Albert, 104 Ligachev, Egor, 168 Lithuania, 214, 215 The Little Green Bird (Carlo Gozzi), 195–196 The Little Humpbacked Horse (Central Children’s Theatre), 94 Little Lord Fauntleroy (Frances Hodgson Burnett, Central Children’s Theatre), 193–195 Little Red Riding Hood (Evgenii Shvarts), 55, 75, 254n Liubimov, Yuri, 73, 76, 77, 89, 170, 182, 183, 248n Liubimovka Festival, 183 Lorenzaccio (Alfred de Musset, Mtiuz), 183, 237 Louis XIV, 47, 171 Lunacharskaia, Sofia, 53–54

298

Index

Lunacharskii, Anatolii, 42–44, 106, 250, 255n Macbeth (Shakespeare), 215–216 Mackay, Constance D’Arcy, 193 The Magic House, 184–185 The Magnificent Cuckold (Fernand Crommelynck, Satirikon), 173 Mafia, 176, 260n magnitizdat, 65, 88 The Maids (Jean Genet), 173 Malaia Bronnaia (Moscow Drama Theatre), 72–73 Malenkov, Georgii, 63, 67, 248n Malevich, Kazimir, 65, 196 The Maly, 58, 103, 105, 129, 135, 143, 173, 192, 202 Mandelshtam, Osip, 65, 148 Marshak, Samuil, 55, 96, 149, 150, 154, 155, 207, 256n Mister Twister, 149, 155, 207 see also Goodbye America! mass media see media material circumstances, 7, 95, 100, 151, 154, 201, 218 changes in, 1, 5, 6, 87, 99, 108, 110, 124, 130, 134, 135, 139, 145, 154, 155, 157, 161, 162, 169, 170, 172, 177, 184, 209, 235–237 The Martian Chronicles (Aleksei Borodin, RAMT), 200–201 Marx, Karl, 8, 19–21, 22, 27, 28, 106, 241n, 243n Marxism, 8, 12, 19–22, 40, 242n, 245n Marxism-Leninism, 1, 3, 12, 17, 19, 22–24, 27, 30, 35, 40, 45, 53, 57, 78, 87, 88, 92, 102, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 111, 119, 122, 124, 125, 135, 137, 140, 148, 150, 155, 162, 198, 236, 245n and Glasnost and Perestroika, 25–27, 89 Max and Morits, 44 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 67, 123 media (role of ), 3, 4, 6, 8, 34, 36, 37, 38, 66, 88, 92, 107, 108, 162, 179, 197, 244n, 261n Melentev, Iurii, 94 The Metamorphosis (Franz Kafka, Satirikon), 173

Meyerhold, Vsevolod, 43, 45, 46, 47, 67, 247n Meyerhold Center, 171 Middle East, 77 Mikhailova, Anna, 102, 105, 129–130, 133 Mikhalkov, Sergei, 99, 118, 253n Ministry of Culture, 5, 66, 67, 93, 114, 119, 131, 141, 146, 254n, 255n, 260n Minneapolis Children’s Theatre Company (Jon Cranney), 128 MKhat (Moscow Art Theatre), 66, 74, 76, 170, 171, 172, 249n Chekhov MKhat, 170–171 Gorky MKhat, 170–171 Molière, 47, 171, 179, 264n Molière (Cabal of Hypocrites, Mikhail Bulgakov), 73, 171, 249n moral code of the builder of communism, 29, 30, 78–79, 80, 108, 243n Moscow Regional Tiuz, 48 Moscow Theatre for Children, 48, 58, 253n My Friend Kolka! (Aleksandr Khmelik, Central Children’s Theatre), 72–73, 72 Mysina, Oksana, 219, 220 mysticism, 231 The Naked King (Evgenii Shvarts, Sovremennik), 56, 74, 75–76 name changes, 97, 129, 157, 187, 232, 265n Narkompros (Commissariat of Enlightenment), 42–43, 44, 47, 48, 53, 57, 246n narodnye doma, 41 Nekrasova, Anna, 116, 194 Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vladimir, 78, 171, 181 NEP (New Economic Policy), 49, 247n The Netherlands, 13, 182, 248n, 255n, 261n ‘new dramaturgy’, 121, 140 ‘new policy’, 67 New Russians, 173, 181, 207, 258–259n ‘New Young’, 180 see also youth, youth culture Nightingale (Genrietta Ianovskaia, Mtiuz), 148–149, 207 ‘non-ideological’, 108, 135 nostalgia, 169, 178

Index Notes from the Underground (Kama Ginkas), 145, 148, 155 nravstvennost, 105, 108, 124, 131, 191, 251n October Revolution (Bolshevik Revolution, 1917), 1, 2, 12, 24, 41, 53, 174, 235 Okhlopkov, Nikolai, 68, 249n One Night (Evgenii Shvarts, RAMT), 192–193 Oronev, V., 139, 141 Orpheus and Euridice (Eduard Boiakov), 202–203 Osolsobe, Ivo, 151, 154, 155, 256n Ostrovsky, Aleksandr, 96, 123, 179, 199, 209, 211 see also individual titles Our Town (Thornton Wilder, RAMT), 203 Pamiat, 169 Paris, 23, 45, 142, 249n parody, 76, 149, 150, 151–155, 199, 200, 212, 224, 256n Pascar, Henriette, 45, 46 Pasternak, 65, 148 ‘peaceful coexistence’, 33, 64, 146 The Pearl of Adalmina (Moscow Theatre for Children), 48 pedagogues (role of ), 6, 51, 57, 60, 78, 79, 96, 98, 100, 109, 130, 131–134, 135, 157–161, 203–204, 246n, 247–248n pedagogy (audience education), 50–52, 57, 97, 104–107, 122 aesthetic education, 10, 51, 59, 78, 90, 92, 94, 95, 105–107, 110, 111, 131 at the Central Children’s Theatre/ RAMT, 130–134, 189, 203–206 ideological education (communist), 49, 53–54, 90, 92, 105, 138, 162 see also aesthetic education at the Mtiuz, 137, 157–161, 233, 257n pedology, 52, 57 perception (audience), 56, 57, 145, 174, 196, 201, 205, 211–213, 216, 224, 230, 244 framework of, 4, 7, 23 see also interpretation Perestroika Theatre, 37, 145, 162 Peter the Great, 18

299

Peter and the Wolf, (Sergei Prokofiev, Central Children’s Theatre), 58 Petrograd Children’s Theatre, 43 Petrushevskaia, Liudmilla, 88, 172 physiological reaction, 220, 230 Pilkington, Hilary, 79–80 pioneers, 47, 49, 53, 55, 73, 80, 81, 82, 119, 126, 193, 247 Pitfall Size 46, Medium (Iurii Shchekochikhin, Central Children’s Theatre), 114, 115, 116–117, 119, 121, 125, 127, 128, 139, 140, 254n Platonova, Svetlana, 92, 147, 157–161, 257n play (igra), 43–44 game-play (igro spektakl), 49, 247n Pluchek, Valentin, 67, 68, 76 Pogodin, Nikolai, 67, 70 Politburo, 34, 88, 250n Pollyanna (Eleanor Porter, RAMT), 193, 194, 195, 199, 205, 259n, 262n The Polyphony of the World (Kama Ginkas), 183, 237 Ponomarev, Aleksandr, 196–197, 199–200 Ponton, Geoffrey, 25–26, 34 positive hero, 46, 54–55, 71, 106–107, 116, 137, 140 The Pretore Vincenzo (Sovremennik), 76 Prince Vladimir, 18 Prokofiev, Sergei (Peter and the Wolf ), 58 proletariat, 2, 22, 23, 53, 143, 241n dictatorship of, 20, 22–23 public opinion, 3–4, 36 Pushkin, Aleksandr, 96, 128, 148, 190, 214, 232, 264n Pushkin and Natali (Kama Ginkas), 224, 225 Pushkin. Duel. Death. (Kama Ginkas), 220, 221, 224–228, 225, 238 Putin, Vladimir, 9, 177, 259n Raikin, Konstantin, 173, 183 rational use of free time, 81 Reagan, Ronald, 89 Red Army, 26, 60 Repentance (Tengiz Abuladze), 4, 37 repertory system, fixed company, 66, 254n Requiem (Anna Akhmatova), 65

300

Index

Riga Tiuz, 171 rock, 80, 83, 92, 250n rock culture, 172, 180 Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare, RAMT), 202 Roshal, Grigorii, 46–47, 50, 51 Rostov Minifest, 185 Rozov, Sergei, 122, 123, 204, 261n Rozov, Viktor, 61, 70–71, 73–74, 82, 121, 122, 249n Rudakova, O.V., 47 Russian–Japanese War, 26 Russian middle class, 178 Russia’s Choice Party, 169 Rybakov, Anatolii, 4, 37, 88 Rybakov, Iurii, 76 Ryzhkov, Nikolai, 168 Safarova, Irma, 131, 132, 133, 204 Sakharov, Andrei, 77, 89, 144, 171 samizdat, 65, 88 Satire Theatre, 67, 76 Satirikon Theatre, 173 Sats, Nataliia, 11, 44–45, 48, 50, 51, 58, 60, 235, 246n, 247n school drama, 41, 43 School of Dramatic Art (Anatolii Vasiliev), 171 Scofield, Paul, 68 The Seagull (Anton Chekhov), 73, 76, 258n, 264n Seagull Award, 213 Second MKhat, 58 See You-Don’t See You (Central Children’s Theatre), 74 semiotics, 149, 151, 154, 218, 256n Senelick, Laurence, 66 Serezha Streltsov (V. Liubimova, Central Children’s Theatre), 58 Sesame Street (Ulitsa Sezam), 179–180 Shail, George, 2–3, 50, 51, 245n, 246n Shakespeare, 96, 123, 130, 202, 215, 216, 264n Shakh-Azizov, Konstantin, 77 The Shaman and the Snow-Maiden (Aleksandr Ponomarev, RAMT), 199, 200 Shapiro, Adolf, 29, 97, 171, 253n Shatrov, Mikhail, 4, 37, 88, 172 Shchekochikhin, Iurii, 110, 116, 125, 126

Shevchuk, Mikhail, 202 Shpet, Lenora, 42, 245–246n Shvarts, Evgenii, 7, 55–57, 65, 68, 74, 75, 78, 82, 96, 108, 123, 128, 155, 162, 192, 252n see also individual titles the sixties generation, 74–75 Smelianskaia, Marina, 147, 157, 160–161, 162, 207, 232, 257n Smeliansky, Anatoly, 9, 10, 63, 66, 69, 72, 74, 78, 129, 170, 171, 173, 175, 181, 182, 214, 215, 216, 217, 241n, 249n, 258n, 259n, 263n Smirnov, V., 53 The Snow Queen (Evgenii Shvarts, RAMT), 75 ‘social justice’, 32 social reality, 25, 37, 38, 87, 99, 106, 173 socialist realism, 9, 46, 54–55, 65, 67, 241n, 246n socialist way of life, 30 ‘socialist culture’, 95 Sokolianskii, Aleksandr, 146, 194–195, 220 Solzhenytsin, Aleksandr, 88 Somewhere in Siberia (Central Children’s Theatre), 69 Soros Foundation, 182–183, 261n Sosin, Gene, 2–3, 45, 59, 246n Soviet communism, 2, 22, 24, 25, 89 see also Marxism-Leninism Sovremennik studio theatre, 68, 74–76, 78, 129, 249n sponsors see funding stagnation (period of ), 4, 9, 12, 25, 29, 31, 37, 64, 79, 88 Stalin, Joseph, 2, 12, 25, 26, 27–28, 29, 32, 34, 55, 60, 63, 64, 65, 68, 76, 82, 169, 171, 248n Stalinism, 24, 26, 27–28, 31, 52, 64, 65 see also ideology Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 44, 66, 78, 98, 170, 181, 251n Stanislavsky Award, 213 System of, 66, 69, 74, 171 state support see funding State Workshop of Pedagogical Theatre, 46–47 ‘stiliagi’, 80, 81

Index The Storm (Aleksandr Ostrovsky, Mtiuz), 209–213, 210 Strelkov, Garold, 183 subsidies see funding subversive elements in Soviet-Russian theatre, 7, 241n suicide, 58, 122, 176 Svezhakova, Iuliia, 213 Tabakov, Oleg, 249n Taboridze, M, 107 Taganka Theatre, 65, 73, 76, 89, 129, 157, 170, 248n Tale of Ivanushka-the-Fool (Mikhail Bartenev, Central Children’s Theatre), 123, 123–125, 127, 254n Tale of Two Masters (Lev Kassil), 65 tamizdat, 65, 88, 142 Tbilisi, 69, 109, 110 Tbilisi Tiuz, 109–110, 252n television, 37, 92, 93, 96, 97, 100, 131, 158 see also media Tendriakov, Vladimir, 88 Temusek, 44 TEO (Theatre Section), 43, 44, 246n terror, 55, 63, 77, 143 terrorist, 201 The Thaw, 7, 9, 12, 25, 29, 57, 63–76, 78–80, 88, 142, 248n, 249n in theatre, 66–76 see also Khrushchev, Nikita Theatre for Children and Youth Week, 124 theatre church, 9, 170, 263n theatre-home, 74, 170 theatre journals, 183 Théâtre Nationale Populaire, 68 Theatre Square, 58, 187 theatrical alphabet (club), 133, 158–159 theatrical dictionary (club), 133, 159 theatrical literate spectator (teatral’no-gramotnyi zritel’), 50–51, 52 Third International Theater Olympics, 18, 237 Three Girls in Blue (Liudmilla Petrushevskaia, Lenkom), 172 Three Sisters (Anton Chekhov, Anatolii Efros), 72, 73

301

Three went to the Virgin Lands (Nikolai Pogodin), 67, 70 tickets, 90, 101, 109, 145, 157, 170, 172, 189, 203, 204, 207, 251n, 262n Tic-Tac-Toe (A. Chervinskii, Central Children’s Theatre), 120–121 Timur and His Team (Arkadii Gaidar), 59–60, 95 Titov, Iu., 106–107 tiuz as instrument of totalitarian regime, 1, 3, 6, 24, 40, 82–83, 87, 90, 99, 102, 109, 111, 122, 135, 174, 233, 235, 236, 252n see also pedagogy Tolstoi, Aleksei, 58 Tom Sawyer, 128 totalitarianism, 26, 36–37 see also ideology Tovstonogov, Georgii, 29, 61, 68–69, 73, 141, 171, 215, 217, 262n, 263n transculture (transcultural society), 6, 39, 88, 89, 111, 136, 149, 178, 180, 195, 213, 218, 232, 236, 238, 244n, 245n, 252n cf. Epstein, Mikhail transideological environment, 36, 37, 39, 89, 102, 111, 135, 136, 149, 162, 178, 180, 184, 195, 198, 201, 213, 217, 232, 236, 252n cf. Epstein, Mikhail travesty (roles), 139, 193, 194, 223, 224, 255n Turkey, 162 Tvardovskii, Aleksandr, 65, 76 Twain, Mark, 123, 263n Twelfth Party Congress, 45 Twentieth (XX) Party Congress (1956), 64, 67 Twenty-third (XXIII) Beograd International Theatre Festival, 145 Two in the Dark (Mikhail Bartenev and Aleksei Slapovskii, RAMT), 201 The Two Maples (Evgenii Shvarts, Mtiuz), 155, 162 Uncle Tom’s Cabin (First State Children’s Theatre), 51 United States, 7, 12, 13, 64, 100, 192, 238 universality (universal values), 104, 135, 195, 199, 200, 201, 205, 218, 244n, 248n

302

Index

Urin, Vladimir, 97, 237 Urnov, Iurii, 202 Vakhtangov Theatre, 67, 129, 157, 248n Vasiliev, Anatolii, 77, 171, 174 Victory over the Sun (Aleksei Kruchenykh, Central Children’s Theatre), 196–197, 199 Viktiuk, Roman, 173 Virta, Nikolai, 67, 248n Voinovich, Vladimir, 88 Volodin, Aleksandr, 76 Voronov, Nikita, 194 Voronov, Ivan, 129 Voznesenskii, Andrei, 172 Vysotskii, Vladimir, 65 War, Great Patriotic (WWII), 2, 25, 59–60, 67, 73, 75, 77, 80, 82, 120, 193, 214, 247n the ‘West’, 7, 17, 33, 56, 65, 80, 81, 83, 91, 109, 125, 169, 180, 215, 249n see also Europe White House, 168, 257n ‘White Room’, 220, 226 Who Will Kiss the Princess? (Iulii Kim, Mtiuz), 233 Wild Piglet (Viktor Rozov, Central Children’s Theatre), 121–122

Wilde, Oscar, 128, 232, 238, 263n Winnie-the-Pooh, 96 Witness for the Prosecution (Agatha Christie, Mtuiz), 183, 237 Workshop of Pedagogical Theatre, 46–47 Wyman, Matthew, 3, 36 Yeltsin, Boris, 3, 34, 35, 144, 167, 168–169, 171, 172, 175–177, 257n, 259n, 260n youth, youth culture, 24, 40, 79–84, 92–93, 99, 129, 179–180 as constructors of communism, 5, 40, 80 as ‘lost’ generation, 5–6, 40 as victims of Western influence, 40, 81, 83, 92, 125 Yugoslavia, 64, 145 Zakharov, Mark, 171–173, 182, 183, 203, 252n, 258n zavlit, 157, 161 Zhdanov, Andrei, 54, 248 Zhigulskii, Iurii, 138–139, 141, 156, 255n Zhirinovskii, Vladimir, 168–169, 175, 176 Zinoviev, Aleksandr, 88 Ziuganov, Gennadii, 169, 259n

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