Polish Theater Festival Highlights the Past and Present

Having spent the last week at the mighty Dialog Festival of European theater in Wroclaw, Poland, I am full of thoughts about theater, its future and its past.

My thoughts begin with a production by Dutch director Ivo van Hove called "Roman Tragedies." Working out of his famous Toneelgroep in Amsterdam, Van Hove produced one of the most stunning productions I have seen in some 30 years of theatergoing. His six-hour collation of Shakespeare's "Coriolanus," "Julius Caesar" and "Antony and Cleopatra," set in a present/future world of 24-hour television news, internet blogs and cutting-edge technology, was groundbreaking, trendsetting and mind-boggling.

That, specifically, is not what interests me now, however. What does is a comment made by Moscow critic Yelena Kovalskaya two days later at a discussion following strong festival performances of works by two fine Russian directors — Dmitry Krymov with "Opus No. 7" for the School of Dramatic Art of Moscow and Lev Erenburg with "The Storm" for the Pushkin Theater of Magnitogorsk.

Kovalskaya, participating in a late morning talk on Friday, acknowledged that she was in a difficult position. She was there to introduce and discuss theater artists that she knows and loves. And yet, she said, she could not shake the sensation that in van Hove's "Roman Tragedies," she had already witnessed the theater of the 22nd century.

It was a provocative statement. I have struggled with its implications for two days since I first heard it.

In comparison with a production like "Roman Tragedies," Russian theater can take on the air of the old-fashioned. It is grounded in psychology, realism and a deeply personal touch. These elements are increasingly ignored by European theater artists. As innovative as Krymov's "Opus No. 7" is — and to be clear, this mixture of fine art, theater, music, cinema and puppet theater is bold and unique — it draws its considerable strength from the basic traditions of Russian theater. As powerful as Erenburg's "The Storm" is — it boldly cuts, rewrites and reinvents Alexander Ostrovsky's classic play — it emerges directly from the storied tradition of Russian drama and performance.

Both shows take a fertile tradition and develop it in new ways that reflect concerns of contemporary Russia. Both draw their inspiration from and conduct their polemics with a rich and varied past. In Russian theater the individual, the lone human being and the personal battles that he or she wages continue to be the primary focus of theatrical work.

Meanwhile, theater artists from Holland, Poland, Lithuania, Germany and elsewhere seem figuratively to have thrown their anchors into the future. The best of these productions, created by Jan Klata, Gregorz Jarzyna, van Hove and others, give one the sense that the present for them begins tomorrow. You sense that they are out ahead of us, that they have discovered a world we have yet to reach. They tend to scorn personal tales in favor of generalized myths. Global politics replace interpersonal relationships. Mass media blitzes replace one-on-one communication.

The last thing I wish to imply by these brief comments is that Russian theater is "dead" or "irrelevant." Nothing brings notoreity to a critic more quickly than to be the first to proclaim that the King is dead. There has never been a lack of Russian critics declaring the death of Russian art.

In fact, this is nonsense.

But it is true that we have entered an era when the world may increasingly look upon Russian theater as an art form that is primarily rooted in the past. Russian culture is a culture of revered traditions and masters. In what other country could — or would — a Yury Lyubimov continue to run his own theater, the Taganka, at the age of 92?

One can be ironic about this, as many are. One can be inspired, as I often am, by the respect for age, experience and accomplishment that is inherent in this.

There is no right or wrong here. I know of no objective proof, for instance, that can establish that the "future" is better than the "past."

Moreover, one of the risks that European theater runs is that its lesser accomplishments can be obsessively preoccupied with the future. It is often lacking in depth and locked in the grip of a slavish belief in the omnipotent powers of technology and image.

Still, the parameters are drawn, and Russian and European theater are surely developing on different tracks. While directors like Ivo van Hove surprise and challenge us with works that, to quote Kovalskaya again, come to us from the 22nd century, Russian directors most likely will continue to seek their path forward based on the lessons of their resonant past.

I would warn against making value judgements about any of this. One is not better or worse than the other. What they are is different, and I suspect that the differences will continue to grow in the coming years.