On October 20, Maladype Theatre and Átrium Film-Theatre will present a co-production of Dada Cabaret, based on Matei Visniec's play of the same name, to mark the 100th anniversary of Dadaism. Directed by Zoltán Balázs, Erzsébet Kútvölgyi plays Lenin himself. We talked to the Kossuth Prize-winning actress not only about how she is preparing for the role of Vladimir Ilyich, but also about what glass music has to do with her staying in acting, how she reacts when a member of the audience falls asleep during a performance, and whether she has to experience every situation in order to make her performance authentic.

Zoltán Balázs, director of Dada Cabaret, recently told a story about your relationship with Maladype Theatre. According to him, they had previously invited you to one of their night performances. At the time, you weren't even sure you wanted to spend your days at the theatre, let alone go to a nighttime performance, but in the end, Maladype's production had such an impact on you that you realized you could only imagine your life in the theatre. Is that how you remember it too?

Yes, that's exactly how it happened. This particular performance, entitled The School for Fools, was held at Szkéné Theatre. It turned out to be a very important, life-changing evening for me. It's true: at the time, I wanted to give up the whole profession. I was fed up with a lot of things. But in the end, I accepted Zoli Balázs and his colleagues' invitation. The auditorium at Szkéné Theatre was arranged like an amphitheatre, but you could only sit on one side, on wooden benches, crammed together. I thought there was a wall behind the black circular curtain behind me, so I leaned back and almost fell off the last row. My husband had to catch me. At that moment, I felt that this was exactly the kind of experience I needed to leave the world of theatre behind for good! But then suddenly the lights came on: the cast was sitting at a circular table, dressed in white, and with wet fingers, they began to play amazing, magical music on the rims of thin-walled glasses. Not a single human voice was heard, only the music. Then a trap door opened and the enchanting Bözse Soltész appeared on stage, radiating talent. Less than eight minutes had passed, and I already felt that I need to sit there, in that circle, play music on that thin-walled glass, run around, talk, be present. By the end of the performance, I had practically decided that I couldn't do anything else, that I couldn't turn my back on theatre.

Before that, was your determination so strong that you could really have imagined your life without theatre?

I thought I would just stay close to the theatre as a spectator. I have to say, I would make a great housekeeper: I'm great at washing dishes, cooking, hanging laundry, and cleaning. I would have been capable of such a big change that I would have gone to be a cleaner in my own theatre! I was fed up with theatre making. I'm sure there are many people who at some point get fed up with their profession, but they don't say so because they're cowards. At the time, I thought I was very brave, a real hero. But this heroism didn't last long: all it took was one performance by Zoltán Balázs for it to evaporate.

This is quite an old story now, and since then I have longed to get closer to this creative person, this company. I like it when directors experiment with me, when they don't want to have my usual manners, but when there' something in the role that is not entirely self-evident.

Based on what we know so far about Dada Cabaret, all of this is given. You play Lenin in the performance. It is difficult to overlook the fact that this is a male role, assuming that such categories even exist within this special performance.

With Balázs Zoli, they do not exist. There are no paths and heavy iron gates, everything is permeable. I can pinpoint the exact moment I began to long for his company, for him, for working with him. However, I don't know where he saw me, where he noticed me, where his attention was drawn to me. Where did the idea come from that I, at the age of 66, could learn as much text as he was lucky enough to present to me? (laughs) What's more, I have to sing in Russian and German, and I also have to learn texts in which I try to express meaning with meaningless clusters of syllables! Lenin survived three strokes. Very few documents remain from the period before his fourth stroke, but a photo shows him sitting in a wheelchair. We also depict the period when he was practically only able to utter a single syllable at a time. When the brain is still functioning but verbal communication is no longer possible, that's terrible! Now I have to grapple with depicting this as well. It will be an incredibly exciting task under the direction of Zoli Balázs, which I am very much looking forward to. So much so that it even causes me a problem, because I am unable to learn the text in the same way that a mathematician sets up a formula. The text opens up my imagination and evokes a huge collection of images. No matter how hard I try to learn it without emphasis or gestures—after all, Zoli will tell me what he wants to see on stage—I already find myself acting it out. But it may be that in this spectacular, action-packed performance, I won't have to play anything at all, and it will be Vladimir Ilyich who just says his lines—which the audience will either believe or not.

Perhaps there is already a generation for whom the mention of Lenin does not evoke the same thoughts and images as it did for previous generations. Could this have any significance in terms of how you approach the figure?

No, I think dictatorship is dictatorship! It doesn't matter whether the person in question is called Uncle John or Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. From this point of view, it is irrelevant if the name Lenin means nothing to a young person, although I think 99 out of 100 would guess that they should look to Moscow rather than Argentina for answers. The point is what this man stood for. The question is whether he achieved as much as he expected of himself, since in his case the outcome was completely different from what he had ever imagined. I find it impossible to believe that in Zurich, where he met the Dadaists and where intellectual and physical passions ran wild, Lenin could have imagined that he would end up embalmed in a mausoleum on Red Square in Moscow, turned into a wax figure. He was a thinker: he had an idea that he wanted to realize. But he found very bad companions for this, and he handed over the baton to very bad people. Even sitting in a wheelchair, he should not have appointed Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin as his right-hand man.

If the character you are playing is a real person, such as Lenin in this case, or Maria Callas and Edith Piaf in your previous roles, do you prepare differently? Do you delve into their biographies to learn as much as possible about the real facts?

The case of Maria Callas in the performance Master Class was exceptional. When I was a child, we had a Telefunken radio, which stood on a small black round table in the corner of the living room. When the radio was on, a green cat's eye lit up on it, and depending on the resonance, it opened up and the light green and dark green colours changed. Back then, even a radio was considered a big deal: the neighbours would come over with stools and sit in front of the Telefunken as if they were sitting in front of a TV screen, listening to the program of "Szabó family". I must have been five years old when I heard a magical voice coming from this radio. I asked my mother who it was, and she said she was an opera singer named Maria Callas. I am still a fan to this day. My parents had a good ear for music, loved music, and were well versed in classical music: my father was incredibly musical, and my mother sang even while ironing. I heard her sing Tosca's aria or the aria from Madama Butterfly countless times. I was no stranger to opera. But nothing could compare to Callas's fantastic, resonant, beautiful, expressive voice. Her coloratura radiated a wonderful power. As soon as I learned to read, I tried to get hold of and read everything that was published in Hungarian about her. When I went to college, I received a gift of all of Callas's recordings on vinyl.

Then I joined Víg Theatre, where director László Marton suddenly said to me: "My dear Zsike, I thought you could play Maria Callas!" I had never even dreamed of this! By then, I knew everything about her without ever thinking that I could play her. She was a fantastic, passionate creature! I wouldn't wish the fate she endured on any of my enemies, but so many sopranos have said that if they could be Maria Callas for just two days, they would give up half their lives for it! It was a wonderful encounter, but it was a coincidence that I almost knew more about her than the playwright himself.

So far, we have mentioned your leading roles, where you are on stage from the first minute of the performance to the last. In Víg Theatre's production of The Crucible, which was also featured in this year's POSZT (National Theatre Meeting of Pécs) competition program, you have to be present with incredible power in shorter scenes. How can you maintain intensity when hours can pass between appearances on stage?

One of the beautiful things about theatre is that it's not just up to me. The original work is written in such a way that my character's entrance has weight, and it's also up to the director, János Mohácsi, to create the right atmosphere for the person who appears on stage. My character, Rebecca, is mentioned several times in the performance, so even when she is not present, the audience is still aware of this irreproachable, uncompromising woman who raised 11 children and 27 grandchildren. Presumably, Rebecca's family was matriarchal, and she was the one who showed the others how to think, be strong, and remain honest. When Rebecca enters, she appears at the top of a staircase. Even in the chaos, she immediately understands why she has been called and recognizes that a loving gesture is needed in this situation. In such cases, it is not the amount of text that is important, but how my character can calm a raging, convulsing person. This role is beautiful because it is carved out of a single block, incredibly simple. When Rebecca is sent to prison at the end of the play on false charges, she can only respond by refusing to compromise and not taking back anything she has ever said.

Rebecca prepares for her execution with infinite calm, exposing the absurdity of the system by rising above it all. Certain performances like to build on the life experience, personality, and charisma of the actor in order to make a role authentic. How do you feel: do you share Rebecca's characteristic sense of justice and calmness?

I am very happy that János Mohácsi chose me for the role of Rebecca, but I would argue with the calmness. My sense of justice is due to my environment, my family, my background, as no one in our family has ever forced anyone to do anything. I live in an environment where everyone can say—and always does say—what they feel is true, even if it soon turns out that they were wrong.

In arguments, kindergarten solutions—who owns the little shovel and bucket in the sandbox—have to be forgotten after a while. My children are now parents themselves, and we have three grandchildren. I feel that it is never okay to lie, but sometimes it is okay, even necessary, to tell a white lie—whether through a smile or a half-sentence—to calm the other person down so that within 24 hours they will be able to accept the ugly truth.

My father and mother, on the other hand, were passionate, truthful people. They were always honest, and for that I can only be grateful. I learned a lot from their honesty, while my entire profession is based on a set of lies agreed upon by mutual consent. (laughs) That sounds like a strong statement, but it's true! In Camus's play The Misunderstanding, I played a child murderer mother. There can be no parallel here with the fact that at the age of five, I was influenced by Maria Callas on the Telefunken radio, I knew who she was, and she lived inside me, under my skin. It would never occur to me to kill just so I could use it for the role of a child murderer. Although I constantly observe people, I don't believe that only situations I have experienced can be portrayed on stage. If that is so, then acting is basically a talented bluff based on mutual agreement, while standing on stage is one of the most beautiful things in the world.

Do you try to convey your thoughts about your profession to your partners? In the case of Maladype Theatre, you will be working with new colleagues, and many young actors have recently joined the Víg Theatre as well.

I don't know if that's possible, because our current rhythm is so different from what it used to be. I learned most of my profession behind the scenes. My mentor, László Vámos, was a brilliant man who taught us everything he could. He taught us, for example, about life behind the scenes, in the buffet, in the dressing room, and in the dressing room corridor, where acting is no longer the dominant factor. He taught us to respect our predecessors.

I am a person who respects tradition. What I learned from Elma Bulla or Erzsébet Somogyi in the wings—I am deliberately not mentioning better-known names—is just as important to me as what I learned from Gyula Benkő, Rudolf Somogyvári, or Iván Darvas. From one I learned humility, from another determination, and from a third elegance. I could list countless wonderful predecessors who had it all, and there were colleagues from whom I learned how to never do things! I won't mention names, even though the person is sadly no longer with us, but I had a colleague who did not know how the play ended because his role ended on page 26. At that point, he got up and left the rehearsal, and never stayed for pages 27 to 118. I greeted and hugged him with the same affection, and he couldn't have sensed that I believed that, in an intellectual sense, one should not exist in this profession in a similar way. On the other hand, he delivered amazing performances, because his stage presence was exactly as it should have been.

Of course, I don't observe people in order to one day portray what I see on stage exactly as it is. I look at what people carry within them, in a smile, a gesture, their sadness, their stooped posture. What is it that they don't reveal to others, why don't they look others in the eye? Nowadays, people often don't notice this because instead of observing, they are clutching their cell phones so they don't miss anything. On longer tram rides, I sometimes overhear intimate conversations about everything from bunions to hair growth to bad nights, which are none of my business. But I am sure that, just like hipster pants, mobile phones, once considered indispensable, will go out of fashion: they will become not a companion, but a utility item. I am not opposed to any 21st-century innovations; it is the only way I can communicate with my son, who lives in New York. But I couldn't bear to have a cell phone as my eleventh finger, as most people do.

How do you see it: when viewers sit down to watch a performance, what happens to their "eleventh finger"? Can you get them to put their phones away?

We ask them to turn them off. In the aforementioned Camus play, The Misunderstanding, the audience sat in an L-shape, with the space where we performed in the middle. The only way out was at the break in the L-shape, at the corner. We were dealing with a terrible subject, a series of murders, and there was no more than half a meter between us and the audience. I really like performing in such a setting because it requires much less gesture and lower volume, and it is also more intimate. About 25 minutes into the performance, a woman's cell phone rang at the edge of the front row. She wasn't embarrassed: she found it in her purse, picked it up, walked nicely across the space where we were performing, left through the little break, and continued her conversation from. She never came back, but we could still hear her talking loudly, needless to say, not about Camus.

It is a moment in my life that I still think about: what should we have done there and then? You just asked me if honesty and the pursuit of truth are my own. In that situation, it crossed my mind to stop the performance for two minutes, grab the lady by the hair and sit her back down in her chair, hand her switched-off cell phone to the stage manager, and continue with the performance. To this day, I regret not doing so! This woman should have had to sit back down so she could find out what she had interrupted! After all, she couldn't have known that, according to the story, my son would arrive and we would kill him too!

Of course, there were plenty of other times when a phone rang, and if I could, I turned my head toward it. In fact, it happened during one of the performances of Master Class —where it was easy to communicate with the audience—that a man fell asleep in the middle of the second row. I addressed the lady sitting next to him: Good evening! Is that your dear husband sitting on your right, sound asleep? Please tell him to leave, because it's very distracting when his head keeps falling down! Should I shout loudly? Should I sing a few lines to wake him up?" Of course, I felt sympathy with the poor man, because there had been a Champions League game on the tv, and at half past six his wife was already nagging him to get dressed because they had season tickets... He was obviously angry that he had to leave the game, and with 3-4 beers in his stomach, he sat down in the second row in his nice clothes, which he had put on out of defiance, and fell asleep, raging. He was absolutely right from his point of view, but in that case I kindly ask him not to come!

As an aside, I should mention that I also love Champions League matches, I'm a big Barca fan, and when they play, if I can, I go out to the stage manager to ask how the match is going, even though he's a Real Madrid fan. But even then, it never happens that I have to be called on stage. I have an inside clock, and I always arrive 2-3 minutes before my appearance because I need to see what is going on on stage.

We talked about more intimate theatre environments and addressing the audience. A fundamental characteristic of Maladype Theatre is that they perform in a small space, close to the audience, which makes it easier to communicate with them. In the case of Dada Cabaret, however, this is not the case: it is performed on the stage of the Átrium Film-Theatre.

We will still communicate with the audience in the same way! We are in Zoli's hands, and I don't think he would want to communicate any differently than if we were in a small space. Zoli's pillowcase is definitely inside out, because his dreams are always a little twisted. His mind is very complicated, always working in a slightly different way, which is what makes him such an exciting creator. I believe in him so much that I would like him to enjoy working with me as much as I enjoy working with him.

After the premiere of Dada Cabaret, what else does this season have in store for you?

There are no further plans at the moment. Víg Theatre had planned for me to be in the performance Pentheszileia Program, but it turned out that Kati Lázár would be playing my grandmother, and we were in the same class at college. Not only do I love Kati very much, but I also consider her a genius. When she speaks, she radiates incredible energy. I am genuinely delighted that our theatre invited her to perform as a guest. So, I found the solution obvious: I had to leave the play, and Zsuzsa Hullan would take my place. But I perform enough, so I don't feel bad about it at all. Although I don't know what awaits me at the theatre this year, just as Dada Cabaret found me, it's possible that other surprises will come my way.

Annamária Verasztó, origo.hu, 2016

Translated by Lena Megyeri