I remember the exact moment when theatre got under my skin. I am not certain if this is the most suitable phrase to describe what seems like a life-long relationship with all that is good and transformative about our world. Words of exactitude aside, I was spending my summer break in Ohrid, with my maternal grandparents who had always insisted on art-filled days of leisure. So, as expected we attended a performance at the Ohrid Summer Festival, one that both of them were excited about attending (we left the house earlier than necessary, a sign, for me at least, that something exciting was on its way). After entering the provisional doors to the atrium of St. Sophia church (in the past a favorite venue for Ohrid Summer Festival’s performances), and locating our seats, I heard nothing. It was as if someone had turned off the sound, all of the sounds around me. No, it was not a case of temporary deafness, or an ear infection working its way through a young system. It was, well, that precipitous moment before the beginning of something great, something worth the while, all the while. The next few hours were a blur: today I only recall the sensations – exhilaration, trepidation, awe.
Is it relevant then to remember that this particular performance belonged to a renown theatre house based out of Belgrade, or that it starred the now fabled Branislav Lecic (yes, the same one from ‘Sivi dom’, a TV show which paved the road for all that is holy on former Yugoslav television), or that it was a rendition of an incredulously difficult to stage Shakespearean play from his last period? I suppose it might, if I were writing this piece for any trade papers. Or if I was called upon to discuss, in less formal circumstances, my own relationship with Serbian theatre and all of its course in the last 15 years.
Yet, these same sensations – this trinity of foretold manifestations, usually accompanying an engaged response on the behalf of the spectator – I have not had the privilege of being in the company of, simultaneously, for a long, long time, in the confines of a theatrical space. Do not get me wrong, I have had the honor of seeing and engaging with superb theatre over the course of the last few years, perhaps some of the best one done on these Balkan grounds in their entirety. Needless to say, I have traveled solely for the purpose of seeing exceptional work, whether by Pandur, Madjeli, Savin, Mijac, Susha, Stojanovic, Unkovski, Popovski, or Bradic. And each time, the price of the ticket-fare was never spent in vain. But this triple sensory excitement had not come: I had either had the company of one, or if blessed two of these hallowed sensations, but never like that warm July night, when I knew that my life would be marked, for good, by this deceptive art.
Then last Tuesday came, and I was taken by surprise. The preceding night I had seen a wonderful play at Atelje 212, one I had not had the chance to catch during my previous travels. So, my hopes were there – but I have learnt not to push the boundaries on sensation too soon. When I entered JDP (Yugoslav Dramatic Theatre), on the evening of the 15th of April, to sit for a 2 hour and some change production of Vida Ognjenovic’ ‘Don Krsto’, I came with the hopes of taking witness of some excellent theatre. Some of my favorite actors, and favorite people for that matter, star in this production of Ognjenovic’s play, done in co-production with the Budva City Theatre, and I had longed to see how they might wrestle with the nuances of Ognjenovic’s challenging text. The lights were dimmed. I tuned my senses, and it just came to be: all of it, the exhilaration, the trepidation, the awe.
Now, as I sit, and try to recall the ‘whys’ and the ‘hows’ of this partaking, I am torn between these two elements – was it the text, and the actors skillful delivery, or was it the context, and our not-so-skillful existence in it that brought me closer to my original fascination with theatre?
Meaning: Ognjenovic’s text discusses the almost hidden, historically speaking, character of Don Krsto Ivanovic, a contemporary of Moliere and Gallilei, a nobleman from Budva, who after serving as a teacher in his local church, moves across the Adriatic Sea, in pursuit of all the world of letters has to offer: education, fame, infamy. Earning a law degree in Padua, Don Krsto moves to Venice, becoming a renowned opera librettist, while serving the famous St. Mark church. Yet Ognjenovic is not interested in creating yet another history play; none of her work, in and of historically present characters, deals with re-creation and/or re-production. If we trust the words of Bozo Koprivica (and we should, to a point), Ognjenovic’s main facilitator is atmospheric – namely, that melancholy marks all of her texts, as a state of being and a state of mind. Don Krsto, Ognjenovic’s ‘Don Krsto’, is a man plagued by the compelling forces of family, and thus belonging, and science, and thus education. He leaves a fiancé, a beloved twin brother, in pursuit of what he finds needed and necessary: knowledge. When he reconnects with his twin brother, after a prolonged period of 15 years, he admits, in part to a sense of emptiness and what might originally seem a disappointment with his choice. Yes, he is famous, and indeed learned and respected, but his Luce is now another man’s wife, and a mother to a son that is not entirely his.
Cetkovic and Bosiljcic are exemplary actors, the finest of their respective generations (I am referring to their stage work; as of TV lore, I care not to discuss, not here and now that is). Their Don Krsto and his twin brother Tripo, respectively, are perhaps the two liveliest and life-like characters I have had the chance to see in a while. But my dilemma still looms large: skillful delivery aside, what brings forth the ubiquity of emotions when viewing this production – text or context?
See, I understand, most ardently and even somewhat plastically, what it feels like to pursue knowledge, out there, outside of one’s home. I ‘get’ Don Krsto’s self-questioning: did I do the right thing, when I left my hamlet for good? I have lived out, and still do, in parts, through the context of this questioning – making a place for oneself in the world does not necessitate a healthier existence. It can, and indeed it does, cause a permanent state of rootlessness, what today we have come to accept as a quirky denizenship. Thus, I am still at odds with my response to this production: I’d like to believe that at the end, it was a combination of both – strength of text and delivery, plus accessibility of context – but something makes me wonder. And doubt, a bit. So, I go and try to find the next production that might make me grasp the magnitude of this response. I’ll keep you posted.
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