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TURKEY
THEATRE REVIEWS
kindly
provided by Dr. Laurence Raw
Don Giovanni and his
Servant Pulcinella by Angelo Savelli,
translated by Durdu Kundakcı,
performed by the Ankara State Theatre at the Şinasi
Sahnesi, Ankara. In repertory.
Continuing the State Theatre’s love for
pantomimic farce – as evidenced by the two Noh Theatre productions this
season, Don Giovanni and his Servamt Pulcinella is nothing
more than an elaborate commedia dell’arte production - a Mardi-Gras carnival in
which black-masked and patchwork-costumed clowns tickle with wooden daggers a
kilted soubrette or a long-robed, spectacled Pantaloon. The translation
includes alliterative insults (a “miserable zany” or describing a
campaign speech as “a mere harlequinade”) are two examples, plus
plenty of opportunity for pantomimic action. Such and even more diverse, are
the traces left by ‘Italy's pride’ and communicated in Angelo Savelli’s retelling of an old tale. There is not much
else to say about this production, other than that it was enthusiastically
performed by a hardworking cast going through a multitude of disguises, and an
onstage band of egith who played along with the fun.
The audience enjoyed it too: all credit to the State Theatre for its efforts.
Restaurant/ The Adventures of
Princess Kaguya. Two Noh Theatre Plays performed
in Ankara 6 January and 14 March 2010. Touring Turkey until August 2010
The 2009-2010 season at the
Ankara State Theatre has been a thin one for those of us interested in foreign
plays. The majority of new productions have been of minor Turkish plays –
most of them not dealing with contemporary issues, but invoking familiar
formats such as love-stories, character-driven melodramas or family sagas. Lemi Bilgin, the director of the
State Theatre, has described the repertory as “a new departure,” reflecting
a more nationalist view of the theatre and its role in the Turkish
Republic’s future cultural policy. Sadly most of the plays on offer have
been indifferent, to say the least.
Thus it was with some sense of relief that I
approached these two Noh Theatre plays, presented by the Ministry of Culture
and Tourism in association with the State Opera and Ballet Theatre and the
Japanese Ministry of Culture. Both told familiar tales: Restaurant used puppets, while The
Adventures of Princess Kaguya employed a mixture
of live-action and puppetry. Both had been translated into the kind of
colloquial Turkish which can be heard nightly in the endless soap operas that
dominate the television schedules. This had the effect of domesticating the
plays – rendering them less foreign to local audiences. However this is
not a criticism: as I watched the productions unfold, with their mixture of colourful masks, gaudy costumes and beautifully crafted
puppets, I realized that there exist strong parallels between Noh Theatre and Karagöz, the
traditional Turkish puppet-theatre. Both rely for their effect on gesture,
while the gestures themselves are often repetitive in nature. This technique is
entirely deliberate: audiences do not expect originality in this type of theatre,
but rather expect certain conventions and/or stock characters to be
incorporated. The most obvious parallel that comes to mind in the British
theatre tradition is the Punch and Judy show.
Above all, both Noh and Karagöz
remind us of the importance of oral traditions both in Japanese and Turkish
cultures, evoking a world where no divisions exist between performers and
audiences. All are involved in a communal ritual, which not only exists as a
kind of ‘safety-valve’ – helping to defuse certain tensions that
prevail outside the theatre – but tries to instruct as well as entertain.
The Adventures of Princess Kaguya tells a familiar tale, but has a lot to say
about the importance of right action in the face of continual pressure both
mental and external.
Perhaps this sense of communality was difficult to
imagine in the State Opera House or the state Operetta House (where the two Noh
plays were performed). Both theatres are solid, well-built structures with
beautiful sight-lines, but they do tend to separate performers from spectators.
However the Kageboushi Theatre Company (which
performed The Adventures of Princess Kaguya) worked hard to overcome this handicap through
broad gestures that could be readily understood by anyone, even those perched
at the back of the theatre. In Restaurant
the all-Turkish cast employed a combination of elaborate wordplay and direct
glances to the audience in the form of asides. Both productions proves hugely
entertaining for Turkish and non-Turkish speakers alike.
I hope the Ministry of Culture continues this
inspiring initiative of bringing different companies to perform around Turkey
– not just in İstanbul. If the
audience’s reaction to both Noh plays is anything to go by, this kind of
initiative would be justly vindicated.
Kerem Gibi, written and performed by Genco Erkal, Dostlar
Tiyatrosu at the Şinasi
Sahnesi, Ankara, 27-29 May 2010, then returning to Dostlar’s İstanbul
repertory.
First performed thirty-five years ago, Kerem Gibi recounts
the life and work of Nazım Hikmet,
the Turkish poet imprisoned for his views, who was later exiled to Soviet
Russia. The play’s title recalls Kerem, a
mythic character noted for his refusal to give up his convictions despite
overwhelming obstacles placed in front of him.
Erkal’s narrative communicates the strength of Hikmet’s political convictions; his determination to
seek a better world in which social inequalities no longer existed. Despite all
official attempts to suppress him – including imprisonment, banning the
publication of his work and ultimately exiling him – Hikmet
retained an astonishing ability to persuade audiences of the legitimacy of his
views. Partly this was due to his gifts as a poet; he writes in a simple,
direct style in which the sounds of words assume as much significance as their
meaning. More importantly Hikmet was an outstanding
speaker, reminding one of poetry’s intimate connections to folklore
and/or the oral tradition. It was this quality that made him such a potentially
subversive threat to official state ideology.
In this version of Kerem Gibi, Erkal
uses a variety of images and sounds projected on to a screen at the back of the
stage to underline the significance of Hikmet’s
words. Sometimes we see the actor in past performances of the play, accompanied
by a full symphony orchestra and the pianist Fazıl
Say. On other occasions Hikmet appears in newsreel
footage, either reading his works or moving in front of the people –
whether in Turkey or Soviet Russia – whose lives he so deeply identified
with. He eventually became something of an international icon; his funeral was
attended by thousands of mourners paying tribute to his achievements both as a
writer and a visionary. Kerem Gibi also
includes several disturbing images, reminding us of Hikmet’s
enduring significance – these include black-and-white footage of the atom
bomb exploding and its aftermath in Hiroshima.
As the play unfolds, however, we gradually become
aware that it is not just about Nazım Hikmet, but Erkal himself. He
delivers the lines with such conviction, his voice moving through several
registers without the least sign of strain. Perhaos
uniquely amongst his peers, Erkal understands the
importance of non-verbal and well as verbal communication; his gestures and
bodily movements have the grace and poise of a gymnast. If Hikmet
understood the importance of commitment through words, Erkal
achieves a similar effect through words and
gestures. Kerem Gibi is the
work of an actor of unshakeable belief, who has endeavoured
to communicate such beliefs to audiences ever since Dostlar
Tiyatrosu was established in 1969. This perhaps helps to explain why Erkal has not only performed, but updated it over the last
three and a half decades.
Kerem Gibi might be only just over one hour and twenty minutes
long, but it possesses the emotional kick of a mule, inspiring audiences to
applaud with some of the views it expresses. Hopefully this enthusiasm might
inspire some people to press for social and economic change once they have left
the theatre. If this happens, then Erkal will have
achieved his objective in bringing Hikmet’s
work to playgoers, nearly five decades after the poet’s death. I
thoroughly recommend Kerem Gibi to those
of all political persuasions, who understand the importance of the theatre of
commitment.
The Infernal Comedy: Confessions of a Serial Killer by Michael Sturminger, based on a concept by Birgit Hütter, Martin Haselböck
and Michael Sturminger, Lütfi
Kardar Kongre ve Sergi Sarayı,
İstanbul, 14 May 2010, then touring throughout
Europe and the United States
John Malkovich has always
struck me as a dangerous actor – largely keeping his emotions under
control, yet always capable of the kind of demonic glance that suggests latent
violence underneath. I remember him as Valmont with Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Liaisons: while being a
purposeful and often seductive lover, he remained someone who should not be
trifled with. As Gilbert Osmond in Jane Campion’s Portrait of a Lady Malkovich shows
himself in his true colours, as he flings his wife
Isabel (Nicole Kidman) about the room when she refuses to do his bidding.
In The Infernal
Comedy Malkovich plays Jack Unterweger,
a convicted murderer, acclaimed imprisoned poet and notorious womanizer, who
was gradually suspected in the early 1980s of killing a number of prostitutes
in Vienna, Graz, Prague and Los Angeles. He absconded from his home in Vienna,
was later arrested in Miami, transferred back to
Austria and later committed suicide after being convicted on eleven counts of
murder.
The play begins with Jack reading from his brand new
novel, from whence he drifts into his memories, connected to the melodramatic
music of Gluck’s Don Joan. He
subsequently tells his life-story from the novel, claiming that at last he has
been encouraged to speak truthfully about himself. As he speaks, the action is
punctuated by further musical interludes played by an onstage orchestra (the
Wiener Akademie), and sung by two opera singers
(Laura Aikin, Alessandra Zamojska),
reflecting Jack’s various emotional encounters with women. They include
works by Handel, Mozart, Haydn and Gluck.
As the action progresses, Jack’s complex
character emerges; while undoubtedly attracted to all women, he is also capable
of abusing as well as admiring them. Perhaps this is due to his concealed
misogyny; women represent a threat both to his masculinity as well as to his
sense of security as a performer in front of an audience. The Infernal Comedy depicts his mental turmoil – although
determined to captivate the audience through the power of his story, we
understand this is nothing more than a façade. Perhaps suicide was the
only viable way for him to escape his torment.
In a programme-note Malkovich admits that he was “fascinated by this
mysterious person [….] a bad, bad guy, which I
really like.” Whether The Infernal
Machine works as a piece of theatre is another matter. While Malkovich is undoubtedly captivating, even in a cavernous
concert-hall whose huge playing area almost engulfs him, his character becomes
more and more irritating as the play develops. His treatment of the sopranos
– throwing them to the ground and either beating or making love to them
– is so extreme that I wonder whether author Sturminger
is actually a misogynist himself. Moreover Malkovich’s
appearances on stage are sporadic: for much of the time we witness nothing more
than a concert performance of Baroque music. This might be thoroughly
entertaining, but not what we had paid over $70 per seat for. In Willy
Russell’s 1983 comedy Educating
Rita the eponymous central character stuns her professor by suggesting that
Peer Gynt
should be best performed on the radio. The same could also be said for The Infernal Comedy.
Though
often considered a "chick play" (and admittedly, there's not a single
man in the cast), this production is likable and witty, regardless of the
audience's gender. et in a
beauty salon in rural Louisiana, the play covers nearly three years in the
lives of six women. Each of the four scenes takes place many months after the
last, and thanks to some very smooth dialogue, we learn everything that has
gone on.
When
we begin, it's Shelby's wedding day. Her mother Lynn is proud as can be, but
worried about her headstrong daughter. Shelby is diabetic, and doctors have
said she shouldn't have children -- but when, in a later scene, she announces
she has become pregnant, she insists she will have the baby no matter what.
There are more surprises and heartaches in store, and the play shows how these
strong women -- these "steel magnolias" -- use humor
and love to work through them.
The
entire cast is likable, although no programme was provided for me to identify
them by name. I was only aware that there were one or two well-known performers
in the production. The widow Clairee, is a sassy old gal without being a stereotype, and Boothe's portrayal of her comes off as sweetly real. The
actor playing the cantankerous old spitfire Ouiser is
very funny, spitting out lines like, "The only reason people are nice to
me is that I have more money than God."
In
fact, this play thrives on that sort of attitude-heavy Southern talk. Someone
is described as not having opposable thumbs; someone says she looks "like
a dog's dinner"; someone is said to be so confused, "he doesn't know
whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt"; someone else is troubled,
but it's "nothing a handful of prescription drugs couldn't cure."
I've
seen this play before, but I don't remember finding it nearly as funny as I did
this time.
Mojo by Jez Butterworth, translated by Özge Kayakutlu, performed at
the DIB Sahne, Ankara, 3 March 2010. Performed
every Sunday throughout the season.
Little white pills, diet pills stolen from a mother's
medicine cabinet, are the drug of choice in Mojo, Jez
Butterworth’s celebrated play from 1995. They turn your urine black and
you have to take a lot to feel something, but they have a powerful effect.
Pumped up by these narcotics, with the endless thump
of rock ‘n roll and the thought of quick riches in their minds, the six
protagonists of İlham Yazar’s
revival come across as poets in embryo.
“You're all doing six million kilometers an
hour,” one character observes, “Yap, yap, yap.” It’s
true’ in Özge Kayatkutlu’s
grittily colloquial translation, the dialogue flies back and forth like a
verbal tennis rally – to such an extent that at the end of the production
I felt as if I had been through a grueling five-set match.
The structure of Mojo is summed up by one of its
characters: “Big up and then a big dipper down.” Following one
momentous day in the lives of six employees of a seedy but popular club cashing
in on the new vogue for rock music, the play traces an experience not
dissimilar to that of being on drugs - a decline from euphoria into anxiety
and, finally, desperation. The play resembles a symphonic poem: within the
seamless flow of conversation, Butterworth weaves in a host of sensory
allusions that paint a phantasmagorical world of appetite, consumption (from
those little pills to a wretched cake dyed blue) and blurred identity.
But this is not something painful; on the contrary,
Butterworth’s play introduces us to the most memorable group of male
lovers since David Mamet’s Glengarry
Glen Ross. Their language is both stylized yet
brutal; obscene yet strangely poetic. This is the play’s true drug.
Butterworth’s play was filmed in 1997, but that proved a box-office
failure. This might be due to the culture-specific nature of the material: the
play is set in late 1950s Soho and includes numerous
references to the people and places of that time. However director Yazar deliberately updated it to the contemporary context:
the characters resembled many of the 18-30-year-olds who parade up and down
Ankara and İstanbul’s most fashionable
streets (İstiklâl Caddesi
in İstanbul being a good example) and throng
local bars. Their ideas are readily accessible to anyone who has spent any time
in their company. This revival proves the truth that plays will always be able
to achieve things that other media cannot.
A tiny firearm becomes an important element in Mojo. When it's
first seen, it’s seen as something of a visual joke and the source of
much merriment. Don’t trust what you see: the gun exerts an influence
over the plot like the kick of a mule. Just like this revival.
The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams, translated by Can Yücel, Eskişehir Büyükşehir Belediyesi
Şehir Tiyatroları,
4 April 2009.
In repertory throughout 2010.
Produced at a compact theatre in the heart of Eskişehir,
a provincial town in central Anatolia connected to the capital, Ankara, by one
of the country’s few high-speed train services, Emre Koyuncuoĝlu’s
revival was very much an ensemble piece. Adnan Öngün’s set hemmed the players in with its
cabinets full of glass animals, with jagged pieces of perspex
suspended from the flies. Not only did this staging suggest the claustrophobia
of life in the Wingfield family’s shabby
basement, but it focused our attention on the four protagonists.
As Amanda, Elif Melda Yılmaz seemed outwardly fashionable in her
well-tailored two-piece suits and exquisitely applied make-up. Here was someone
who apparently had fulfilled her aspirations. However there was something
slightly wrong with her image; she clasped her handbag close to her chest,
suggesting that she had something to hide. As the production unfolded, this
turned out to be true: Amanda had
spent most of her recent past in a domestic environment, with only the memories
of happier times to console her. She hoped to create successful lives for her
two children, but this was never anything more than a pipe-dream. Never
resorting to caricature, Yılmaz came across as
hugely disappointed and painfully well-meaning, her voice expressing different
shades of emotion, from wheedling to nagging, shrillness ad girlish laughter,
or an elegiac tone tinged with despair.
Sermit Yeşil
made Tom Wingfield, the rather disheveled narrator of
Williams's autobiographical story, more than usually
complex, bitter and angry from the start. The play feels as much about his
personal dilemma as the illusion under which his mother lives or the hopeless
prospects of his sister. Yeşil makes a
compelling scene-setter, as he gazed at the audience, carrying his jacket in
his left hand, his tie undone, his sleeves half
rolled-up. As he spoke, we heard some melancholy music from a four-piece group
(two violins, viola and a cello), which established the play’s
atmosphere. Yeşil’s whole body –
tight poses, exaggerated gestures and jerky movements – conveyed his
frustration and anger as he realized the extent to which his life had been
destroyed by his domineering mother’s expectations for him, his
subsequent need to provide for his family, and the sheer deadening boredom of
his job in a local shoe warehouse.
As Laura [phoenetically spelt in the program as
Lora] Wingfield, physically impeded and emotionally
cramped, Bilge Cezayirli – who dressed dowdily,
her reddish hair roughly brushed backwards from her face - came across as every
bit as fragile as the menagerie of glass animals and the perspex
glistening in the yellow light of the playing area. This cast a tragic hue over
her gradual blossoming in the spotlight of the attentions of the long-awaited
gentleman caller, as we understood what would happen to her.
The caller himself, awkwardly portrayed by Serhat
Onbul, kept up the charade of attending a supper
presided over by the buoyed-up Amanda, while displaying a covert sympathy for
Tom. Once he had shattered the glass unicorn – in an abrupt coup de théâtre
– we understood how the Wingfields’ life
had changed forever. Laura’s hopes were in pieces; just like those of
Amanda; while Tom could no longer sustain either himself or the two women in
their beliefs that things might soon change for the better, In
this revival illusion meant everything.
Beautifully played by the four-strong cast, using a
lyrical translation by the poet Can Yücel, this
was one of the best Williams revivals I have ever seen. I hope it remains in
the repertory for a long time to come
Uncle Vanya by
Anton Chekhov, translated and directed by Nesrin Kazankaya. Performed by Tiyatro Pera
at Tiyatro Pera, İstanbul, 14 May 2010. In
repertory.
First published in 1896 and
receiving its Moscow premiere three years later, Uncle Vanya is an ideal ensemble piece,
providing numerous opportunities for the eight principal characters to disclose
their feelings of hopelessness while trying to compensate for this hopelessness
through incessant chatter.
This aspect of the play was
emphasized in Nesrin Kazankaya’s
staging, which could best be described as centripetal in concept. At the
beginning of each sequence of dialogue the characters moved from the sides of
the Pera Theatre’s open stage towards a dining
table and chairs placed at the centre of the playing area. They sat down or
remained standing and commenced speaking; once they had finished speaking, they
moved back to the sides of the playing area, to be replaced in the centre by
another group of characters. The table and chairs became the site of
conversation, while the audience looked on as if they had been invited to an
early twentieth century Russian salon – a gathering of middle-class men
and women seeking both to enjoy and educate themselves through conversation.
In a programme-note,
Kazankaya likened the play to a pastoral symphony in
three acts: “The first act starts pianissimo […] [and] ends with an
explosion of a night […] The next day, a hot
summer noon opens the second act which starts allegretto. Then it transforms
into a pianissimo night again …” This aspect of the production was
underlined through speech-rhythms: in the first act the characters began by
speaking serenely, listening to what one another was saying and then
formulating well-crafted replies. By the end of the second act the atmosphere
had changed: everyone tried to disclose their real feelings but soon understood
that nobody was listening to them. This only served to increase their sense of
emotional distress. Dr. Astrov (Selçuk
Yöntem) turned to drink, while his way of
speaking became more and more coarse, punctuated with frequent gasps for breath
and vile scowls directed at no one in particular. Vanya’s
(Levend Öktem’s)
frustration was evident as he walked wildly round and round the playing area as
if looking for a way out. The salon-like atmosphere could no longer satisfy
him; he needed some alternative space to breathe. Unable to find any
alternatives, he tried to commit suicide, but even this proved an absurd
failure. All he could do was to complain to no one in particular: “I have
no past, the present is awful because it’s so
meaningless!” Yelena (Nesrin Kazankaya) likewise
admitted that she saw no future for herself: “I don’t know what to
do […] How am I suddenly to start teaching and
doctoring them [the peasants] for no earthly reason?” Although her
reactions were not as extreme as Vanya’s (the
possibility of suicide never entered her mind), Yelena’s turbulent state
of mind was evident in her rapid emotional shifts – laughter was abruptly
followed by tears, then anger, and laughter once more.
In the pianissimo mood of the third
act everyone made strenuous efforts to recreate that urbane, civilized
conversational atmosphere which characterized the first act. However we
understood from their expressions that this task was futile: both Astrov and Yelena gazed longingly out towards the audience,
while Marina (Zeynep Özden)
looked towards the theatre exit, as if believing that she could solve her
emotional turmoil by escaping from the production altogether. They were part of
the dying world of the landed gentry, living in a limbo-like world of the past
and unable to engage with a fast-changing outside world.
At the same time director Kazankaya suggested that their days were numbered. Both at
the beginning and the end of the production we heard the sounds of the
impending revolution (of January 1905) – the songs, and the
peasants’ clamour – while at the back of
the stage we saw the workers (Ömer İvedi, Oğuz Turgutgenç, Volkan Aktan, Özlem Kaynarca) bonding together by picking up implements and
shaking hands with one another. They represented Russia’s future –
a world of social equality and mutual cooperation that would sweep away the
class-based society that had dominated the country under Tsar Nicholas II. Both
Vanya and Astrov were well
aware of this impending threat, as they glanced fearfully off stage as if
expecting the workers to come and capture them at any moment. This knowledge
only served to exacerbate their feeling of hopelessness.
Compared to other revivals, this Vanya placed
greater emphasis on the play’s political aspects: Chekhov wrote it at a
time when Russia was on the cusp of major social and political transformation.
Nonetheless director Kazankaya paid scrupulous
attention to character-development: we empathized with their respective
predicaments, even though there was nothing we could do to alleviate them. In
spite of the heat both inside and outside the theatre, this production was
rapturously received by a packed house. I hope it remains part of Tiyatro Pera’s repertory
for a long time to come.
If you are interested
submitting news of forthcoming productions or a review of a show in your
Country for publication on this page - please email me: GPowner@aol.com