FALSE EXIT

Theatre is a place. Theatre is a time. Theatre is a dimension. A dimension in which one may exist in countless ways. One may become whatever one wishes, however one wishes, for as long as one wishes, and for whatever reason one wishes. In theatre, we invent rules and systems that function perfectly, or, if not perfectly, then at least coherently. And within the architecture of these systems, we create worlds in which we dwell happily. Or intriguingly. Or melancholically. Or uncertainty. Or… worlds in which we abolish boundaries (real or unreal), transcend territories, allow ourselves to be occupied by the identities of the characters we invite into form and life, determine proportions, and play with coordinates. In essence, we unfold a small parallel universe, entirely functional, in which we are free to inhabit fabricated existences. Moreover, our audience itself becomes a participant in these existences. Sometimes merely as a dynamic witness; at other times as a direct participant, if we speak of interactive performances. Productions in which spectators become part of the experience itself, or determine in real time the action of the story, the emotional states of the characters, certain decisions they make, and so forth. Consequently, our audience too possesses the freedom to feel, to think, to react to this entire offering; to this invented mini-cosmos. Thus, as you have probably already realised, the key concept underpinning the entire structure is… yes: freedom.

Theatre represents a space-time in which freedom is elevated to the rank of imminence and experienced as a sine qua non condition of the entire exchange between stage and auditorium, and of the entire process of creation and reception. Naturally, when viewed from within, it appears to be an unconditional freedom, especially during the construction of a performance. During rehearsals, so to speak. Yet if we examine it from the outside, we observe that it is, in fact, a controlled freedom. And essentially, therein lies the mirage of theatre. It is about how we play with — and play at — freedom: between the absolute and the relative; between fatality and manipulation; between magic and miracle on the one hand, and rigorous craftsmanship on the other. From this point, however, other corridors open; other questions emerge, touching upon ethics, aesthetics, at times even marketing, and much else besides. Certain responsibilities arise; self-censorship emerges; zones of negotiation appear — artistic or otherwise — between actors and directors, between directors and producers, between… and between. As we may observe, this invented and free world, seductive in its absoluteness, nevertheless carries its relativisations upon territories with profoundly pragmatic “edges.” In truth, we move across levels; across strata of perfection, repeatedly awakened to reality — to the tangible and concrete reality of everyday life — with every anchor that must be cast for the finished product (or “deliverable,” as it is now called) to move from the alchemical and ineffable sphere of creation into the condition of a consumable artistic good. Into a marketable performance, as it were. From that point onward, we are dealing with different matters altogether: the effects upon the consumer, administrative rigours, supply and demand within the cultural marketplace, competition, the science of exploiting a production, the management of an entire arsenal of… details, and so forth. From there onward, that notion of freedom as the undeniable dominant force of the theatrical world begins to acquire an almost frightening lack of relevance. But how so? Wait a moment. And what becomes of “absolute independence”? It remains. Somehow, somewhere, it remains. It remains impregnated within every thought of the character, within every gesture and every spoken word; within every bubble of scenic experience inhabited by the actors, within the imperceptible design and every invisible brick used in constructing that alchemical world. Magical. Ineffable. The very one of which we spoke at the beginning. In practice, it becomes an encapsulated freedom. Infinite, certainly, yet infinite only within its capsule. And this — this resembles real life almost perfectly. For the world beyond functions in precisely the same manner. Do we not each consume our freedom within our own bubble? Trying not to damage what surrounds us while simultaneously permitting ourselves the utmost comfort within our private sphere? Dreams know no borders. Human imagination recognises no frontier. Thus, we return again and again to Shakespeare’s assertion that “theatre is the mirror of the world,” and with that, everything has already been said. Yes, undoubtedly, at times we are dealing with a distorting mirror. At other times, with a distorted world. Sometimes, in life, care for one’s fellow human beings no longer imitates the care for the audience that theatre has always carried within itself. Yes, this is an incongruity, certainly. And at this price, we commit acts of unparalleled atrocity, participate in betrayals of spectacular squalor, display painfully narcissistic ingratitudes, or simply indulge in petty meannesses and gestures of embarrassing insolence. Because, after all, we are human. With virtues and faults alike, we remain merely imperfect and afflicted creatures. Burdened with a huge need for validation and sinister deficiencies of character. Negative characters. Which is to say: bread and water for theatre. Positive characters are generally dull and rather ungrateful. On stage, I mean. Nobody wishes to play Prince Charming; everyone hopes to receive the Dragon. Naturally. The prince is banal and uninteresting, whereas the monster… ah! The monster is succulent, striking, cunning. It possesses “substance”. And if one looks around, at the immediate spectacle of daily life, society inundates us with examples. Dragons, beasts, monstrosities, battles, flames bursting from nostrils, grand demolitions. We have all just witnessed a tremendous spectacle in recent days. One? Hardly. There are dozens. Hundreds. Entertainment pours down upon us relentlessly. Yet I shall pause at this recent example. An impeccable direction; textbook framing. A professionally orchestrated staging through which the Minister of Culture was compelled to resign. Incidentally, an actor by profession: András István Demeter. Who was, in any case, only an interim minister. (Not as an actor, but as a dignitary.) The interim position itself was the natural consequence of a motion of no confidence, through which the entire government had fallen. And then — bang! — a blitzkrieg-style media scandal. An impeccably executed script of denigration, so effective that the man submitted his resignation of honour merely hours after the release of the hit single “the Hungarian spits on the national interest.” A hit which subsequently transformed into a media storm, with opinions inverted one hundred and eighty degrees — transformed into a chart-topper in reverse: “Hold on, brothers, this is not right, what an injustice has been done to the man.” All within twenty-four hours. The entire madhouse, that is. Hit–resignation–anthem. Nobody understood anything anymore, yet all of us watched open-mouthed. More gripping than a major action film on a giant cinema screen at the mall. What theatre, what cinema! Life surpasses them all. And I believe this too concerns that very game between freedoms — between illusion and enormous stakes; between seduction and manipulation. But then again, is seduction not itself a form of manipulation? And vice versa? Indeed, it is. Both in the arena and upon the stage, this is what we do: we operate through illusions. The difference is that, in the arena, the victims are real. The blood is not glycerine mixed with food colouring. In life, injuries may be genuine. And indeed they are. True, accidents happen in the theatre as well. Certainly. But who pays the price for the human damage we inflict in reality? Yes, being an actor himself, I know this resigned minister. We worked together. Characters. Plays. Film, theatre. He never deserved such treatment. “Injustice” is too mild a word. Yet I ask myself only one thing: when he accepted the role of minister, did he perhaps imagine that the freedom with which we operate in art might somehow be contagious? That the absolutes and relativities of the theatrical stage might contaminate, through miracle, the absolutes and relativities of the political stage? I believe he did think about it. Only, perhaps, he wished to attempt a character role. Well, he succeeded. With all the brutality of the special effects employed to remove him behind the curtains, and with all the smoke-screen theatrics, the performance of the mandate was not truly a failure. Perhaps only slightly uneven in places. And that is normal. Common, even. Naturally, there are boos, ovations, applause — that is theatre: when one is distinctive, when one is different, one becomes controversial. Logical. Yet there is another aspect. In theatrical jargon, there exists the expression “false exit.” It occurs when a character appears to leave, only to return because… something. Anything. It does not matter. One begins to exit, takes a few steps, then returns. No, indeed, this resignation does not appear to be a false exit. Yet between reality and illusion, we possess the freedom to imagine anything. For suspense. For the pleasure of reversals. For the beauty of deception. After all, that is why we go to the theatre. To be deceived. (Theo Herghelegiu)