On April 8, Maladype Theatre presented Chekhov's drama, Three Sisters for the first time, which will next be performed on April 20 at Maladype Base. The premiere was an unprecedented undertaking in theatre history: director Zoltán Balázs staged each scene of the play in a different painter's style. We spoke with the director of Maladype before the unusual opening night about this exciting experiment, the timely issues raised by Three Sisters, and the revolutionary ideas that the theatre represents both in Hungary and abroad: humanity, kindness, and love.

When you played Tuzenbach in Three Sisters at the Bárka Theatre, did you already start thinking about how you would stage the drama, or did the idea for the performance you are currently working on come from a completely different source?

The question comes as a surprise, because I haven't thought about it until now. However, I clearly remember that when we were rehearsing the aforementioned production, directed by the world-famous Romanian director Catalina Buzoianu, I noticed some strange things in my surroundings. Several different acting and theatrical tastes collided in the cast, but the production was unable to muster enough integrative energy to forge this diversity of styles into a unified whole. A few years earlier, Catalina Buzoianu had staged Bulgakov's visionary work "Flight" with great success at the Bulandra Theatre in Bucharest, which she screened at the read-through for the cast of Three Sisters so that we could get a feel for and understand the essence of the bold, extreme acting style based on symbols, specific movements, and gestures that was evident in that performance. However, during the screening, my colleagues began to leave the room, and only a few of us watched the recording to the end. Evidently, there was very little interest in a production that was not based on Stanislavski's principles. I thought that I could learn a lot from this icon of Romanian theatre, so, taking the director's idea seriously, I set myself the task of playing Tuzenbach as a one-legged tin soldier, both literally and symbolically, whose "ballerina" (in allusion to Andersen's fairy tale) is Irina. I only put my foot down when Tuzenbach's last line was spoken: "I haven't had any coffee today." Gabriella Varga, who played Irina, was a great partner in this game, so we existed as completely separate islands within the performance. Our colleagues looked at us as if we were Martians, but this theatrical approach remains a defining and important experience for me, in contrast to everything that previous adaptations of Chekhov represented with their props and nostalgic, sentimental style of acting. However, the most joyful gift of the rehearsal process was the friendship I formed with László Sinkó, who played Tchebutikin. In the most noble and playful sense of the word, we saw each other as "scoundrels," and, trusting each other, we began to talk about many things and think together. Later, we had several opportunities to work together again: I invited him to collaborate with Maladype, and I also cast him as Bosola in “The Duchess of Malfi”, a performance for which, in my opinion, he should have received every professional award.

If not from the past, then where does the inspiration for the current Three Sisters production come from?

I think that everything Three Sisters is about—identity, the search for values, the redefinition of values, the dilemma of changing values—are very timely issues. Where do people come from and where are they going? What is genetically encoded in them, and what do they bring with them from home? What are they able to understand and incorporate into their own thinking from their immediate or wider environment? What influence can we exert on others, and what influences do we allow ourselves to be touched by? Starting from a clarification and rethinking of values, the genre of the performance became a "metamorphosis game", a visual play based on transformation. This is a truly extravagant experiment, the likes of which have never been seen on stage before: each scene is staged in a different painter's style, from the icon painters of the 1200s to the street art of today. The audience can thus observe the story and the actors not only in their processes but also in different phases, revealing unexpected, unusual emphases in the different roles—depending on whether we approach a scene in the style of Ghirlandaio, Jan van Eyck, Rubens, Chagall, or Magritte. It is particularly exciting to discover what the identity or difference between body and soul means in a certain pictorial composition; how perspective, the relationship between the individual and the crowd, and many other recurring motifs known from painting or theatre culture appear. In the visual arts, all creators have strived to further develop what is important and valuable to them from previous insights or endeavors, but only very few have succeeded in creating something radically new. When this did happen, another "dreadful dreamer" soon appeared who overrode it: overdid it, overplayed it, or minimized it. To me, in this way, Chekhov's play is also about the relationship between life and creation, where the Prozorov sisters are not saints and victims at all, but rather monsters who destroy everyone around them. If they do not fulfil the predetermined process, which is fuelled by their paternal heritage, the Prozorov spirit, the vast amount of superfluous knowledge referred to as the "sixth finger," and the tension that the age does not understand and accept them, they will never reach their true essence. Like Tivadar Csontváry Kosztka, Simon Hantai, or Lili Ország, every true creator can only reach some kind of inner light, the much-desired Moscow, by peeling away layers and breaking down walls.

Was it specifically Three Sisters that was so organically suited to this kind of "picturesque" staging, or could you have adapted another play in the same way?

I thought about this a lot. During rehearsals, I constantly had eureka moments and shouted with joy, because it was as if Chekhov had written the drama with this specific intention. The entire first act is about the Renaissance and humanism, the glorification of man. The second act is all about the Baroque, Mannerism, Romanticism, and Realism: Natasha walking around with a candle, Andrei withdrawing into himself, strange situations hiding strange secrets and generating increasingly complex relationships. The third act is about avant-garde art: fire engulfs the estate and the entire city, and everyone is also burning in a symbolic sense; futurism and other "-isms" also fit perfectly into the visions of the future that are outlined. The fourth act is the fragmented, crumbling, disintegrating, mosaic world of contemporary art, led by the surrealists, who placed our way of seeing on completely new foundations. Three Sisters fits perfectly into the game of "fine art as metamorphosis," and vice versa. When I played Hamlet at the Bárka Theatre, directed by Tim Carroll, Tim and I were often asked if another play could have been performed in the same improvisational way that we staged the now legendary performance. We both said no. Based on previous adaptations and my own reading, Three Sisters is perfectly suited to staging my specifically "picturesque" ideas in every flavour and segment, but I don't think the same content-form game could be done with another play. In connection with our previous production, Dada Cabaret, I stated that I felt the need to clear out the clutter. Sensing the troubled spirit of our age, I would add that there is also a kind of creative need to reorder values. We need to articulate where we come from, where we are going, and what intellectual and spiritual relics we carry with us. Different pictorial perspectives are also independent worldviews, whose interaction with each other is indisputable, making them the freest and most wide-ranging fields for associative play. And we, who look at them intertwined, say: there is something valid in each of these ideas, so today, for us, they are most authentic in their interrelationships or contexts. The story of the three sisters may be interesting in relation to Natasha, the role of men in relation to women, and the Prozorov legacy in relation to the Protopopov line, since nothing can transcend itself except in the interplay of relationships. Maladype has always been known for its demanding experimentation with variability, and this is no different in the case of Three Sisters.

How can all this be achieved in practice in the spaces of the Maladype Base? I ask this with particular regard to the fact that you also designed the set for this performance.

The performance pays tribute to the memory of set and costume designer Judit Gombár, with whom I had the good fortune to work for ten productive years. She was a tremendous artist of transformation. She taught me that nothing is impossible: if a valuable idea is formulated, sooner or later its form will reveal itself, even if this involves a great deal of sacrifice, redesign, or transformation. There is no wasted energy, only energy that inspires this transformation. Judit Gombár's intellectual legacy greatly influenced the form chosen for the performance and the way it was executed. The kind of "intellectual ping-pong" we engaged in while working together was so free, bold, and creative that after her death, I couldn't find a creative partner like her, even though I also searched among the younger generation. After a while, I realized that it was much easier to design the stage myself, especially since I can only direct if I can see exactly how the space, the actors, and the events are connected. Fortunately, I found a wonderful architect, Ágnes Czirják, with whom I had the opportunity to work on Dada Cabaret and now on Three Sisters. She understands my thinking perfectly and is able to translate everything I imagine into numbers, dimensions, proportions, and materials. Chekhov's Three Sisters is forced into increasingly confined spaces over the course of four acts, so we had to think carefully about what kind of very simple structure, or in other words, "spatial creature," would suit our financial conditions and possibilities, one that would not hinder the actors' performances, but would help the continuous transformation and the audience's revelations with small scenic tricks. This performance could not have been created without extensive and thorough knowledge of the visual arts. Is prior knowledge necessary to appreciate it? I don't think extra cultural knowledge is necessary, but it certainly doesn't hurt if someone has seen at least one Botticelli or Caravaggio painting in their life; it also helps if they recognize Leonardo's The Last Supper. But even if you don't have any of that, the situation, the power of the characters' presence, and the picturesque-dramatic context will create the truth of the situation. Of course, it matters where the author, the director and the actors place their emphasis during the performance. For example, Solyony's hand has a very different meaning in the world of Rubens or Picasso. Talking about what love is in the style of Veronese, Velázquez, or Vermeer also requires different solutions and acting presence. It is a sensual play in every respect: intellectually, emotionally, and physically. For this wide-ranging play, Mari Benedek's minimalist, imaginative, and multifunctional costumes are indispensable. Unfortunately, Maladype does not have the financial resources to allow the actors to change costumes at every twist and turn, yet new worlds must be created from scene to scene. It matters whether someone wears a Stuart collar or appears with a pouffe, as in Pál Szinyei Merse's painting Woman in Lilac, or walks in a hoop skirt like a lady intoxicated by lavender in a Gainsborough painting. These are serious challenges, but the creative team and the cast are so inventive and determined that they managed to achieve all this on time, with lots of ideas and imagination, as well as economically.

Chekhov himself gives some instructions in the play regarding the colours of the costumes and clothes. Did you stick to these colours?

Of course. For example, at Natasha's first appearance. Her character is deliberately the only odd one out in our production, as we thought through her transformations not in terms of painting styles, but in terms of fashion. She defines herself and her success through fashion. Her appearance sometimes contrasts with the scene's painterly style, sometimes blends in with it, reinforcing her chameleon-like nature.

At the beginning of rehearsals, you issued a press release stating that the performance was "an attack on theatrical traditions.". Does this refer to what we have discussed so far?

Yes. Neither the original nor the now somewhat deformed and worn-out Stanislavski method is present in this performance; none of our actors are "acting the Stanislavski way." On the contrary, the tempo is very tight, the different intentions have to be well modulated, and the rhythm and tone of the lines and scenes with different characters have to be precisely timed. One is sultry and full-bodied, the other agitated and staccato. Incidentally, we don't want to perform the play only at Maladype Base: the opening night will be there, but the goal is to move it to a larger theatre space where at least 150-200 people can see it each evening. It has already happened in the history of theatre that a certain painter, style, work, or way of thinking and seeing has determined the overall picture of a performance, but no one has ever been crazy enough to stage each scene of a play in the style of a different painter. Previously, I had only worked this way with the actors of Maladype during rehearsals for Platonov. Now I have matured in my desire, my knowledge, and everything else necessary for this daring and risky endeavour.

Apart from the upcoming premiere, there has been a lot of good news about Maladype lately: several of your performances, such as “Great Sound in the Rush”, have made it onto the international stage. How was the play received?

We recently visited Switzerland with our performance of Great Sound in the Rush, which we have already presented in numerous locations both at home and abroad. László Sáry's "semi-serious opera" has attracted enormous attention and recognition among audiences, regardless of age and cultural background. During our guest performance in Switzerland, I saw proof that nothing can replace the human factor. In front of the elitist Swiss audience, I was struck by the fact that they too are hungry for the most modern, revolutionary ideas, which are humanity, kindness, and love. These are the most progressive ideas today because they are missing from our world. When, thanks to a performance, the audience can rediscover these ideas, it reinforces my belief that the goal of art, culture, and theatre is to somehow abstract our everyday reality and place it in a new dimension. We experienced this from Ghent to Vienna, and everywhere else where Great Sound in the Rush or any of our other plays were performed. Ignoring the human factor turns the whole plan into a tragic waste.

How can the theatre's next season be planned now, before the results of the grant application for independent theatres are announced?

The uncertainty that comes with it is part of our lives. Every year, the period before and after the announcement of the results of the grant application for operational costs is a serious challenge. At this stage of the year, every theatre already knows what budget it will be working with, who it will invite, and what plays it will stage in the next season. We have no idea what and how we are able to plan. It's a completely impossible situation, even though we belong to the handful of groups within the independent scene that are still alive and working. This company has eighteen years of serious achievements behind it, both at home and abroad, so I have no idea what else we would need to prove in order to be able to offer our employees a more stable and predictable working environment. I would like to stay away from the milieu where decisions about our future are made, but I cannot and do not want to put down the responsibility for my company, because those who work at Maladype lend their nervous system, their time, and their energy every day to the creation of shared values. When it comes to evaluating our operating grant application, it seems that neither our successes, nor our development, nor the maintenance and operation of our permanent venue are given sufficient weight. Last year, we received 18 million forints for one year, and this year we can only hope that we will be awarded at least that much. To ensure our annual operation, we need to raise three times that amount, 55 million forints. Of course, I could close the theatre, generating some disaster tourism before we sink into oblivion, but I am convinced that there was, is, and still can be much more value and potential in everything we represent. Personally, I could come and go as I please in the world—as a director, I have accepted two invitations abroad for the next season: one to Washington D.C., and the other to Bucharest—but Maladype, the child we raised together with the actors, colleagues, and audience, still means a lot to many people. The audience knows us, loves us, and keeps coming back to see us. In a sense, Three Sisters is also about these questions of value, these shifting emphases. Sometimes I feel as if I have been swept away from the shore by the current. I am still swimming, keeping my head above the water and keeping pace, but my arms are getting harder and harder to move. I try not to lose my sense of humour and to remain true to myself and to the ideas that hold the company of Maladype together.

The company’s history so far shows that no matter how hopeless the situation seems, there is always a next season.

Yes, at this point we are spoiling things a little, because many people think that no matter how hopeless the situation is, we will solve it anyway. This is thanks to our perseverance, our sense of belonging, and our colleagues and private donors who love our theatre and provide the minimum necessary for our ongoing work, even from under the ground. But this is really only enough for survival; infrastructure development is out of the question under these circumstances. If I could devote all the tremendous energy that is consumed by ensuring the bare necessities for my creative colleagues to our professional development, we would be in a different place artistically. Instead, we have no idea what the future holds. Right now, Maladype's characteristic exploratory, daring, and creative play is our inspiration: so much creative energy and knowledge come together in the spirit of curiosity that it is still worth taking on the difficulties. It would be nice if others would notice and support this—even if we don't ask for it.

Verasztó Annamária, origo.hu, 2017

Translated by Lena Megyeri