Childhood Tragedy

The phenomenon of Dmitry Krymov continues to evolve at the School of Dramatic Art. In "The Cow," a dramatization of a short story by the Soviet-era writer Andrei Platonov, the director reveals that his unique style of theater is developing and growing in new directions.

At times it seems as if Krymov has come out of nowhere, although that isn't true. For the better part of a quarter century he was well known as a leading designer and painter. But a sea change took place when he began unveiling unusual shows that he directed with students at the Russian Academy of Theater Arts in 2003. Among these was a production called "Donky Khot," which was later nominated for an innovation award at this year's Golden Mask festival. This and other shows were created and performed on an upstairs stage in a building on Povarskaya Ulitsa that then belonged to Anatoly Vasilyev's School of Dramatic Art. Beginning with last season's spectacular "The Demon: A View From Above," Krymov has worked at the theater's plant on Sretenka Ulitsa. "The Cow" is his first production on the big stage at this spectacular space.

Undoubtedly the change of venue contributes to the fact that "The Cow" looks rather different from anything Krymov has done up to now. And yet, one senses that the subtle, though noticeable, changes in style come as much from a maturation process that Krymov and his core group of actors and designers are experiencing together. "The Cow" is bigger, more ambitious and more polished than any previous work, with the possible exception of last season's stunning "The Demon: The View From Above." "The Cow" bears the mark of a work of collaboration by artists who have grasped the basics of their craft and now are traversing new territory as they attempt to deepen and broaden the scope of their work.

As always in a Krymov show, the actors create or, at least install, many of the visual properties during the performance. Starting with an essentially empty stage configured by Maria Tregubova, Vera Martynova and Etel Ioshpa, we watch as the actors set up various screens that imply the semi-transparent walls of a house, laundry hanging out to dry, or a film screen on which images are projected. As usual, many props are of a homemade type, such as the rubber glove that, when blown up like a balloon, suggests a cow's udder. One permanent aspect of the set is a double row of mangled metal stretching across the floor and suggesting the remains of a now-defunct train track. This provides an early hint of of the show's key images -- trains that keep running through the back of someone's memory.

That someone is a young man named Vasya, who is compelled to remember a turning point in his life -- the loss of the first being outside his family that he ever loved. This was the family cow. As Vasya (Sergei Melkonyan) recalls how this disaster came about, the players in the event come to life on stage. They include his mother (Natalya Gorchakova), his father (Maxim Maminov), Vasya as a fourth-grader (Anna Sinyakina) and the cow herself (Irina Denisova). Lending a dream quality to the proceedings these actors also play several incidental roles, among them a train engineer, a mechanic and a beautiful, mysterious woman.

The story is simple. Vasya's father sold the cow's calf to be butchered, after which the cow lost its bearings and was hit and killed by a train. There is nothing simple or straightforward in the way Krymov tells the tale.

Vasya's reminiscences and ruminations about his own personal era of lost innocence transform constantly into brief verbal or visual essays on a vast array of topics -- love, sexual awakening, loyalty, betrayal, forgiveness, history, art and politics. A freight train racing across the stage by way of film images projected on a screen of white sheets serves as a dream-like reminder of the baggage any Russian carries in his or her mind. Pictures of the Lenin Mausoleum being transported on the cinematic train cars alternate with a string of shots of the Eiffel Tower -- possibly suggesting the pull that France has exerted on Russian culture for centuries. A strange image of a bound giraffe -- perhaps reflecting eternal Russian thoughts of exotic climes by way of Nikolai Gumilyov's many African-themed poems? -- is superseded by a portrait of Konstantin Stanislavsky, the founder of modern Russian theater. In one comical and thought-provoking moment, the plaster bust of Russia's poet laureate Alexander Pushkin stands eye-to-eye before a bust of Lenin. Images of barbed wire fences, presumably referring to Siberian prison camps, abound in this flickering parade through Russian cultural icons.

Throughout this excursus Krymov maintains emotional distance from the images he exhibits. The stony yet dignified standoff between Pushkin and Lenin is symbolic -- this production makes no accusations. It accepts all the building blocks of Russian history as equal facts. In a similar way, perhaps, Vasya never blames his father for killing the calf and thus dooming the cow. The older Vasya, at least, seems to have an innate understanding that judging the past too harshly is another form of lying. On the other hand, life and history have a way of mowing down hopes and dreams. This becomes clear when a huge, realistic train engine appears from off stage and runs down the cow, who makes no effort to escape.

In any case, this aspect of "The Cow" is best described as background. The focus primarily remains on the human element, and that paradoxically includes the viewpoint of the cow herself. She was the object of Vasya's first love and so he has always attributed to her powers of reason and emotion that animals are generally considered not to have.

Denisova's performance of the cow is comical and touching. At first it is as if she doesn't know she isn't human. She learns that only when an animated image of a cow projected on her torso keeps following her no matter where she goes. The cow is the production's touch point for emotional experience. In a shadow scene created by Arseny Epelbaum, Vasya is spellbound as he watches the silhouette of a woman, also played by Denisova, undressing at night. As the older incarnation of the boy thinks back to his childhood, the memories of stirring sexuality and love for his cow commingle in a single knot of sensations.

Sinyakina's rendering of the young Vasya is superb, all the more so because she has the extremely difficult task of playing something akin to a mute memory. As Vasya crawls all over his parents, interacts with the cow and continually gets in everyone's way, he always appears to be observing everything carefully with an instinct-driven intention of preserving his experiences for posterity.

"The Cow" is a rich, multi-layered representation of time passed and innocence lost. Moreover, it is couched in an approach that preserves respect for those who have suffered and caused that loss. This moving, evocative show is a sign that Krymov and his young ensemble continue to gain momentum and mature as artists.

"The Cow" (Korova) plays Nov. 27, 28 and 29 at 8 p.m. at the School of Dramatic Art, located at 19/27 Sretenka Ulitsa. Metro Sukharevskaya. Tel. 632-9344, 632-9377. www.sdart.ru. Running time: 1 hour, 45 minutes.