Alors que les lecteurs pourraient être tentés de le comparer au Tartuffe de Molière, les deux sont fondamentalement différents. Tartuffe est un hypocrite calculateur et conscient qui brandit la fausse piété comme un déguisement délibéré ; Ioudouchka, en revanche, est esclave de sa propre hypocrisie, totalement convaincu par sa propre rhétorique vide alors qu’il empoisonne tout ce qui l’entoure. Saltykov-Chtchedrine a créé un méchant si insidieux qu’il parvient à maintenir une image parfaite de piété tout en commettant des actes innommables.

Le Rôle du Poustoslovié

La littérature russe de cette époque explore fréquemment le concept du verbiage, ou poustoslovié. Nikolaï Gogol et Fiodor Dostoïevski ont souvent écrit des personnages qui utilisaient des bavardages dénués de sens pour manipuler les autres et cacher leur propre manque de substance. Saltykov-Chtchedrine pousse cette idée à son paroxysme avec Ioudouchka. Le personnage abandonne tout véritable sentiment humain et pénètre dans un monde de mots purement vides, de proverbes creux et de platitudes religieuses factices. Plutôt que de s’en remettre à la cruauté physique, Ioudouchka utilise ce flot de dialogues sans fin et étouffant comme une arme psychologique insidieuse. En ensevelissant les membres de sa famille sous une avalanche de piété hypocrite, il épuise ses proches, les paralysant efficacement et les vidant de leur volonté même de vivre.

Grâce à sa maîtrise du poustoslovié, Ioudouchka commet des actes innommables tout en se protégeant derrière un mur de justifications tordues :

• Le tourment de son frère Stepan : Lorsque Stepan retourne au domaine familial, démuni, Ioudouchka ne lui fournit qu’une maigre subsistance et le soumet à des sermons interminables et hypocrites sur l’endurance chrétienne. Cette pression psychologique incessante et cet isolement poussent finalement Stepan vers une grave dépression et une tentative d’évasion fatale dans le froid hivernal, que Ioudouchka présente commodément comme un défi tragique à son affection fraternelle.

• La ruine de sa mère, Arina Petrovna : Il dépouille systématiquement sa mère dominatrice de sa richesse et de son pouvoir, feignant de la soulager des “fardeaux du monde” par dévotion filiale, alors qu’en réalité il la pousse vers un dénuement total.

• Le suicide de son fils Volodia : Lorsque son fils aîné Volodia se marie sans demander de permission explicite, se contentant d’informer son père de l’union, Ioudouchka coupe complètement son soutien financier. Il dissimule sa cruauté avare derrière des discours vides sur l’obéissance filiale, laissant son fils désespéré dans une telle détresse qu’il se suicide, une tragédie que Ioudouchka balaie avec une indifférence glaciale.

• L’exil de son fils Piotr en Sibérie : Lorsque Piotr perd au jeu l’argent du régiment et supplie qu’on l’aide à éviter l’exil, Ioudouchka refuse de payer la dette. Il masque son extrême cupidité derrière une façade de sévérité paternelle, affirmant que c’est “la volonté de Dieu” que Piotr doive affronter la loi.

• L’abandon de son enfant illégitime : Il envoie froidement son fils nouveau-né, eu avec sa gouvernante Evpraxéia, dans un orphelinat, présentant cet acte sans cœur comme une étape nécessaire pour maintenir la pureté morale et éviter les conséquences visibles du péché.

• La condamnation de ses nièces : Il refuse d’aider ses nièces en difficulté, Anninka et Lioubinka, utilisant un flot de rhétorique religieuse moralisatrice pour condamner leurs choix et justifier leur abandon à la tragédie.

L’Auteur et Ses Contemporains

Saltykov-Chtchedrine n’a pas eu à chercher bien loin pour trouver l’inspiration. Son ami Nikolaï Belogolovy notait que la famille Saltykov était totalement dépourvue de sentiments chaleureux. L’auteur a modelé la dominatrice Arina Petrovna directement sur sa mère, et il s’est servi de son frère aîné Dmitri comme modèle pour Ioudouchka. D’autres écrivains majeurs ont immédiatement remarqué la brillance de cette œuvre. Ivan Tourgueniev a fait l’éloge de l’histoire dès la parution des premiers chapitres.

L’Impact Durable des Golovliov

On dit souvent que Les Âmes mortes de Gogol ont jeté les bases de la littérature russe, fournissant les archétypes essentiels sur lesquels des écrivains comme Tolstoï, Dostoïevski, Tourgueniev et Tchekhov s’appuieraient par la suite. Cet héritage monumental fait de Gogol une institution absolue. Pourtant, même Gogol n’aurait pas pu anticiper pleinement un personnage aussi remarquablement insidieux que Ioudouchka.

Pour ceux qui se passionnent pour la littérature et le théâtre russes, découvrir Les Golovliov est une véritable révélation. Le récit offre un regard sans concession sur la décadence morale de la classe des propriétaires terriens russes. Cette intense critique psychologique et sociale se transpose remarquablement bien sur scène. Une adaptation théâtrale notable capture l’atmosphère claustrophobe du domaine des Golovliov et donne vie à l’hypocrisie étouffante de Ioudouchka, soulignant le pouvoir durable des dialogues de Saltykov-Chtchedrine et la profonde tragédie de l’effondrement de la famille.

While readers might be tempted to compare him to Molière’s Tartuffe, the two are fundamentally different. Tartuffe is a calculating, conscious hypocrite who wields false piety as a deliberate disguise; Judushka, however, is a slave to his own hypocrisy, utterly convinced by his own empty rhetoric as he poisons everything around him. Saltykov Shchedrin created a villain so insidious that he manages to maintain a perfect image of piety while committing unspeakable acts.

Role of Pustoslovie

Russian literature from this era frequently explores the concept of empty talk, or pustoslovie. Nikolai Gogol and Fyodor Dostoevsky often wrote characters who used meaningless chatter to manipulate others and hide their own lack of substance. Saltykov Shchedrin pushes this idea to the absolute limit with Judushka. The character abandons genuine human feeling and moves into a world of pure empty words, hollow proverbs, and fake religious platitudes. Rather than relying on physical cruelty, Judushka uses this endless, suffocating stream of dialogue as an insidious psychological weapon. By burying his family members under an avalanche of hypocritical piety, he exhausts his relatives, effectively paralyzing them and draining them of their very will to live.

Through his mastery of pustoslovie, Judushka commits unspeakable acts while shielding himself behind a wall of twisted justifications:

• Tormenting his brother Stepan: When Stepan returns to the family estate destitute, Judushka provides only meager sustenance and subjects him to endless, hypocritical lectures on Christian endurance. This relentless psychological pressure and isolation ultimately drive Stepan into a severe depression and a fatal attempt to escape into the winter cold, which Judushka conveniently frames as a tragic defiance of his brotherly care.

• Ruining his mother, Arina Petrovna: He systematically strips his domineering mother of her wealth and power, pretending to relieve her of “worldly burdens” out of filial devotion while actually pushing her into total destitution.

• Driving his son Volodya to suicide: When his older son Volodya marries without asking explicit permission, merely informing his father of the union, Judushka completely cuts off his financial support. He hides his miserly cruelty behind empty lectures on filial obedience, leaving his desperate son in such despair that he commits suicide, a tragedy Judushka brushes off with chilling indifference.

• Sending his son Pyotr to Siberia: When Pyotr gambles away regiment money and begs for help to avoid exile, Judushka refuses to pay the debt. He masks his extreme greed behind a facade of paternal strictness, claiming it is “God’s will” that Pyotr must face the law.

• Abandoning his illegitimate child: He coldly sends his newborn son by his housekeeper Yevpraxeya to an orphanage, framing this heartless act as a necessary step to maintain moral purity and avoid the visible consequences of sin.

• Condemning his nieces: He refuses to aid his struggling nieces, Anninka and Lubinka, using a stream of self-righteous religious rhetoric to condemn their choices and justify abandoning them to tragedy.

Author and His Contemporaries

Saltykov Shchedrin did not have to look far for inspiration. His friend Nikolai Belogolovy noted that the Saltykov family was entirely lacking in warm feelings. The author modeled the domineering Arina Petrovna directly on his mother, and he used his older brother Dmitry as the blueprint for Judushka. Other major writers noticed the brilliance of this work immediately. Ivan Turgenev praised the story when the first chapters appeared in print.

Lasting Impact of The Golovlyovs

It is often said that Gogol’s Dead Souls established the foundation of Russian literature, providing the essential archetypes that writers like Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, and Chekhov would later build upon. This monumental legacy makes Gogol an absolute institution. Yet, even Gogol could not have fully anticipated a character as remarkably insidious as Judushka.

For those with a passion for Russian literature and theater, discovering The Golovlyovs is a real revelation. The narrative provides a blunt look at the moral decay of the Russian landowning class. This intense psychological and social critique translates remarkably well to the stage. A notable theatrical adaptation captures the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Golovlyov estate and brings Judushka’s suffocating hypocrisy to life, highlighting the enduring power of Saltykov Shchedrin’s dialogue and the deep tragedy of the family’s collapse.

He undertook the massive burden out of a desperate, obsessive need to speak directly to the Russian soul without the artificial barrier of fictional characters. He felt genuine terror that Russia was spiritually decaying under Western influence, and he viewed the diary as an immediate, real time spiritual intervention, revealing his raw thoughts on Russian identity, European materialism, and personal rivalries before those ideas were refined into his late literary masterpieces.

What the Diary Reveals Beyond the Major Novels

The famous novels rely on staged dialogues and artistic distance, but the diary shows Dostoevsky reacting to actual news headlines as they unfolded. He used the publication to construct a psychological database of youth suicide, painstakingly analyzing real suicide notes as cultural indicators of a society losing its moral foundation. He believed these suicides were not isolated personal tragedies, but signs that modern secular ideas were stripping young people of hope.

The diary completely ignores conventional journalistic boundaries and formal rules. Dostoevsky routinely blended real news reporting with creative fiction, inserting his gothic short story The Meek One directly after an essay analyzing real suicide cases from local newspapers. He wanted readers to see how actual social horrors directly birthed creative narrative.

Context of the Publication

Dostoevsky launched the project as a magazine column in 1873 before transforming it into a self funded monthly publication by 1876. He chose to pause his lucrative career as a novelist to write, edit, and publish the journal alone, though his wife Anna helped manage the complex subscriber logistics and shipping. The intense workload, constant deadline pressure, and sleep deprivation severely weakened his body, triggering frequent epileptic seizures that interrupted his routine.

The publication carried no commercial advertising and accepted no external contributors, yet it became a massive commercial success across all Russian social classes. University students, rural priests, factory workers, and nobles all bought issues. Dostoevsky used the monthly format to build an interactive loop, printing and directly answering volatile fan mail and critical letters. He regularly broke the fourth wall to complain to his audience about the pressures of deadline demands, admitting that his dream of a totally genuine, unfiltered diary was naive because writing for a paying audience inherently forces self censorship.

Observations About Russia and Europe

A fierce obsession throughout the collection is the spiritual divide between Russia and Western Europe. Dostoevsky argued that the Russian educated elite had culturally alienated themselves from the ordinary people by blindly mimicking European fashions, philosophical trends, and lifestyle habits. He launched sharp attacks on upper class parents who forced their young children to learn French instead of Russian, claiming it caused a literal impotence of thought and comparing its draining psychological effects to the physical damage of youth masturbation.

Dostoevsky explicitly tied this Western decay to Roman Catholicism, directly echoing the famous tirade delivered by Prince Myshkin in his novel The Idiot. In that story, Myshkin explosively argues that Roman Catholicism is not even a Christian faith, but an anti Christian political institution that substituted earthly authority and papal power for spiritual truth. Myshkin explicitly blamed Catholicism for spawning both modern atheism and socialism, arguing that socialism was born directly from spiritual despair and Catholic materialism. In A Writer’s Diary, Dostoevsky developed this exact thesis as serious non fiction, asserting that papal political greed directly spawned Western atheism and socialism by driving disillusioned populations away from God entirely.

Dostoevsky viewed Western Europe as a physically dying civilization built entirely on cold materialism, selfish individualism, and transactional legal structures. He believed European progress was an empty shell hiding moral decay. In contrast, he claimed that Russia held an exceptional spiritual destiny to unite and save a fragmented world through Christian love, a spiritual purity he believed survived exclusively within the uneducated peasantry who remained uncorrupted by Western education.

Situation with Chernyshevsky

The radical materialist critic Nikolai Chernyshevsky was Dostoevsky’s primary ideological enemy. Chernyshevsky’s influential novel What Is to Be Done? championed rational egoism, utilitarianism, and a mathematically organized utopian society. Dostoevsky despised this secular, mechanical worldview, viewing it as a dangerous attempt to reduce human free will to logical equations and economic efficiency.

Yet, the diary entries reveal surprising personal empathy toward the man himself. Dostoevsky looked back at his history with his rival, who had been arrested, subjected to a mock execution, and sentenced to severe hard labor in Siberia. Instead of kicking a broken political opponent, Dostoevsky recalled private encounters with Chernyshevsky before his arrest. He acknowledged Chernyshevsky’s absolute sincerity and personal integrity as an idealist, even while maintaining that his secular ideas were disastrous poison for the future of Russia.

Interactions with Herzen and Other Writers

The diary features direct assessments of his literary contemporaries, particularly the exiled socialist writer Alexander Herzen. Dostoevsky admired Herzen’s wit, refined prose style, and genuine intellectual vigor. However, Dostoevsky argued that living in comfortable European exile had turned Herzen into a detached aristocrat playing with unworkable, abstract theories completely disconnected from the actual needs of Russian peasants.

Dostoevsky also used the publication to settle cultural arguments and target contemporary trends, dedicating entire entries to aggressively debunking the popular craze for seances and spiritualism among the St. Petersburg elite. He viewed high society enthusiasm for ghosts as a cheap, fake substitute for genuine religious faith. His real time review of Leo Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina inside the diary shifts rapidly from ecstatic praise of Tolstoy’s psychological genius to intense frustration with how the novel handled contemporary political conflicts in the Balkans.

Conclusion

If you chose Fyodor Dostoevsky in answer to the question “who you would most like to have dinner with,” then you must read A Writer’s Diary. The collection functions as an essential companion piece to his famous literature, mirroring the raw, interactive nature of a personal publication. It documents the volatile materials of his mind, exposing his unfiltered fixations on youth suicide, spiritualism, and his complex rivalries with contemporary writers.

Écrite pendant une période de profonds troubles sociaux en Russie, la pièce sert de critique de la classe capitaliste avant la Révolution russe. Gorky s’est inspiré de ses propres observations des familles de marchands de province pour créer un personnage dont la résilience mène finalement à la tragédie. L’œuvre complique également les récits idéologiques traditionnels en dépeignant les révolutionnaires sociaux avec une certaine faiblesse qui obscurcit le véritable alignement politique de l’auteur. De plus, la profondeur psychologique du personnage a permis des performances remarquables dans les adaptations cinématographiques, apportant sa présence terrifiante à l’écran.

Vassa contre la Nora d’Ibsen

La force de Vassa Zheleznova devient claire lorsqu’elle est comparée à Nora Helmer de la pièce de Henrik Ibsen, Une Maison de Poupée. Nora acquiert son indépendance en quittant son mari et ses enfants pour chercher son épanouissement personnel. Ses actions représentent un éveil individualiste. Vassa opère dans des circonstances différentes où la fuite n’est pas une option. Au lieu de s’éloigner d’un foyer restrictif, Vassa en prend le contrôle total pour éviter une ruine complète. Sa force se mesure à sa capacité à endurer et à gérer un empire en effondrement plutôt qu’à sa capacité à le quitter. Alors que Nora choisit la préservation de soi par le départ, Vassa choisit la préservation de l’entreprise familiale par une domination absolue. Cela fait de Vassa un personnage structurellement plus fort car elle assume le poids collectif de toute sa communauté au lieu de poursuivre sa liberté personnelle.

Le Fardeau des Hommes Faibles

Lorsque les femmes dans les sociétés patriarcales sont obligées de diriger à la fois un foyer et un empire commercial, le fardeau découle souvent de l’effondrement moral ou physique complet des hommes qui les entourent. Dans Vassa Zheleznova, les personnages masculins sont incapables de diriger. Le mari de Vassa est consumé par le vice, son beau frère est un dépensier alcoolique, et ses fils sont soit faibles, soit manipulateurs. Parce que ces hommes ne peuvent pas remplir leurs rôles traditionnels, Vassa doit occuper le vide pour préserver le nom et la fortune de la famille. Cette inversion du pouvoir la force à adopter une volonté de fer. Elle gère les horaires de navigation, manipule de grandes sommes d’argent et dicte les politiques familiales. Le texte démontre que lorsque les hommes faibles abandonnent leurs responsabilités, les femmes sont contraintes de développer un pragmatisme sévère qui ne laisse aucune place à la vulnérabilité.

Victimisation et Tyrannie

Vassa n’est pas une simple méchante, mais une personne dont la cruauté est le résultat de ses propres abus passés. Elle est victime de son mari, un capitaine de marine à la retraite qui s’est livré à des comportements prédateurs et a été surpris avec des filles mineures. Pendant des décennies, Vassa a dû endurer sa dépravation tout en maintenant une image publique respectable. Lorsque ses crimes menacent de devenir un procès public qui ruinerait la famille et les perspectives de leurs filles, Vassa prend des mesures drastiques. Elle donne du poison à son mari et lui ordonne de se suicider pour éviter un procès public. Son passé face à un conjoint prédateur l’a dépouillée de toute empathie. Elle utilise le chantage et la manipulation contre les autres parce que ce sont les outils qui ont été utilisés contre elle. Sa tyrannie est un prolongement du traumatisme qu’elle a subi sous la domination de son mari.

Le Message de Gorky et la Révolution Russe

Gorky a écrit la première version de Vassa Zheleznova en 1910 alors qu’il vivait en exil sur l’île de Capri. Cette période a suivi l’échec de la Révolution russe de 1905, une époque où les intellectuels réfléchissaient à l’instabilité de l’ordre social russe.

À travers l’effondrement de la famille Zheleznov, Gorky diagnostiquait la décadence morale de la bourgeoisie marchande russe. Il a montré que la classe capitaliste pourrissait de l’intérieur bien avant qu’un soulèvement politique ne se produise. Les hommes faibles et le capitaine prédateur représentent un ordre social moribond qui s’appuie sur l’exploitation et la violence pour survivre. Les tentatives désespérées de Vassa pour sauver sa compagnie de navigation reflètent les efforts inutiles de la classe dirigeante pour maintenir le contrôle d’un empire voué à l’effondrement.

Le texte introduit une part d’ambiguïté politique à travers la description du mouvement anti capitaliste. Gorky dépeint les révolutionnaires clandestins comme des figures faibles, inefficaces et pathétiques. En montrant les failles à la fois dans la famille bourgeoise corrompue et dans l’opposition radicale, le côté idéologique que l’auteur soutient vraiment reste incertain. Ce refus de présenter un paysage moral simplifié représente le génie de Gorky, car il donne la priorité au réalisme psychologique plutôt qu’à la propagande dogmatique.

Inspiration de la Vie Réelle

Gorky n’a pas inventé le personnage de Vassa uniquement par imagination. Il s’est largement inspiré de sa propre enfance à Nijni Novgorod, une ville commerciale importante le long du fleuve Volga. Gorky a grandi dans une maison de marchands et a été témoin des dures réalités du commerce industriel. Il a observé que derrière de nombreuses entreprises de transport prospères de la Volga se trouvaient de puissantes matriarches. Ces femmes reprenaient fréquemment les opérations parce que leurs maris étaient absents, incapables en raison de l’alcoolisme ou financièrement incompétents. Gorky a utilisé ces exemples concrets de femmes de fer provinciales pour construire Vassa, ancrant son pragmatisme froid dans les conditions sociales réelles de la Russie du début du vingtième siècle.

La Performance de Inna Churikova

Le poids émotionnel du personnage de Vassa est pleinement réalisé dans l’adaptation cinématographique de 1983 intitulée Vassa, réalisée par Gleb Panfilov. Inna Churikova livre une performance hypnotique dans le rôle de la matriarche centrale, démontrant les capacités d’une actrice exceptionnellement talentueuse au sommet de son pouvoir créatif.

Churikova capture la friction interne d’une femme qui doit maintenir un calme complet alors que sa famille et son entreprise se désintègrent autour d’elle. Elle évite le piège de jouer Vassa comme une méchante unidimensionnelle, choisissant plutôt de mettre l’accent sur une autorité calme et glaciale. Son immobilité physique et sa diction délibérée dominent chaque scène, rendant impossible de détourner le regard de son interprétation. À travers son jeu nuancé, le public est témoin de l’épuisement sous la façade de fer, ajoutant une profonde couche de tragédie humaine à l’adaptation à l’écran.

Conclusion

Vassa Zheleznova reste une figure exceptionnelle de la littérature dramatique car son immense force est née d’une nécessité absolue plutôt que d’un désir de libération personnelle. Elle surpasse des personnages comme Nora Helmer parce qu’elle affronte les rouages cruels du pouvoir et de la survie au sein d’un système corrompu au lieu de leur échapper.

En explorant ces dynamiques, Gorky a proposé une critique vivante d’une société bourgeoise au bord de la révolution tout en maintenant une ambiguïté artistique concernant le mouvement révolutionnaire lui même.

Written during a period of deep social unrest in Russia, the play serves as a critique of the capitalist class before the Russian Revolution. Gorky drew from his own observations of provincial merchant families to create a character whose resilience ultimately leads to tragedy. The work also complicates traditional ideological narratives by portraying social revolutionaries with a degree of weakness that obscures the author’s true political alignment. Furthermore, the psychological depth of the character has allowed remarkable performances in cinematic adaptations, bringing her terrifying presence to the screen.

Vassa vs. Ibsen’s Nora

The strength of Vassa Zheleznova becomes clear when compared to Nora Helmer from Henrik Ibsen’s play A Doll’s House. Nora achieves independence by leaving her husband and children to seek personal fulfillment. Her actions represent an individualistic awakening. Vassa operates under different circumstances where escape is not an option. Instead of walking away from a restrictive household, Vassa takes complete control of it to prevent total ruin. Her strength is measured by her ability to endure and manage a collapsing empire rather than her ability to leave it. While Nora chooses self preservation through departure, Vassa chooses the preservation of her family enterprise through absolute dominance. This makes Vassa a structurally stronger character because she shoulders the collective weight of her entire community instead of pursuing personal freedom.

Burden of Weak Men

When women in patriarchal societies are forced to run both a household and a business empire, the burden often stems from the complete moral or physical collapse of the men around them. In Vassa Zheleznova, the male characters are incapable of leadership. Vassa’s husband is consumed by vice, her brother in law is an alcoholic spendthrift, and her sons are either weak or manipulative. Because these men cannot fulfill their traditional roles, Vassa must step into the vacuum to preserve the family name and wealth. This inversion of power forces her to adopt an iron will. She manages shipping schedules, handles large sums of money, and dictates family policies. The text demonstrates that when weak men abandon their responsibilities, women are forced to develop a severe pragmatism that leaves no room for vulnerability.

Victimhood and Tyranny

Vassa is not a simple villain, but a person whose cruelty is a result of her own past abuse. She is a victim of her husband, a retired naval captain who engaged in predatory behavior and was caught with underage girls. For decades, Vassa had to endure his depravity while maintaining a respectable public image. When his crimes threaten to become a public trial that would bankrupt the family and ruin their daughters’ futures, Vassa takes drastic action. She gives her husband poison and commands him to commit suicide to avoid a public trial. Her history of dealing with a predatory spouse has stripped her of empathy. She uses blackmail and manipulation against others because those were the tools used against her. Her tyranny is an extension of the trauma she experienced under her husband’s rule.

Gorky’s Message and the Russian Revolution

Gorky wrote the first version of Vassa Zheleznova in 1910 while living in exile on the island of Capri. This period followed the failed 1905 Russian Revolution, a time when intellectuals were reflecting on the instability of the Russian social order.

Through the collapse of the Zheleznov family, Gorky was diagnosing the moral decay of the Russian merchant bourgeoisie. He showed that the capitalist class was rotting from within long before any political uprising occurred. The weak men and the predatory captain represent a dying social order that relies on exploitation and violence to survive. Vassa’s desperate attempts to save her shipping company mirror the futile efforts of the ruling class to maintain control over an empire that is bound to collapse.

The text introduces a layer of political ambiguity through the depiction of the anti capitalist movement. Gorky portrays the underground revolutionaries as weak, ineffective, and pathetic figures. By showing flaws in both the corrupt bourgeois family and the radical opposition, it remains unclear which ideological side the author truly supports. This refusal to present a simplified moral landscape represents the genius of Gorky, as he prioritizes psychological realism over dogmatic propaganda.

Real Life Inspiration

Gorky did not invent the character of Vassa purely from imagination. He drew heavily from his own childhood in Nizhny Novgorod, a prominent trading city along the Volga River. Gorky grew up in a merchant household and witnessed the harsh realities of industrial commerce. He observed that behind many successful Volga shipping enterprises stood powerful matriarchs. These women frequently took over the operations because their husbands were absent, incapacitated by alcoholism, or financially incompetent. Gorky used these real life examples of provincial iron women to construct Vassa, anchoring her cold pragmatism in the actual social conditions of early twentieth century Russia.

Inna Churikova’s Performance

The emotional weight of Vassa’s character is fully realized in the 1983 cinematic adaptation titled Vassa, directed by Gleb Panfilov. Inna Churikova delivers a hypnotic performance as the central matriarch, demonstrating the abilities of an exceptionally talented actress at the peak of her creative power.

Churikova captures the internal friction of a woman who must maintain complete composure while her family and business disintegrate around her. She avoids the trap of playing Vassa as a one dimensional villain, opting instead to emphasize a quiet, chilling authority. Her physical stillness and deliberate delivery command every scene, making it impossible to look away from her portrayal. Through her nuanced acting, the audience witnesses the exhaustion beneath the iron facade, adding a profound layer of human tragedy to the screen adaptation.

Conclusion

Vassa Zheleznova remains an exceptional figure in dramatic literature because her immense strength is born out of absolute necessity rather than a desire for personal liberation. She surpasses characters like Nora Helmer because she confronts the harsh mechanics of power and survival within a corrupt system instead of escaping them.

By exploring these dynamics, Gorky provided a vivid critique of a bourgeois society on the verge of revolution while maintaining an artistic ambiguity regarding the revolutionary movement itself.

The text provoked immediate global controversy and drew fierce reactions from prominent figures. The radical narrative even fractured the personal life of the author. It caused immense distress within his marriage and inspired his own family members to publish literary rebuttals.

Pozdnyshev’s Confession

The story follows a minor nobleman named Pozdnyshev who corners a stranger on a train and has a deep desire to confess. He describes his early life and how his debauchery and later attempt to start over in a pure Christian marriage slowly deteriorated into mutual hatred. The couple has five children together, but the pressures of family life only increase their constant arguing. His wife is a pianist who begins to practice music with a male violinist. They play the famous Beethoven composition called The Kreutzer Sonata together. Pozdnyshev becomes consumed by intense jealousy. He returns home unexpectedly from a trip and finds the two musicians spending time together. In a fit of rage he stabs his wife to death with a dagger. A jury later acquits him of murder because they believe his wife was unfaithful.

Tolstoy uses this plot to pose a serious question. He asks the reader whether Pozdnyshev is simply insane or if the institution of marriage naturally drives ordinary people to violent behavior, because marriage is an untenable lie. If we have to end humanity to end this lie, so be it, says Pozdnyshev.

Responses From Prominent Figures

The publication of The Kreutzer Sonata triggered a wave of reactions from writers, politicians and critics. Anton Chekhov initially praised the artistic merit of the work. He later criticized its scientific inaccuracies regarding medicine and human biology. Theodore Roosevelt famously condemned Tolstoy. The American president referred to the Russian author as a sexual moral pervert due to his extreme views on marriage. The American orator Robert G Ingersoll wrote a detailed critique arguing that Tolstoy misunderstood human affection and love.

The French novelist Emile Zola opposed the core message of the novella. Zola believed that Tolstoy was wrong to promote complete physical abstinence as an ideal. The British writer G K Chesterton criticized Tolstoy for his rigid asceticism and his rejection of natural human bonds. The early psychologist Havelock Ellis discussed the book in his studies of human sexuality. Ellis viewed the novella as a symptom of psychological struggles rather than a valid moral guide. Finally, the cultural critic Max Nordau included Tolstoy in his book Degeneration. Nordau used The Kreutzer Sonata as evidence that Tolstoy suffered from mental decay and morbid mysticism.

Tolstoy Family Affair

Tolstoy intended The Kreutzer Sonata to serve as a moral lesson. He believed that society had corrupted the institution of marriage through physical indulgence. He felt that true Christian morality required complete chastity, even within marriage. Because the public misunderstood his message, Tolstoy wrote an afterword in 1890 to explicitly state his philosophical arguments.

His wife, Sophia Tolstaya, experienced the publication as a profound public humiliation. The main character of the novella murders his wife out of jealousy. The public immediately assumed the story was a direct reflection of their private life. Sophia felt that her husband had exposed their private affairs and painted her in a negative light. Despite her personal anger, Sophia traveled to Saint Petersburg to meet with Tsar Alexander III. She successfully convinced the Tsar to lift the censorship ban on the novella. She did this to protect her family income and to show the public she was not ashamed.

Literary Responses And Rewrites

The controversial nature of the novella prompted several authors to write direct literary rebuttals. Sophia Tolstaya wrote two separate novellas to counter the narrative of her husband. She wrote Whose Fault? to show how a husband can destroy a marriage through unreasonable jealousy and emotional neglect. She later wrote Song Without Words to further explore the emotional isolation of women in marriage.

The son of the author, Lev Lvovich Tolstoy, also opposed the moral arguments of his father. He published a story titled Chopin’s Prelude in 1898. This story defended the institution of marriage and argued that physical intimacy is a natural and healthy component of human love. Other Russian writers joined the debate through their own fiction. Nikolai Leskov wrote A Winter Day to address the themes of morality and family conflict raised by Tolstoy.

The Russian writer Mikhail Artsybashev published his controversial novel Sanin in 1907 as a direct rejection of the ascetic ideals promoted by Tolstoy. Artsybashev used his characters to argue for physical freedom and to criticize the strict moral limitations demanded by The Kreutzer Sonata.

Vladimir Nabokov wrote a dramatic monologue in 1926 titled Pozdnyshev’s Address. Nabokov adopted the perspective of the original main character to further explore themes of suspicion and psychological manipulation.

The Czech composer Leoš Janáček created a musical narrative response with his String Quartet Number One in 1923. Janáček explicitly stated that his composition was a psychological defense of the female character in the Tolstoy novella.

Self Contradiction

Tolstoy was in his thirties when he wrote War and Peace and exactly 41 years old when he fully published it. At that time he presented family life and human history as positive forces that give existence meaning.

He was 61 years old when he published The Kreutzer Sonata. The older writer now viewed physical love and marriage as a dangerous trap and argued that human reproduction should cease entirely if people cannot form more honest relationships.

Which Tolstoy was right?

Directed by Leonid Pchelkin, the 1985 film adaptation serves as a direct critique of both the Russian intelligentsia and the superstitious, brutal, ungovernable peasant class.

The play shares distinct structural and thematic similarities with Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya by utilizing overlapping character archetypes, but Gorky has a different destination in mind than Chekhov.

Echoes of Uncle Vanya

The play establishes a tone and setting remarkably similar to Anton Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya, particularly through three specific characters that show direct overlap between the two works. Pavel Protasov mirrors Professor Serebryakov, since both are oblivious academics whose singular focus on their own pursuits blinds them to the emotional and physical realities of the people living under their roof. Similarly, Elena shares both a name and a narrative function with Serebryakov’s wife as the beautiful, dissatisfied spouse who becomes the center of attention and unrequited affection for other men in the estate. Finally, the veterinarian Boris Chepurnoy parallels Doctor Astrov, with both men functioning as cynical rural professionals who clearly see the stagnation of their social class while struggling with their own romantic disappointments.

While Chekhov focuses on the quiet internal decay of the educated class, Gorky introduces a severe external threat. The tragedy in Uncle Vanya remains confined to personal disappointment, rooted in how Vanya neglected his own life and failed to actualize himself out of a strict sense of duty. Conversely, in Children of the Sun, the brewing violence of the uneducated masses threatens to physically destroy the isolated intellectuals.

Yegor as the Author

Providing a sharp contrast to the educated elite, the character of the locksmith Yegor is a talented craftsman who operates as a brute and physically abuses his wife. His genuine mechanical skill highlights a wasted potential that a harsh environment has twisted into anger. Simmering with a deep class hatred, he is fully prepared to kill the master of the estate when the cholera riot breaks out because he views the privileged intellectuals as the direct cause of their daily suffering.

This character functions as a surrogate for Maxim Gorky himself. Having survived a deeply impoverished youth, Gorky uses Yegor to inject his own raw, unrefined background into the story.

The Performance of Innokenty Smoktunovsky

Innokenty Smoktunovsky plays the main character, Pavel Protasov, delivering a portrayal that is an act of absolute genius. He avoids turning the oblivious scientist into a simple caricature by grounding the character in a genuine, albeit naive, belief that art and science will elevate humanity. Through this approach, he effortlessly captures the exact mannerisms of a man who is completely detached from the impending social collapse happening right outside his laboratory doors.

His detachment abruptly breaks when Elena threatens to leave him. Smoktunovsky alters his performance during this specific confrontation. The oblivious scientist suddenly awakens from his intellectual trance and displays a frantic, desperate energy as he realizes he is about to lose his wife.

Conclusion

Gorky clearly drew inspiration from Chekhov, yet he takes the narrative to an entirely different place. His writing style is less refined but his perspective is less detached. He delivers a clear and powerful critique of a society facing imminent collapse.

Protasov’s sister suffers from schizophrenia and her illness manifests as a series of collectivist slogans.

With this play Gorky tells us “the revolution is coming, but it might take us to a very very dark place,” and of course he turned out to be absolutely right.

Specifically, The False Coin shares an uncanny, deeply structural DNA with Harold Pinter’s 1957 masterpiece, The Birthday Party. Both plays utilize what theatre critics call a “comedy of menace.”

When evaluated critically side by side, we recognize that the 1908-1915 work by Gorky is not just an example of period realism, but rather a striking precursor to the theater of the absurd.

The Architecture of Menace

At first glance, Maxim Gorky and Harold Pinter seem like an impossible pairing. Yet, The False Coin and The Birthday Party share the exact same structural engine which is the destruction of a domestic safe haven by a mysterious, invading outside force using a weapon that may or may not be real.

In the 1987 BBC production of The Birthday Party, directed by Kenneth Ives, this engine runs with terrifying precision. Harold Pinter himself plays Goldberg, arriving at a mundane seaside boarding house alongside Colin Blakely as McCann. They target Stanley Webber, played by Kenneth Cranham, spinning a web of bizarre, unprovoked, and Kafkaesque interrogation lines until Stanley completely suffers a catatonic breakdown. The audience never learns what Stanley actually did wrong, highlighting how the threat operates on ambiguity.

In Gorky’s The False Coin, Yuri Kayurov’s performance as Stogov serves the exact same narrative function. Stogov introduces the counterfeit coin into the claustrophobic household, acting as an existential investigator who exposes the characters’ internal corruption. Stogov does not need to physically assault anyone because he simply places an object of doubt on the table and lets the inhabitants’ guilt do the heavy lifting. Kayurov plays Stogov with a cold stillness that provides a sharp contrast to the chaotic franticness of the household, mirroring the chilly relish Pinter brings to his performance as Goldberg.

Spaces of Paranoia

The physical staging of both works is designed to induce a slow burning paranoia. In the 1975 Maly Theatre production, the design by Valentina Brusina constructs a claustrophobic pre revolutionary Russian apartment filled with heavy furniture and domestic clutter. This environment visually represents the material obsessions of the occupants and physically restricts their movement, forcing the actors into uncomfortable proximity. The television directors use tight frames to isolate individual faces, capturing the micro expressions of panic as characters inspect the coin under lamplight.

This visual suffocation contrasts with the drab, isolated seaside boarding house designed by Bruce Macadie for the 1987 BBC production. Directed by Kenneth Ives, the BBC performance uses the fading daylight over the course of the play to transition the characters into virtual darkness. This lack of light generates an oppressive feeling of enclosure. While Pinter uses a sparse, decaying domestic interior to signify existential isolation, Gorky uses visual clutter to demonstrate how material desperation traps the human mind within its own immediate surroundings. Both productions successfully utilize the medium of television to focus on close ups of sweating, terrified faces rather than wide stage shots.

Textual and Subtextual Breakdown

A rigorous textual examination reveals how both playwrights weaponize dialogue to mask a deeper psychological warfare. In Gorky’s text, the coin itself is a linguistic black hole. The characters speak incessantly about its material value, its weight, and its physical flaws, but the true subtext is their own terror of being exposed as frauds. When Yakovlev and Efremov debate whether the money is real, the literal script details a petty financial transaction, but the underlying subtext is an existential crisis regarding the counterfeit nature of their own lives and relationships. Gorky constructs dialogue where characters talk past one another, using speech to build a defensive wall against the intrusion of reality.

This specific manipulation of language is mirrored in the textual mechanics of Pinter’s script, particularly in the 1987 BBC performance. During the famous interrogation scene, Goldberg and McCann bombard Stanley with a barrage of absurd, rapid fire questions ranging from his religious orthodoxy to whether he stirs his tea. Textually, the scene makes no logical sense, yet the subtext is an exercise in absolute subjugation. Pinter uses language as a blunt instrument to strip away Stanley’s identity, just as Gorky uses the circular, paranoid arguments over the coin to erode the psychological autonomy of his characters.

In both plays, the menace resides entirely in the subtext, where ordinary words carry an implicit threat of violence and exposure.

Breakdown of Realism

The acting styles of the two productions reveal contrasting strengths and limitations in maintaining this tension. In the Maly Theatre production, the ensemble cast delivers performances rooted in psychological realism that occasionally struggle with the constraints of the television medium. Rufina Nifontova portrays Polina with a defensive anxiety that signals deep personal guilt and a trembling vulnerability. Vladimir Kenigson uses manic physical energy to convey the psychological unravelling and aristocratic delusions of Kemskoy. However, the actors frequently utilize large vocal projections and stylized gestures that belong on a grand stage rather than in tight television close ups, reducing the genuine existential menace of the text to standard farce.

Conversely, the 1987 BBC production benefits from a cast that masterfully downplays their performances for the camera. Kenneth Cranham portrays Stanley with a grounded, sullen terror that slowly devolves into catatonia. Joan Plowright plays Meg with a naive, maternal ignorance that undercuts the horror of Goldberg and McCann’s presence, while Julie Walters as Lulu injects a sharp, grounded reality into the domestic chaos. Pinter himself delivers his lines with a terrifying, calculated relish, wrapping his dialogue in a menacing composure that never relies on theatrical exaggeration. This restraint ensures that the menace remains realistic and deeply unsettling, avoiding the stylized histrionics that occasionally weaken the 1975 Soviet production.

Conclusion

The 1975 Maly Theatre production proves that Gorky’s early dramaturgy anticipated the structural mechanics of modern absurdist theater. By focusing entirely on greed, paranoia, and the instability of truth, the performance demonstrates that human morality fragments quickly when its economic security is threatened.

Хорошо, Что Нет Царя.

Хорошо, что нет Царя.
Хорошо, что нет России.
Хорошо, что Бога нет.

Только желтая заря,
Только звезды ледяные,
Только миллионы лет.

Хорошо - что никого,
Хорошо - что ничего,
Так черно и так мертво,

Что мертвее быть не может
И чернее не бывать,
Что никто нам не поможет
И не надо помогать.

It is good that there is no Tsar.

It is good that there is no Tsar.
It is good that there is no Russia.
It is good that there is no God.

Only the yellow dawn,
Only the icy stars,
Only millions of years.

It is good that there is no one,
It is good that there is nothing,
So black and so dead,

That it cannot be any deader
And it cannot be any blacker,
That no one will help us
And there is no need to help.

Ivanov describes a world stripped of everything, including God, leaving behind only icy stars and a million years of emptiness. The text relies on absolute negation to describe the void left by the destruction of the Russian empire. The poem distills the profound despair experienced by writers who fled the 1917 Bolshevik revolution.

Ivan Bunin recorded the immediate violence in Cursed Days. As the Soviet regime escalated its violence into Stalinist purges, these writers watched from European capitals. Their collective tragedy eventually earned international recognition, including the first Russian Nobel Prize in Literature.

Blueprint of Dysfunction in Vanyushin’s Children

The hopelessness of the Russian empire was evident years before the violent overthrow of the government. Sergei Naydenov wrote the play Vanyushin’s Children in 1901. The play centers on a merchant family falling apart under the control of a rigid patriarch. The Vanyushin household serves as a direct scale model of Russia itself. The father demands absolute obedience, while the children respond with deceit, rebellion, and moral decay. There is no functional way forward for the family, just as there was no functional path forward for the Tsarist state. The structural rot Naydenov depicted on stage translated into the societal collapse that followed a decade later.

Observing the Terror from Exile

Georgy Ivanov wrote his poem in 1930, and Ivan Bunin published the complete edition of Cursed Days in Berlin in 1936. This period coincided with the consolidation of Soviet power and the beginning of Stalinist mass repressions, often called the Great Terror. The exiled writers living in Paris and Berlin were fully aware of what was happening in their former country. They read Soviet newspapers, which often boasted about the liquidation of political enemies. They received smuggled letters from relatives who were still trapped. New waves of refugees arrived in Europe, bringing firsthand accounts of forced collectivization, the artificial famines, and the expanding prison camp system. Ivanov captured the sheer nihilism of this reality in his poetry.

The Emigre Experience

The daily reality for these writers involved intense poverty and isolation. They lacked French citizenship and traveled using Nansen passports, which limited their legal rights and employment opportunities. A massive portion of the exiled intelligentsia and former aristocracy had to work manual labor jobs to survive. It became common to see former Russian officers driving taxis in Paris or working on the assembly lines at Renault car factories.

Ivan Bunin and Georgy Ivanov frequently interacted within these Parisian literary circles and shared a Berlin publisher called Petropolis. Cursed Days survived only because Bunin buried the original diary pages in the ground to hide them from Bolshevik forces, before smuggling them out of Odessa. The emigre community established their own newspapers and cafes to preserve a version of Russia that no longer existed on the map.

Despite their efforts, many faced tragic ends. Ivanov and his wife lived in unheated boarding houses, and he spent his final years in absolute destitution at a retirement home for impoverished refugees.

Nobel Prize as Collective Recognition

The Swedish Academy awarded Ivan Bunin the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1933. He was the first Russian writer to receive the award. The prize was officially given for the strict artistry with which he carried on the classical Russian prose traditions. The exiled Russian community viewed the award as something much larger. They saw it as an international validation of their entire stateless diaspora. The Nobel committee effectively acknowledged the writers who had been erased by the Soviet government. Bunin represented the entire category of authors who lost their country and continued to write in poverty across European capitals. When Bunin won the prize, he received thousands of letters from destitute Russian exiles begging for financial help. He gave away the vast majority of the prize money to these refugees, and ultimately died in poverty himself.

Conclusion

The collapse of the tsarist Russian empire was a slow process that began with the cultural stagnation visible in early theater and ended with the violent expulsion of the intellectual class. The writers who escaped preserved the truth of the revolution, while the new regime attempted to rewrite history through terror and censorship.

A century later, a new wave of Russian artists and intellectuals has fled to the West to avoid prosecution for speaking against the government. The director Dmitry Krymov is establishing a new theater in New York, while the writer Dmitry Bykov, who has been sentenced in absentia to seven years in prison by a Russian court, continues his lectures and essays. They are joined by the classical pianist Mikhail Voskresensky, who previously chaired the piano department at the Moscow Conservatory (and received a grand piano from Steinway to continue his performances in exile).

The legacy of Ivanov and Bunin continues through the displaced artists who live and work among us today.

Contextual Shifts in Visual Art and Poetry

Before focusing on the stage, it is necessary to note how the revolutionary ethos permeated other mediums. In the visual arts, painters abandoned representation for Suprematism and Constructivism. Artists like Kazimir Malevich and El Lissitzky used geometric abstraction to create a universal visual language, while others designed propaganda posters for the Russian Telegraph Agency. In literature, Vladimir Mayakovsky spearheaded the Futurist movement, stripping poetry of academic ornamentation. He utilized staccato rhythms, street slang, and declamatory language designed to be shouted to crowds in public squares rather than read silently in private salons. This broader artistic rebellion provided the exact ideological and aesthetic framework that theater practitioners adopted to revolutionize the stage.

Literary and Directorial Innovations: Mayakovsky, Meyerhold, and Gorky

The intersection of revolutionary politics and theatrical form is best exemplified by the work of Vladimir Mayakovsky, Vsevolod Meyerhold, and Maxim Gorky. Gorky provided the transition from imperial realism to socialist critique. His pre revolutionary play The Lower Depths had already shifted focus toward the marginalized proletariat, but his post revolutionary work aligned more directly with the state’s educational objectives, capturing the psychological reality of class struggle.

Mayakovsky brought the aggressive energy of Futurism directly into the playhouse. His 1918 work Mystery-Bouffe was a satirical piece that recast the biblical story of the flood as a triumph of the unclean workers over the clean bourgeoisie. It was a massive spectacle that shattered traditional narrative structures.

Vsevolod Meyerhold transformed these texts into physical reality. He completely broke away from the psychological realism of his former mentor, Konstantin Stanislavski. Meyerhold viewed the actor as a worker in a factory, developing a training system called Biomechanics. This system treated the human body as a mechanical instrument, emphasizing acrobatics, precise physical control, and rhythmic movement to convey emotion and ideological purpose without relying on internal psychological reflection.

Transformation of Theatrical Companies

The organizational structure of theatrical companies changed as drastically as the acting styles. Prior to the revolution, theater was dominated by state subsidized imperial venues or private, bourgeois institutions like the Moscow Art Theater, which catered to affluent patrons. Following 1917, these companies were nationalized under the Theater Department of the Commissariat of Enlightenment, headed by Anatoly Lunacharsky.

New types of companies emerged to democratize the art form. The most distinct were the mass spectacles and the agitprop theaters. Companies like the Theater of Revolutionary Satire traveled directly to factories, military barracks, and public squares. These groups were agile, low budget, and collective. Unlike traditional companies that maintained a strict hierarchy of directors, star actors, and stagehands, revolutionary troupes operated on egalitarian principles. Performances were often interactive, casting the audience not as passive observers but as active participants in a shared political ritual.

Structural Innovations in Stage Design

Revolutionary theater required an entirely new visual language, leading to the birth of Constructivist stage design. Scenographers like Lyubov Popova and Varvara Stepanova rejected painted backdrops, illusionistic lighting, and decorative curtains, viewing them as bourgeois deceptions.

Instead, they treated the stage as an explicit construction site or a factory floor. For Meyerhold’s 1922 production of The Magnanimous Cuckold, Popova designed a multi tiered skeletal framework consisting of scaffolding, ladders, moving wheels, and revolving platforms. The set did not represent a specific geographic location; it functioned as an apparatus for the actors to demonstrate their physical prowess. Costumes were replaced by functional blue collar work uniforms known as protopodezhda, designed to allow maximum freedom of movement while erasing class distinctions on stage.

Contemporary Endurance of Revolutionary Techniques

The artistic innovations pioneered during the Russian Revolution continue to shape the mechanics of contemporary performance. Meyerhold’s concept of Biomechanics remains a foundational pedagogy in physical theater training programs worldwide, influencing avant garde directors who prioritize physicality over text based realism.

The practice of environmental theater, which removes performances from traditional proscenium arch auditoriums and places them in found spaces, warehouses, or public streets, derives directly from early Soviet agitprop and mass spectacles. Furthermore, the minimalist, industrial aesthetic characteristic of modern stage design, which frequently utilizes exposed scaffolding and utilitarian materials, traces its lineage directly to Constructivist scenography.

While these artists believed they were building a permanent aesthetic infrastructure for a utopian future, history took a different turn as the soviet regime eventually suppressed these very avant garde movements in favor of rigid socialist realism.

Further Information

Le cinéma soviétique a atteint son apogée créatif sous la stricte supervision de l’État, les réalisateurs étant confrontés à de sévères frontières idéologiques. Cette restriction les a forcés à développer un langage cinématographique sophistiqué reposant sur la métaphore, l’ironie subtile et les détails d’arrière-plan pour transmettre des messages qui échappaient aux censeurs mais que le public comprenait.

Lorsque la Perestroïka a commencé à la fin des années 1980 et que la censure s’est effondrée, les cinéastes ont obtenu une liberté totale pour montrer la nudité, la violence et la critique politique directe. N’ayant plus besoin de dissimuler leur propos, les réalisateurs ont perdu leur principal moteur créatif. L’absence soudaine de limites les a poussés à imiter les styles occidentaux et à tomber dans le piège hollywoodien, se retrouvant avec tout à montrer mais plus rien de profond à dire.

Eldar Riazanov et la perte du sous-texte

Eldar Riazanov a bâti sa carrière sur une satire sociale à la fois acerbe et douce, utilisant des films comme L’Ironie du sort, Romance de bureau et Le Garage pour critiquer la bureaucratie et les conditions de vie soviétiques à travers des études de personnages approfondies et un humour discret. Les censeurs approuvaient ces films car les critiques étaient dissimulées dans des comédies romantiques auxquelles on pouvait s’identifier. Lorsque la Perestroïka a supprimé ces barrières, Riazanov est passé au commentaire politique direct. Ses films ultérieurs tels que Les Cieux promis et Vieilles rosses ont abandonné le travail subtil sur les personnages au profit d’une amertume agressive, remplaçant la douce ironie par des déclarations évidentes sur la pauvreté et la corruption. Sans avoir besoin de faire passer son message en douce devant un comité, ses récits sont devenus lourds et évidents, faisant disparaître le charme artistique qui définissait ses chefs-d’œuvre précédents.

Gueorgui Danielia et la quête de sens

Gueorgui Danielia s’est spécialisé dans les comédies mélancoliques, avec des films comme Le Marathon d’automne et Mimino explorant le désespoir tranquille et les compromis moraux des citoyens soviétiques ordinaires. Il a réussi à capturer l’atmosphère étouffante de l’époque sans jamais faire de déclaration politique directe, ses personnages étant piégés par les attentes sociales et des systèmes rigides.

La Perestroïka a dissous la société même à laquelle ses personnages réagissaient. Lorsque Danielia a réalisé Passport au début des années 1990 pour explorer l’émigration et les absurdités de l’État en plein effondrement, le film a semblé décousu bien qu’il ait conservé une partie de son style caractéristique. L’ouverture des frontières et la liberté soudaine ont éliminé la tension localisée qui animait ses meilleures œuvres, ce qui signifie que lorsque ses personnages pouvaient aller n’importe où et faire n’importe quoi, leurs luttes ont perdu leur poids dramatique.

Leonid Gaïdaï et le passage aux gags faciles

Leonid Gaïdaï était le maître incontesté de la comédie physique soviétique, utilisant un burlesque rapide dans des films comme Le Bras de diamant et Ivan Vassilievitch change de profession pour se moquer des inefficacités soviétiques et des récits historiques. Parce qu’il devait faire preuve d’une incroyable inventivité pour faire passer ses critiques pour un divertissement inoffensif, son œuvre possédait une ingéniosité unique.

Les nouvelles libertés de la Perestroïka lui ont permis de contourner complètement ce processus inventif. Dans ses derniers films, dont Le temps est au beau fixe sur Deribasovskaïa, il pleut de nouveau sur Brighton Beach, Gaïdaï s’est fortement appuyé sur la parodie politique explicite et les blagues grossières. La possibilité de se moquer ouvertement du KGB ou de montrer de la nudité partielle a remplacé sa comédie physique caractéristique, ce qui a donné lieu à une collection de scènes chaotiques dépourvues de l’humour intemporel de ses œuvres censurées.

Le prix de la liberté sans limites

L’effondrement de la censure soviétique révèle une vérité contre-intuitive sur l’art, démontrant comment des limites strictes forcent les créateurs à trouver des solutions innovantes qui aboutissent à une œuvre plus profonde et plus résonnante. Riazanov, Gaïdaï et Danielia ont produit leurs chefs-d’œuvre les plus durables lorsqu’ils devaient se battre pour s’exprimer, tandis que la liberté totale a supprimé la friction qui générait leur créativité. Une fois qu’ils ont pu s’appuyer sur la valeur choc et le commentaire explicite, ils ont complètement cessé de construire des métaphores complexes.

Aujourd’hui, l’élimination totale des gardiens techniques et des barrières de production dans les médias numériques engendre un vide artistique similaire. Les créateurs ont une infinité d’outils et de plateformes à leur disposition, pourtant cette absence absolue de friction produit fréquemment un volume écrasant de contenu purement poubelle.

Réintroduire des frontières ne nécessite pas un retour au contrôle de l’État. Une alternative moderne se trouve dans les propositions de middleware algorithmique. Cette approche permet aux consommateurs de choisir une couche éditoriale indépendante pour organiser leurs flux numériques.

Bien qu’il ne s’agisse que d’une idée non prouvée, nous devons de toute urgence tester de telles solutions pour éviter nos propres décennies perdues de la « Perestroïka ».

Soviet cinema reached its creative peak under the strict oversight of the state, as directors faced severe ideological boundaries. This restriction forced them to develop a sophisticated cinematic language relying on metaphor, subtle irony, and background details to convey messages that censors would miss but audiences would understand.

When Perestroika began in the late 1980s and censorship collapsed, filmmakers received total freedom to show nudity, violence, and direct political criticism. Without the need to hide their meaning, directors lost their primary creative engine. The sudden absence of boundaries left them imitating Western styles and falling into the Hollywood trap, leaving them with everything to show and nothing profound left to say.

Eldar Ryazanov and the Loss of Subtext

Eldar Ryazanov built his career on sharp yet gentle social satire, using movies like The Irony of Fate, Office Romance, and Garage to criticize Soviet bureaucracy and living conditions through deep character studies and quiet humor. Censors approved these films because the critiques were wrapped in relatable romantic comedies. When Perestroika removed these barriers, Ryazanov shifted to direct political commentary. His later films such as Promised Heaven and Old Hags abandoned subtle character work for aggressive bitterness, replacing gentle irony with obvious statements about poverty and corruption. Without the need to sneak his message past a committee, his narratives became heavy and obvious, causing the artistic charm that defined his earlier masterpieces to disappear.

Georgiy Daneliya and the Search for Meaning

Georgiy Daneliya specialized in melancholic comedies, with films like Autumn Marathon and Mimino exploring the quiet desperation and moral compromises of ordinary Soviet citizens. He successfully captured the suffocating atmosphere of the era without ever making a direct political statement, as his characters were trapped by social expectations and rigid systems.

Perestroika dissolved the very society his characters were reacting against. When Daneliya directed Passport in the early 1990s to explore emigration and the absurdities of the collapsing state, the movie felt disjointed despite retaining some of his signature style. Open borders and sudden freedom removed the localized tension that drove his best work, meaning that when his characters could go anywhere and do anything, their struggles lost their dramatic weight.

Leonid Gaidai and the Shift to Cheap Gags

Leonid Gaidai was the undisputed master of Soviet physical comedy, utilizing rapid slapstick in films like The Diamond Arm and Ivan Vasilievich Changes Profession to mock Soviet inefficiencies and historical narratives. Because he had to be incredibly inventive to make his critiques pass as harmless fun, his work possessed a unique cleverness.

The new freedoms of Perestroika allowed him to bypass this inventive process entirely. In his final films, including Weather Is Good on Deribasovskaya, It Rains Again on Brighton Beach, Gaidai relied heavily on explicit political parody and crude jokes. The ability to mock the KGB openly or show partial nudity replaced his signature physical comedy, resulting in a collection of chaotic scenes that lacked the timeless humor of his censored work.

Price of Limitless Freedom

The collapse of Soviet censorship reveals a counterintuitive truth about art, demonstrating how strict limitations force creators to find innovative solutions that result in deeper and more resonant work. Ryazanov, Gaidai, and Daneliya produced their most enduring masterpieces when they had to fight to express themselves, whereas total freedom removed the friction that generated their creativity. Once they could rely on shock value and explicit commentary, they stopped building complex metaphors entirely.

Today, the total elimination of technical gatekeepers and production barriers in digital media yields a similar artistic vacuum. Creators have infinite tools and platforms at their disposal, yet this absolute lack of friction frequently produces an overwhelming volume of completely junk content.

Reintroducing boundaries does not require a return to state control. A modern alternative can be found in proposals for algorithmic middleware. This approach allows consumers to choose an independent editorial layer to curate their digital feeds.

While it is just one unproven idea, we urgently need to test such solutions to avoid our own lost decades of “Perestroika.”

La production porte Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale sur scène à Paris. Les deux acteurs incarnent les personnages de Caroline et Adolphe. Ces deux figures servent d’archétype du couple marié. La pièce montre leurs querelles quotidiennes et décortique les aspects spécifiques de leur relation.

Ces excellents acteurs prouvent que les budgets de plusieurs millions ne sont pas le seul moyen de créer du grand théâtre. Leur jeu est superbe et l’adaptation de l’œuvre d’Honoré de Balzac montre une compréhension et une appréciation profondes du texte original.

Adaptation d’Honoré de Balzac

Pierre Olivier Mornas a créé cette adaptation en combinant deux œuvres majeures de l’auteur. Il a fusionné des passages de Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale et Physiologie Du Mariage. La pièce conserve l’ironie piquante et l’humour de Balzac concernant la vie conjugale. La mise en scène s’organise autour de plusieurs moments distincts de la vie domestique.

Ces scènes individuelles expliquent comment les disputes quotidiennes commencent pour des broutilles. La création lumière d’Alireza Kishipour aide à définir les transitions entre ces différents moments domestiques.

Les Textes Originaux

Balzac a écrit Physiologie Du Mariage en 1829 et a publié Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale en plusieurs parties au cours des quinze années suivantes. Il a abordé le thème du mariage avec l’œil d’un observateur cataloguant ses frictions quotidiennes. Il a observé la société bourgeoise de Paris et a vu le mariage principalement comme un contrat financier et social.

Balzac lui même est resté célibataire pendant presque toute sa vie et a entretenu de nombreuses liaisons avec des femmes mariées. Ces relations lui ont donné un accès direct aux plaintes des épouses insatisfaites. S’il y a un équivalent de l’auteur dans la pièce, c’est le cousin d’Adolphe, Ferdinand, l’amant qui se charge de rendre Caroline heureuse.

Les Performances

Pierre Olivier Mornas ressemble incontestablement à Balzac. Cette ressemblance ajoute une atmosphère intime et authentique à la salle. On a l’impression que l’auteur lui même est présent sur scène pour livrer ses propres observations.

L’interprétation de Mornas en mari trompeur et ennuyé est pleine d’authenticité. Son langage corporel et ses expressions faciales réagissent parfaitement à la performance passionnée et physique de d’Arceaux dans le rôle de Caroline. Les deux acteurs délivrent le langage complexe de l’auteur très clairement.

Mornas équilibre efficacement son travail d’acteur avec son rôle de metteur en scène. Leur représentation humoristique de la vie commune met en évidence les dynamiques de pouvoir changeantes du foyer et la compétition constante pour avoir le dernier mot.

Dans un détournement délicieux, la belle mère est brillamment jouée par une lampe de table. Ce détail pourrait provenir de contraintes budgétaires ou simplement être un choix de casting brillant.

Conclusion

Cette performance offre un regard vif et lucide sur le couple marié. La pièce sert de guide utile pour les personnes mariées et d’exutoire humoristique pour les célibataires. Elle invite le public à rire, à réfléchir et peut être à se reconnaître dans les luttes quotidiennes de Caroline et Adolphe.

Mais plus important encore, Pierre Olivier Mornas et Alice d’Arceaux nous ont aidés à redécouvrir l’œuvre de Balzac et la puissance du théâtre intime.

The production brings Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale to the stage in Paris. The two actors portray the characters Caroline and Adolphe. These two figures serve as the archetypal married couple. The play shows their everyday quarrels and dissects the specific aspects of their relationship.

These fine actors prove that million dollar budgets are not the only way to create great theater. Their acting is superb and the adaptation of the Honore de Balzac work shows a deep understanding and appreciation of the original text.

Adaptation of Honoré de Balzac

Pierre Olivier Mornas created this adaptation by combining two major works from the author. He merged passages from Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale and Physiologie Du Mariage. The play retains the sharp irony and humor of Balzac regarding married life. The staging organizes itself around several distinct moments of domestic life. These individual scenes explain how daily arguments start over trivial matters. The lighting design by Alireza Kishipour helps define the transitions between these different domestic moments.

The Original Texts

Balzac wrote Physiologie Du Mariage in 1829 and published Petites Miseres De La Vie Conjugale in various pieces over the following fifteen years. He approached the topic of marriage with the eye of an observer cataloging its daily frictions. He watched the bourgeois society of Paris and saw marriage primarily as a financial and social contract.

Balzac himself remained single for almost his entire life and conducted numerous affairs with married women. These relationships gave him direct access to the complaints of dissatisfied wives. If there is an analogue for the author in the play, it is Adolphe’s cousin Ferdinand, the lover who takes on the slack of keeping Caroline happy.

The Performances

Pierre Olivier Mornas undoubtedly looks like Balzac. This resemblance adds an intimate and authentic atmosphere to the room. It feels as if the author himself is present on stage to deliver his own observations.

Mornas’ portrayal of the cheating, bored husband is full of authenticity. His body language and facial expressions react perfectly against the passionate and physical performance of d’Arceaux as Caroline. Both actors deliver the complex language of the author very clearly.

Mornas effectively balances his acting duties with his role as the director. Their humorous portrayal of living together highlights the shifting household power dynamics and the ongoing competition to have the final word.

In a delightful twist, the mother in law is brilliantly played by a table lamp. This detail might stem from budgetary constraints or simply be a brilliant casting choice.

Conclusion

This performance offers a lively and lucid look at the married couple. The play serves as a useful guide for married people and a humorous outlet for single individuals. It invites the audience to laugh, reflect, and perhaps recognize themselves in the daily struggles of Caroline and Adolphe.

But more importantly, Pierre Olivier Mornas and Alice d’Arceaux have helped us rediscover the work of Balzac and the power of intimate theater.

Suspense prévisible et œuvre prolifique

Claude Chabrol n’accordait pas la priorité à la perfection technique ou à la tension narrative intense qui définissaient Alfred Hitchcock. Ses thrillers manquent souvent de véritable mystère, car l’identité du tueur ou la nature du secret est révélée tôt ou se devine facilement. Dans La Femme infidèle et Le Boucher, l’accent n’est pas mis sur la surprise mais sur la lente désintégration des masques sociaux des personnages. Chabrol était capable de produire près d’un film chaque année parce qu’il considérait la réalisation comme un artisanat plutôt que comme un événement unique relevant du génie. Il était connu pour travailler rapidement et efficacement, utilisant souvent les mêmes équipes et les mêmes lieux pour maintenir un rythme de production régulier. Ses films n’étaient pas toujours destinés à être des chefs d’œuvre de suspense mais constituaient plutôt des examens fiables de la pathologie humaine dans des structures de genre familières.

Collaborations avec Stéphane Audran

La nature prolifique de la carrière de Chabrol a été soutenue par sa collaboration constante avec son épouse, Stéphane Audran. Entre 1964 et 1980, ils ont travaillé ensemble sur des films qui ont défini sa période la plus célèbre. Audran apportait une présence à l’écran stable et sophistiquée qui ancrait les intrigues souvent répétitives de Chabrol. Dans Les Biches, elle incarne une femme riche dont le mode de vie est perturbé par une vagabonde, et dans La Rupture, elle joue une mère luttant pour garder son enfant face à une famille corrompue. Leur relation professionnelle permettait à Chabrol de créer des rôles féminins complexes, émotionnellement distants et moralement ambigus.

Alors que Chabrol ressemblait souvent à un intellectuel non raffiné fumant la pipe, la glamour Audran était celle qui l’avait initialement courtisé. Son apparence modeste et son image publique contrastaient avec le style visuel élégant de leurs films. Chabrol a d’ailleurs déclaré que leur relation fonctionnait parce qu’il aimait manger et qu’elle aimait cuisiner, une simplicité domestique qui ancrait leur production professionnelle de haut niveau.

L’incident de la glace

On ne peut parler de Chabrol et de Hitchcock sans relayer l’une des histoires préférées de Hitchcock concernant ses admirateurs français. La relation entre ces réalisateurs a commencé par une véritable chute au cours de l’hiver 1954. Chabrol et François Truffaut se sont rendus aux studios de Saint Maurice près de Paris pour interviewer Hitchcock alors qu’il travaillait sur La Main au collet. Pendant une pause, les deux jeunes critiques étaient si engagés dans une discussion passionnée sur la théorie du film qu’ils n’ont pas remarqué un réservoir d’eau dans la cour du studio. Le réservoir était recouvert d’une fine couche de glace qui a cédé sous leur poids. Les deux hommes sont tombés dans l’eau glacée et ont dû être séchés avant que l’entretien ne puisse se poursuivre. Hitchcock a raconté plus tard que chaque fois qu’il voyait des glaçons dans un verre, il se souvenait des deux Français trempés. Alors que Truffaut a fini par nouer un lien personnel étroit avec Hitchcock en tant que protégé, Chabrol est resté davantage un disciple intellectuel, ayant coécrit le premier grand livre analytique sur l’œuvre de Hitchcock en 1957.

Critique politique et État bureaucratique

Dans ses dernières années, la production prolifique de Chabrol s’est tournée vers une critique directe de l’État français et de sa bureaucratie étouffante, utilisant souvent les interprétations incisives d’Isabelle Huppert. Leur partenariat a donné naissance à des films moins intéressés par le meurtre individuel que par la corruption systémique qui protège l’élite. Dans L’Ivresse du pouvoir, Huppert incarne une magistrate inspirée par le scandale réel de l’affaire Elf. Elle joue une femme dont la tentative d’exposer la cupidité gouvernementale est systématiquement bloquée par des couches de procédures bureaucratiques. La capacité de Huppert à dépeindre une détermination glaciale correspondait au style tardif sec et observationnel de Chabrol. Ces films montrent un État qui fonctionne comme une machine destinée à préserver les intérêts des puissants, indépendamment de la loi.

Conclusion

La carrière de Claude Chabrol prouve qu’un cinéaste n’a pas besoin d’atteindre la perfection hitchcockienne pour rester une figure essentielle du cinéma. Sa vaste filmographie s’est construite sur un intérêt constant pour les failles de l’ordre social plutôt que sur la mécanique d’une intrigue. Il acceptait la prévisibilité de ses histoires parce que son véritable sujet était toujours l’hypocrisie immuable du monde bourgeois.

Truffaut a écrit un jour dans un essai : « Quelle est donc la valeur d’un cinéma anti-bourgeois fait par des bourgeois pour des bourgeois ? » La filmographie de Chabrol montre que les archives les plus détaillées des crimes indiscrets de la bourgeoisie sont produites par ceux qui résident au cœur même du système.

Predictable Suspense and Prolific Work

Claude Chabrol did not prioritize the technical perfection or the intense narrative tension that defined Alfred Hitchcock. His thrillers often lack genuine mystery, as the identity of the killer or the nature of the secret is revealed early or is easily guessed. In The Unfaithful Wife and The Butcher, the focus is not on the surprise but on the slow disintegration of the characters’ social masks. Chabrol was able to produce nearly one film every year because he viewed filmmaking as a craft rather than a singular event of genius. He was known for working quickly and efficiently, often utilizing the same crews and locations to maintain a steady production schedule. His films were not always meant to be masterpieces of suspense but were instead reliable examinations of human pathology set within familiar genre structures.

Collaborations With Stéphane Audran

The prolific nature of Chabrol’s career was bolstered by his consistent collaboration with his wife, Stéphane Audran. Between 1964 and 1980, they worked together on films that defined his most celebrated period. Audran provided a stable and sophisticated screen presence that grounded Chabrol’s often repetitive plots. In The Does, she plays a wealthy woman whose lifestyle is disrupted by a drifter, and in The Breach, she portrays a mother fighting to keep her child from a corrupt family. Their professional relationship allowed Chabrol to create complex female leads who were emotionally distant and morally ambiguous.

While Chabrol often looked like an unrefined, pipe smoking intellectual, the glamorous Audran was the one who initially pursued him. His modest appearance and public persona contrasted with the elegant visual style of their films. Chabrol famously remarked that their relationship worked because he loved to eat and she loved to cook, a domestic simplicity that anchored their high stakes professional output.

The Icy Incident

We cannot talk about Chabrol and Hitchcock without relaying one of Hitchcock’s favorite stories regarding his French admirers. The relationship between these directors began with a literal stumble in the winter of 1954. Chabrol and François Truffaut visited the Saint Maurice studios near Paris to interview Hitchcock while he was working on To Catch a Thief. During a break, the two young critics were so engaged in a heated discussion about film theory that they failed to notice a water tank in the studio courtyard. The tank was covered by a thin layer of ice, which gave way under their weight. Both men fell into the freezing water and had to be dried out before the interview could proceed. Hitchcock later recounted that whenever he saw ice cubes in a drink, he was reminded of the two drenched Frenchmen. While Truffaut eventually developed a close personal bond with Hitchcock as a protégé, Chabrol remained more of an intellectual disciple, having co-authored the first major analytical book on Hitchcock’s work in 1957.

Political Criticism and the Bureaucratic State

In his later years, Chabrol’s prolific output turned toward a direct critique of the French state and its stifling bureaucracy, often utilizing the sharp performances of Isabelle Huppert. Their partnership resulted in films that were less interested in individual murder and more focused on the systemic corruption that protects the elite. In The Comedy of Power, Huppert portrays a magistrate inspired by the real life Elf Aquitaine scandal. She plays a woman whose attempt to expose governmental greed is systematically blocked by layers of bureaucratic procedures. Huppert’s ability to portray icy determination matched Chabrol’s dry and observational late style. These films show a state that functions as a machine to preserve the interests of the powerful, regardless of the law.

Conclusion

Claude Chabrol’s career proves that a filmmaker does not need to achieve Hitchcockian perfection to remain a vital figure in cinema. His vast filmography was built on a consistent interest in the flaws of the social order rather than the mechanics of a plot. He accepted the predictability of his stories because his true subject was always the unchanging hypocrisy of the bourgeois world.

Truffaut once wrote in an essay “What then is the value of an anti-bourgeois cinema made by the bourgeois for the bourgeois?” Chabrol’s filmography shows that the most detailed records of social hypocrisy are produced by those who reside well within the system.

The live Q&A, conducted in Russian, explores themes of theater as a refuge and the unwavering passion of the artist. The dialogue between these two intellectual figures in exile offers insights into the nature of art, the ethics of the creator, and the current global state.

Note: This interview was transcribed and translated by AI; there may be some transliterations and text-to-speech issues. However, as a Russian speaker who has listened to the interview, I can vouch that the big ideas are accurately represented.

Bykov: Dear friends, good evening! The first question: are there some people who don’t speak Russian? Or should we stay in our brilliant English and honestly speak our brilliant Russian? What would you prefer? Or we can give you the happy feeling of your advantage, understanding that your English is much better and you are much more perfect. So, should we speak English or Russian? This is the first question.

Audience: Russian! English!

Bykov: Russian. Thank you.

Hello, dear friends, but if you want, it’s not difficult for me at all to translate Krymov’s answers into English for those Russians who want to be sure that I received my professorship exclusively through connections. Thank you, dear friends, we are happy to welcome you. We’ll begin then, if we may. The first thing I’d like to say: of course, any moderator feels like an idiot because, as was just shown to you, there are situations in which it’s better to remain silent. Krymov’s plays do not involve the exchange of verbal messages. This is such a non-verbal art that speaking spoils it. Therefore, I will honestly ask a few questions that concern me, and then I’ll give the floor to you, so as not to embarrass myself alone. But I want to say from the bottom of my heart that before us is undoubtedly one of the greatest directors working in the world today. So let’s welcome the master once again. Thank you. Thank you.

And now I can honestly start with the questions. My favorite play of yours is Vse Tut (Everyone is Here). I sobbed through the whole play, all three times I saw it. And I think most people now are guiltily hiding wet eyes. Sobbing is the most common emotion at your plays. I want to ask you: is this the right emotion? Is it even good when an audience cries in the theater?

Krymov: That’s the first question?

Bykov: The first. Yes.

Krymov: Hopefully not the last, as they say. Correct.

Bykov: So it’s part of the task?

Krymov: No, well, it’s not specifically part of the task, but the reaction is correct, of course. It’s the only thing a person does sincerely; everything else can be faked.

Bykov: The second question is also very important for me. Is there a dependency between the quality of the play and the quality of the performance?

Krymov: There is, of course. Indirect. Indirect.

Bykov: What must be in a play for you to take it on?

Krymov: Well... I have to somehow relate myself personally to this plot—what it means to me in general and what I can say through it right now. But that’s also an indirect story. There are some exceptions, probably, if I remember... when there’s seemingly nothing, but you find something in contradiction to it. But I don’t remember any right now, offhand. It should be somehow... well, I think you understand what I want to say. It should be somehow clear why I’m talking about it, clear to me first of all. Otherwise... otherwise, no.

Bykov: But was there at least one play that you didn’t touch as an author, that you staged exactly as it was written?

Krymov: Yes, once it was like that. Ostrovsky’s Late Love. I set myself such a sporting interest: not to change anything. I thought, will it work or not? Well, in general, it worked. I changed almost nothing—well, absolutely nothing. No, I changed something, of course, but textually, nothing. Textually, nothing. I was just interested to see if I was dependent on the “scissors” or not. Can I do something without taking up the scissors and adapting the play or the plot for myself? But here, as he wrote it, that’s how he wrote it. Everything. Let’s try, Dima. And so I tried once. Once.

Bykov: One wonderful theater critic wrote that Krymov’s plays evoke mainly one emotion: gratitude to life. To what extent is this emotion close to you personally? Or, on the contrary, is it dictated by...

Krymov: Well, I’m very glad that it can evoke such an emotion because everything else evokes the opposite emotion.

Bykov: All of life?

Krymov: All of life, and the latest news, and all observations—it evokes the opposite, nauseating emotion. Therefore, how to take this nausea into oneself and then release what... well, I don’t know with what feeling you are sitting here. Someone left, but a lot of people stayed. I am very grateful to you. I hope that at least some of those present felt something similar. Although I watched with shame. I can’t watch my old plays. It seems to me that it all changes so quickly that I don’t know... if you come to see Uncle Vanya, that’s me today. And this is me the day before yesterday. I can’t watch my “day before yesterday.” I can look at photos, but at the art I made—no, I can’t.

Bykov: My daughter is a professional psychologist. She said the optimal age for a Krymov viewer corresponds to his own psychological age, and his age is fourteen. Pasternak’s fourteen years. “I am fourteen years old, through the School of Painting...” How true is this, and what is the ideal age of your viewer? Because many say it’s eighty, when a geriatric acceptance of life sets in.

Krymov: Listen, I’m embarrassed that you’re asking me this. You’re such a master yourself...

Bykov: Well, ask me about...

Krymov: Answer’s yes.

Bykov: Do you want to live?

Krymov: Yes, very much.

Bykov: Why?

Krymov: Because the alternative is worse.

Krymov: Well, I don’t know how to answer so quickly.

Bykov: I practice at the university all the time. But still...

Krymov: And what kind of training do you have to want to live? Let me ask you.

Bykov: With pleasure. Krymov’s theater, first of all. It’s interesting what’s next. No, I’m very interested in what’s next. I—here, I can formulate it. I don’t expect the triumph of good, but I expect the punishment of several scoundrels. And believe me, I will see it.

Krymov: Well, is it really worth living for that? You just... wait a second. My question consists of several sentences. So, because of this, you get up, have breakfast, prepare yourself eggs? (Bykov jumps in) Thank God there’s someone to make the eggs. But while they’re making the eggs, you think: “I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll see.” This is a stimulus.

Bykov: I won’t just wait, I’ll even participate. This is a very important stimulus, essential.

Krymov: Well, you’re brimming with joie de vivre, which simply conquers me.

Bykov: No, I can say: I really love what I do. I’ve written—I’ve written a very good novel. Before that, I gave several good lessons. By the way, my book can be bought here during the intermission. The book is actually in English, but...

Krymov: There will be another one!

Bykov: The book is good. When the scoundrels are punished, then you’ll buy it. Right here in the lobby. The book is in English, but never mind, you’ll like it. So, you can translate it in Google... or you can just download it from the internet. So, returning to the problem, still: what do you think is the ideal age for a viewer?

Krymov: Ideal age... No, at fourteen, a person doesn’t understand anything unless he’s Pasternak. But... well, somewhere around twenty, thirty, thirty-five, forty.

Bykov: When you watched Our Town, you were sixteen, I think, right?

Krymov: No, nineteen.

Bykov: Brilliant play, by the way. And a related question...

Krymov: No, I can tell you why. Not just because twenty is more attractive than, I don’t know, however many else. Because... well, there’s some illusion that you have... Here’s why, when I had students in Moscow—I really miss that now—I had a feeling that I even told them: “Guys, with one hand I’m holding on over there, where my father is, where his friends are, where his teachers are, I don’t know... Efros, Knebel, and so on... over there, going back to Pushkin. Further back I can’t reach my hand, I don’t feel it, though I don’t even want to reach it there, to be honest. This morning, for some reason, I picked up the history of Ivan the Terrible. My God, I don’t want to reach my hand there. It’s just disgusting. But with one hand I’m there, and with the other hand I’m talking to you.” I tell the students—and they were between sixteen and twenty years old. And are. Well, were, when they graduated. This is a staggering feeling. It’s like in the movie... maybe you’ve seen Highlander—when he kills someone, he has this blue glow. Like something happened to him. Some kind of energy passing through. He gets it from murder, and I get it from forming a chain. It passes through you. And when you realize that on the other hand you have what you are giving out, then... well, I don’t know. This is generally... this is generally...

Bykov: As I understand it, a director needs a first profession. For Efros, it was an actor...

Krymov: No, his father was a turner.

Bykov: Well, a turner is the very first, at fourteen. For you, it’s an artist. For Grotowski, it was a psychologist, and so on. What is the ideal first profession for a director? Because it seems to me being an artist is very important: the material world of what you have on stage—those typewriters, those pans, those guns—is always very constructed, thought out, wonderful focuses occur. Who is it better to be before becoming a director?

Krymov: Well, I don’t know.

Bykov: It’s good to be an artist. Useful?

Krymov: Good, but not everyone should be.

Bykov: Can you say... in Everyone is Here, where does the egg come from? And why is the frying pan smoking? How is it made? In that play...

Krymov: Yes, in that first one.

Bykov: ...well, which was at the School of Modern Play.

Krymov: Because I’m an artist, because that’s how it’s made. Here are strings, batteries, the egg is frying... well, it’s like... just as smoke comes from his pant leg. It’s all technology. In this sense, the profession of an artist is not only good but also useful. If they tell you it can’t be done, you say it can. And even if you don’t know how, there must be confidence in your voice. A person realizes they just need to think about it. For me, it’s harder.

Bykov: And as a teacher? How do you make them listen to you?

Krymov: You can’t “make” them. Well, there’s probably technology on this matter, some books that I haven’t read. I don’t know. I don’t know. But first of all, you have to bring an idea that everyone is interested in. A theater based simply on obedience is nonsense. In my opinion, it doesn’t matter. But so that everyone likes this game, you have to offer some game that people might like. Here are ten actors in front of you; they should enjoy playing the football you offer. Or not football, but, say, football with kittens. And they’ll say: “Listen, we’ve played football so many times, it’s not interesting.” So you have to bring some variety of football, or hockey, whatever, boxing, badminton. Bring some game that’s exciting to play. This is actually the main thing. Everything else is... well, added on. It depends on the person, on their character. Making them listen is too... after all, I’m not a factory director. A factory director can probably raise wages. I don’t have such opportunities. And in theater, it’s necessary sometimes, of course it’s necessary, but it’s such an administrative lever. Real theater isn’t made like that. This... everyone should be somehow enthralled. And how is that done? I don’t know, love should be hidden somewhere inside. You bring this egg and you put it down. And if it’s the right egg, then everyone licks their chops in anticipation of what’s next. Who will hatch from it? You describe who will hatch. You know who will hatch. Well, you think you know. And you believe that you know. Well, that’s why they sometimes believe you. If they don’t believe, then you thought it up wrong and didn’t describe it well enough. Well, and so on.

Bykov: Is there any way of preserving a play—filming, retelling, viewing props—so that people can imagine it years later? Well, most of Anatoly Efros’s plays have been preserved.

Krymov: Which ones?

Bykov: Well, A Month in the Country...

Krymov: Everything perished.

Bykov: No, why?

Krymov: No, nothing can be watched, only what he made himself on television. And even now, time has moved on.

Bykov: But The Rest is Silence?

Krymov: Well, you’re looking at... well, at Ranevskaya, simply. This is the only role that’s been preserved, absolutely true. Well, this play is famous for that. I don’t want to belittle my father’s achievements, naturally. But theater in general... it is strong because it dies.

Bykov: It is dear to us for this, I would say.

Krymov: No, it is strong. It is strong because... not like you just watched the video, but as you watch theater, this will never happen again. Simply never again. They will never play like this again, there won’t be these mistakes. The lamp won’t burn out like that. It won’t happen in a way that, at best, will move you. It’s the only... it’s a butterfly. I said it once, I liked it: a butterfly is no less strong than an elephant in terms of nature. Although a butterfly lives one day, and an elephant lives, I don’t know, 200 years or 300. But a butterfly is no less strong a natural creation. And you look at it, you don’t think: “Oh, well, in a day...” No, this is its essence—one day. The essence of beauty that dies. Beauty dies. And because of this, it can be sweet and maybe painful for you to watch. If everything is calculated correctly. If the pattern is correct, if the pollen is well placed, if it flies. If it walks and it’s wet, then...

Bykov: And then it’s even more touching, even more graceful. Dima, you’re the only person for whom I think it would be good to have a permanent repertory theater. Everyone says that stationary theater is dead, but I imagine your theater with colossal luxury, and I think it would be good. What do you think about this?

Krymov: I... I don’t know. I don’t know. But today, at the rehearsal of Uncle Vanya, I watch how they play, and I say: “Guys, if we had the opportunities, if there were a place and resources, and you, then we would have staged... I would have staged with you now, and I’m sure this game would have given you pleasure... five plays reflecting the existence of our world right now.” Because this is something terrible. Something carried me away; I began to tell them some revelations, even pathetic ones. When I left, it seemed to me that I was... well, only struck by one misfortune, one tragedy, and I didn’t see anything else, and somehow... well, one could even bury oneself in all that. But now, when you see everything around you, and what’s happening here, and in general what’s happening in the world, it’s some kind of wind of evil. Then you realize that this is some kind of challenge in general to the creation of something and looking at theater if you perceive it at all as something nurturing. Not as something entertaining, but as something nurturing the soul. Some kind of need. I’m not sure that here in America this is so developed, this need. But generally... this is a place that can nurture the soul, water it, deal with it. In this sense, absolutely even more than a church. Because it’s more diverse. Well, I’m not making a comparison, that’s not my point, of course.

Bykov: But a church should be stationary, I think. It would be good to have a temple for service. I asked Sukhanov what the play Diary of a Madman was about. He said about actors not being people. But how do they differ? They are much more helpless and much stronger. That’s how he explained it. Are you inclined to think that actors are not exactly people? And that they are stronger in many respects?

Krymov: Actors stronger than people?

Bykov: Yes, that actors can do something that a person can never do.

Krymov: That they can do more than an ordinary person? It doesn’t mean stronger; it just means they have some muscle developed... well, so that it works. Well, like a weightlifter, only an actor has some kind of complex. They are both stronger and weaker. And weaker, much weaker. Much weaker, much more unprotected, you feel much more sorry for them. Because... well, what if there are no roles? It’s hard to imagine how it all is, hard to imagine. Their life goes away. They studied and studied, and they won’t play Juliet anymore. Well, and what? That’s it. I don’t know, a terrible feeling, terrible. Do you remember the movie Trybuna? They have eyes that—when they come to get acquainted—it’s better not to look. You know how... in the film I made, Masha Smolnikova says a phrase that she came to the metro and an old woman was selling sour cream there, selling kittens. And she said: “Don’t look, because as soon as your eyes meet, you have to take them.”

Bykov: Do you believe they become different people at some point? Well, I saw that Tsyganov in the play about Don Juan becomes a different person.

Krymov: You mean on stage?

Bykov: Yes.

Krymov: Well, of course. Of course. That’s the point of their existence, of good actors. They can absolutely transform on stage. And... I’m watching now, I really like those guys I work with. How... they don’t even “do” it, but how they dive in there, how they become someone. This is, I don’t know, a special matter. A special matter. When I went out on stage a couple of times, I felt this terrible stiffness and everything. Well, probably it’s both technique and inclination to this, and the number of rehearsals, when you already forget about the audience and do your business. Actually, Stanislavski’s entire system is built on forgetting about this and doing this. Some people are given this... like a gift. Well, that’s a kind of supreme talent. But generally, you have to forget. First of all, understand why you’re doing it. This is a whole step; it’s not so simple. This is a whole step—actually forgetting about the audience and doing this. Oh! If any of you have read Stanislavski, read him; he has a chapter like that. His whole school begins with forgetting about the audience. There are whole trainings, whole exercises—forgetting about the audience. Because it’s generally impossible. A thousand people are sitting there, and I’m going to do... what am I going to do here? You have to know what you’re doing, you have to know why you’re here. And so much so that... as Pushkin wrote—he wrote as he breathed. Well, there are actors who play as they breathe. They learned this, but they learned it. Or they develop this ability in themselves. Staggering. These are generally angels.

Bykov: Can you say that an American actor is more disciplined?

Krymov: Yes, of course.

Bykov: Obedient, if you like.

Krymov: Yes, of course. Of course.

Bykov: What then is the advantage of a Russian actor? I know the advantage of a Russian student. An American one does the task. And a Russian one explains so well why it can’t be done that it’s much better than any task. What is the advantage of a Russian actor?

Krymov: Well, I want to say none, but that’s not right. Probably... I don’t know. You know... sorry... there are just good actors, and there are not very good actors. A good American actor, for example, I think is absolutely comparable to a Russian good actor. Because they... they are capable of understanding the task, capable of fulfilling it, and capable of partnership, capable of not burdening others with their whims or some undisciplined things. This is all part of the concept of a “good actor.” I don’t believe in a good actor who is self-absorbed and late for rehearsal. There are such people; the public may not know them because they only see them on stage, and even then, it’s generally visible. You can see the person. And there are those who are companionable, capable... theater is a company. It’s a company; something should breathe from the stage... well, I don’t believe I’ll look at this actor... I just don’t believe it. I’ll look at this actor and say: “What a good actor,” and everything else is garbage. No, I don’t understand. It’s either everything somehow matters, and this good actor staggeringly lifts it to some level together with everyone. But one person like that, if everything is not like that—it can’t be. For the most part, it can’t be. It’s some kind of... dark 19th century. Touring actors. What is a “good actor”? It’s a sense of company. It’s a sense of company, when someone comes to rehearsal and everyone feels better because of it. And everyone feels good, everyone smiles. And everyone says: “Oh, he’s here, and he’s so simple, so great,” and everyone is having fun, and everyone wants to work, and everyone wants to play.

Bykov: A good doctor comes—the patient feels better.

Krymov: Well, yes. Well, yes.

Bykov: When I work, the main problem is to kill the critic in myself. He keeps getting in my way, this bad look from the outside. Does it work? Well, I want to ask you: you are the son of a great theater critic. How do you silence this half of yourself as you work?

Krymov: I can answer you as you answered me: you dodge. I really love what I do. And when you love, you don’t think about the critic. I always thought about the critic. I always thought about the critic—not because my mother is a theater critic, but just because I have that kind of mind. I thought when I was a theater artist; I thought when I was painting on canvas. When I started staging plays, I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about it. I’m so interested that... well, however it turns out, it turns out. I have great claims against myself regarding this play, the last one, which I watched and thought: “My God, what have you done?” But when we were making it, it was a staggering atmosphere. Staggering. It can’t be imitated with anything. These people... well, at that moment, particularly... to put it mildly, they had a rather difficult attitude toward everything Russian. It was a staggering atmosphere. Staggering. A play born in love. As I understand now, with huge flaws, but you see them later, not when you were making it.

Bykov: I have a lot more questions, but I promised to give the floor to the audience. If the audience has questions, I’ll give them. If not, I’ll continue for myself. As you know, we work for ourselves. Yes, please.

Audience member: Thank you very much, I wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart for Peter Pan; it simply moved me to tears. I had the feeling, as a former Riguer, that you managed to build a bridge to modern Riga, and Soviet Riga, and even pre-Soviet Riga. My question is: how did you manage that? Because it seems to me you must have lived there for 20 years, a whole generation.

Bykov: And at the same time, tell us about your first Riga, how you first got there. To Soviet Riga.

Audience member: And immediately, if I may, a second question. You found yourself in the holy of holies of Latvians—the National Theater of Latvia. I don’t remember invited directors from Russia working there. How did you manage that? And what was it like for you to work with Latvian actors?

Krymov: No, Serebrennikov staged two plays there, very successfully. We rehearsed there, passing his huge poster with large letters—Serebrennikov. How did I manage it? Because for a short time, this theater was managed by a young man appointed there, who was later removed from there—I hadn’t started working yet. But the contract with me had already been signed, and it wasn’t canceled. Well, that’s how I got there. I first offered something else, Russian. Because it was all long-term matters. It was year ‘23, everything had just happened. And I had to offer something. Of course, I offered by inertia what I was thinking about—I don’t remember now, Chekhov or something. And they looked at each other like that—the director and the artistic director came. And we felt... Ina was there, my wife. They asked each other: “Well, you’re the one to answer, what do we answer him? You’re the one to untangle it later,” says the artistic director to the director. He says: “Well, probably we have to agree,” or something. And they left. And I thought that I had somehow broken them. That’s not good. And I called and said: “Listen, let’s change this to Peter Pan.” “Oh, let’s!” There was such joy there. I said: “Only I’ll include Pushkin for 10 minutes anyway, reading poems in Russian.” “Okay, okay, okay!” For this, the play was later removed from there, for Pushkin reading poems in Russian for 5 minutes. They had a strong wave against it. Just recently removed. Well, that’s it. And Riga... well, what about Riga? Riga is a beautiful city; it has a history, unfortunately rather dramatic. Because Chekhov, who is played here—Karilis—he was kicked out of there, if you know. He was kicked out of there. He bathed in glory there for two years; the government changed, and his visa wasn’t extended. He was kicked out of there. That’s where his wanderings around the world began, which ended in Los Angeles. This is a very dramatic place—traumatic place, I would say, for them themselves, of course, first of all. And for a Russian person who finds themselves there. It’s like... you know... there’s a submarine—I mean, an underwater flower that lures fish like that with its beauty, and then... when I arrived in Riga after six months here—I was starting this play there, which later didn’t work out—I thought I was home. Just home. I understand the houses, the corners of the houses, the courtyards, the trash cans. I understand how everything is arranged, unlike New York, which at that moment was something completely different for me. Home! Well, then you realize it’s not... well, it’s not home. It’s not home. They have their own life, and it’s dangerous to think you’re at home. You’re not at home. And you don’t have to be. You don’t have to be. You have to somehow... you have to respect. Well, respect. You want it like this? Like this. Only don’t delude yourself that you’re welcome everywhere.

Audience member: Could you please tell us about how you use music? Because music is very important in your plays. Especially, for example, Gubaidulina’s Offertorium, which runs through Diary of a Madman, or Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater in another play. What is music to you, and how do you choose it?

Bykov: Aleksei German used to say: “If you need music in a film, it means you haven’t finished your work as a director.” To imagine that you would be without music, I absolutely cannot. Although in his last film, he was forced to resort to it anyway.

Krymov: Well, no, it’s generally dangerous to think that you have to... well, such phrases of famous and beloved people...

Bykov: If we take Akhmatova’s phrase that one should be with one’s people, why are we all sitting here?

Krymov: Or that the poet’s place is in the gutter—also a doubtful phrase.

Bykov: Also doubtful.

Krymov: Music, how I use it... well, I use it somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. Well, when a scene develops somehow, usually it’s clear later, somewhere halfway, that it needs something. And you think what. I usually pick it out myself. Well, in good cases, I consult with my friends, assistants with whom I work. Sometimes I pick the same thing, I have to say. This Shostakovich waltz... now, if you watch Uncle Vanya, sorry, it’s there too. Because I like it terribly, terribly. To be honest, I forgot that I used it here. Because I used it in another place, a play you probably didn’t see. In Yale University, Three Sisters. It’s there too. But that I remembered. I thought, well, whatever, no one saw it. Listen! In our apartment in Moscow, there was a table that Sasha Chervinsky gave us—our friend, the son of Masha Chervinsky. You know, who wrote Moscow, Cheryomushki with Shostakovich. Well, we had a table at which Shostakovich and his father sat. I just didn’t know from which side, because it was round. And Sasha said... he heard this... that his father said to Shostakovich: “Dmitry Dmitriyevich, here you have such a passage... well, you had it there... in some opus... you had it.” He says: “Yes? Oh, well, let it be, let it be.” Well, what does that mean? You can replace it. I think now, to come to Uncle Vanya and replace it. But there are two very responsible people there who insisted on inviting a choreographer. They dance a little. Well, it all takes three minutes. In short, if it doesn’t bother you...

Bykov: There’s also the Shostakovich waltz.

Krymov: But you generally have to be careful with this. And then, you know what gets in the way? I... you’ll laugh... you sit and write in one room. And I go to different theaters in different countries. And you think, at some point, you think: in some country, you used it there. No one will see! No one will see! And then, when... for example, here... Sasha Dachevskaya, are you here, no? She left.

Bykov: On business.

Krymov: Maybe that’s why she left. She is a student of my course. This... bathing in the river—in the sea. This was our etude; we had a play called The Death of Katerina. And Katerina was drowning like that. It was the Volga. And Sasha played this Katerina. I think: “With what kind of feeling is she watching this?” Well, generally, you have to stop with this, of course. You have to stop with this. It’s very difficult to stop because there’s so much of it all there. It’s like a barn, you know, which is stuffed with some inventions, plays... there was this, there was that, there was that. And somehow, when you take something in a frenzy... especially when it’s the first two years after the war. It’s panic. It’s panic. You think you can’t do anything, and you have to quickly grab onto something. You grab onto something that your hand already knows where to take. Well, now, besides the Shostakovich waltz, in Uncle Vanya, everything is new. This is my first play that I made from scratch. Simply. I thought it up here and I made it here. I’m very glad if you come and watch, because it’s me today. And not something used there... besides the Shostakovich waltz.

Bykov: I don’t know how you feel about it. Do you use anything from the recordings you have preserved?

Krymov: Yes, unfortunately, yes.

Bykov: You’re only 33.

Krymov: And nothing for you?

Bykov: Fine. There are only seven notes, anyway. That’s how Shostakovich usually answered when they presented him with claims. He’d say: “There are only seven notes, gentlemen.” Well, by the way, I’ve seen many of your appeals to American playwrights. Who is your favorite among them?

Krymov: Wilder. I don’t know them that well, but Thornton Wilder—it’s generally the best play ever written, period. There is such a place where I start crying immediately. Just immediately.

Bykov: When she fries the bacon?

Krymov: No.

Bykov: When she comes to her parents?

Krymov: No! What are you talking about? Earlier. At the beginning, the host says: “This is so-and-so, this is so-and-so, this is so-and-so. And this is the doctor. He will die, by the way, in year ‘30, and a hospital will be named after him.” I start crying here. How he did it all: “This is so-and-so, this is so-and-so, this is so-and-so. And he, by the way, will die in year ‘30, a hospital will be named after him.” My God! It goes, goes, goes, then suddenly soared and looked at it from above. Hell knows.

Bykov: Thornton Wilder just presses his knee on the tear glands. When she says: “Can I stay a bit longer? Just a bit longer.” Unbearable, absolutely. A wild play. And a fantastic play, I have to say. Is there a theatrical role you would like to play yourself? Every director has such a dream.

Krymov: I would have liked to play everything. I would have liked to play a lot. But no one invites me. I was invited here suddenly... Tanya... my assistant, Tanya Khaikina... suddenly says: “There was an inquiry here, for a casting. You came for a casting in a movie.” I thought: “Oh! Finally!” Finally! It was worth leaving. I say: “Can you send the text?” They sent two pages of text. It’s a Russian mobster who demands money from someone.

Bykov: You would have done very well. He would have been kind, sentimental. One would want to give him money. Immediately.

Krymov: She agrees.

Bykov: Of Russian actors, who is your favorite?

Krymov: Masha Smolnikova, my actress. I miss her. I sent her a video today of one actor who plays in our Uncle Vanya. I thought: “I’ll send it.” She says: “I don’t know the language, but I feel so sorry for him! If only he were here, and you were here. We would have rehearsed.” Or her here. I don’t know. There are some people related by blood. Well, that’s her, first of all. And there’s also Zhenya Tsyganov, and Vika Isakova, and Timofei Trybuntsev, who played Godunov in my play. Well, they are simply great people. I don’t know about other works when they are with others. I don’t watch. With me, they are great people.

Bykov: It seems to me that the main theme of your entire theatrical project as a whole is the immortality of the soul, which after your plays is very visible. Not metaphorical, but the real immortality of the soul. Do you admit this thing, or do you prefer not to think about it?

Krymov: No, I think about it very often. Of course, I admit it—it’s obvious.

Bykov: As Jung said: “Believe is a weak word. I know.” That’s the same thing. Of course.

Krymov: You agree?

Bykov: I agree. I just feel it. It’s spilled everywhere, and part of it is in me. Save yourself, and thousands will be saved around you. Is that it, or how?

Audience member: How through your work were you able to bring this to people? Where... how? Or is it impossible?

Bykov: Creativity is the universal code through which you can talk to another. There are no other options, in my opinion. Well, by the way...

Krymov: How—I don’t know. Sorry. How—I don’t know. If I knew, I could write... well, like they write “how to earn a million,” “how to write a million-dollar script.” That’s clear. At least the technology is clear. This is unclear. This is unclear. And before everyone who decides to ambitiously offer a recipe, it is open. It is open to spitting: “Not like that.” Well, that’s all. And he slogged away there, God knows how much time and energy and his faith. But only this. Only this, it seems to me. Only this, some kind of... oh, what a serious topic this really is. Some kind of tenderness. Well, I don’t know. Everyone was killed, but tenderness is there. You can easily imagine it. Well, what does the Gospel start with? The spirit of God was hovering over the earth. No one was there yet! No one had been created yet. But tenderness was already hovering. Tenderness because “I will create.” I will write a poem, I will write a novel. I’ll make some cows, then butterflies. Then something is missing... a person, I don’t know. Then a woman to him. Well, I don’t know. Somehow it turned out all right. Well, let them live then. This all comes from some kind of sympathy. Sympathy for... I don’t know, this word tenderness is a great word.

Bykov: You agree?

Krymov: I just feel it. It’s spilled everywhere, and part of it is in me. Save yourself, and thousands will be saved around you. Is that it, or how?

Bykov: Not quite that. But about that too. How through your creativity were you able to bring this to people?

Krymov: How—I don’t know. If I knew, I could write... how to earn a million.

Bykov: There were more questions, so as not to deprive anyone of the opportunity. Otherwise, I’ll ask again myself. And I have so many more. Well, by the way, did you ever have an idea for a play without words at all?

Krymov: We started with this. Our first three plays I did with artists from my course. They were artists; they couldn’t talk on stage. And from this, we actually came up with the visual theater of artists. What was it? Well, they were Russian fairy tales, first of all. Unfinished Tales was the name of the play. Then there was Demon. There was a bit of singing there, but generally there were no words. And there was Don Quixote. There was a small text spoken by actors whom we invited. And that was it. There were no more words there. Those were three wordless plays.

Bykov: Also a question from a student of mine sitting here: doesn’t it seem to you that your plays could be a wonderful therapy? That is, you could involve patients as participants in the play, and many—I’m sure—everyone would become better. That everyone would become much better. Didn’t you have the idea of making such a theater that heals?

Krymov: I wouldn’t have enough strength for everything. You say opera; I would happily stage an opera. Simply, a lot of energy goes into each work. Well, what you say and what you ask is, of course, a great thing. Like any medical practice, it is generally... well...

Bykov: It heals, through the very participation. I remember playing for Ashuysky. A sick man came, all in pieces, and left completely healthy. Moreover, happy.

Krymov: Yes, I’ll tell you... I’ll tell you now what the difference is. I just thought about what that path is and what I do. I don’t have a goal to heal the public. Absolutely. No. That’s a side effect. I don’t talk to the public at all. Sorry. I somehow do it... I don’t know, differently. If someone likes it and someone is healed, or they tell me something, or I see something in their eyes, or they need it—I’m happy. It means I’m not alone. But generally, this isn’t for them. This is a utilitarian thing. Utilitarian. And this is non-utilitarian. This is non-utilitarian.

Bykov: As Andrei Belousov said: “Honey is not the main thing for a bee.” It’s a side product of its activity. I think it’s the same here. Well, by the way, nice comparison. Nice. Well, also a wonderful film, you made it too, where your dialogue is with your father. Of his plays, what do you love most?

Krymov: Oh, well, it was at his plays that I actually felt the feeling that I would like to be in mine. That’s actually why I took up this matter. When I started making my first play, the underlying reason for me was that I thought: “I don’t know how he did it, but I remember my feeling. I remember my feeling.” I thought: “Can some kind of recipe be found... well, differently?” If you saw Tarkovsky’s film Andrei Rublev, there is a plot about a bell. Remember the guy who said he had a recipe, and then he made the bell, and then he sits crying because he didn’t have a recipe? He just wanted to eat; he was dying of hunger, and so he said he had a recipe, so he wasn’t killed but was told: “Do it.” Well, I wasn’t dying of hunger, but I didn’t have a recipe. I didn’t have one. I had a reaction. I had the ringing of his bell in my soul, which I felt. This is a very strong thing. And I felt it in many things: and Brother Alyosha by the Karamazovs, and The Marriage, and Director of the Theater, and The Lower Depths... well, many... many plays. And A Month in the Country... many plays. And not only his. I generally sometimes felt this... I felt and feel it in theater, this ringing of the bell, basically. How they do it, I don’t know. And how he did it, I don’t know. I sat in on his rehearsals very little; I wasn’t interested in this matter at all at the time.

Bykov: Theater is more complicated, more subtle than cinema?

Krymov: Of course. Well, of course. Hooray! No, well, of course, because cinema—you make it, it remains. But here you have to make it so that it makes itself every day. This is completely different. This is completely different. There you set it... well, I don’t take all that as being also extremely difficult, but in comparison... in comparison, of course theater is a more difficult matter.

Bykov: Also a question from a student of mine sitting here: who is closer to you, Meyerhold or Vakhtangov?

Krymov: Well, I haven’t seen either one. Generally, from what I know about them, Vakhtangov is closer. Meyerhold was a revolutionary. And like any revolutionary, he... he evokes strange feelings, at least caution. Admiration maybe, and caution. I’m not sure that I... first of all, I’m not sure that I would have liked his plays. That’s not even the point. The point is that he invented a huge number of things that we use. A huge number. Just a huge number of theatrical things. This is all his invention. Vakhtangov might have much less. But his invention—which Brecht then developed, and some others—not many, but some... this kind of thing: “I play a Chinese prince.” And you see that I’m playing. That I’m an actor. I’m Zavalski, but I’m playing Kalaf, or Kalafa, whoever he is, in Princess Turandot. Distance, that is. This is a very complex cocktail. Out of the two of them, I... not deeply. I read everything that one wrote and the other wrote. But since I don’t have immediate impressions from the plays, I don’t know. Maybe I would have seen Meyerhold and thought: “My God! It’s indifferent whether he’s a revolutionary or not; it’s staggering!” Quite possibly. Quite possibly.

Bykov: The question that I simply must read aloud, because the formulation is wonderful: “These people have been sitting here since lunch, and we must finish, but I cannot not ask: will you return?”

Krymov: Will I return?

Bykov: I don’t know if we should finish. I really like everything that’s happening. I would be ready for a long time. Well, return to Moscow, that is.

Krymov: I’m not going back to Moscow.

Bykov: Well, quite right. Who can say that this is not Moscow? In many respects. I want to thank you all very much. For being here. Me too, thank you very much. And Dima, you too. I’m happy. The atmosphere is complete happiness. Thank you very much! The book is for sale!

Jacques Tati est passé du statut de cinéaste le plus célébré de France à celui d’un homme ayant perdu sa maison et les droits de son propre travail à cause d’un seul projet. Après le succès mondial de Mon Oncle, il a décidé de tout miser sur une vision unique d’un Paris de verre et d’acier, Playtime. Il a passé des années à bâtir une véritable ville et à diriger chaque pas de ses acteurs avec une intensité proche de la folie. Le film résultant a été un échec au box office qui l’a plongé dans une dette profonde et l’a forcé à la faillite. Bien qu’il soit finalement revenu à la réalisation, la perte de son indépendance l’a hanté jusqu’à sa mort. Il croyait avoir atteint son but artistique ultime mais le monde qu’il a construit a fini par détruire sa vie personnelle.

L’Apogée de Mon Oncle

En 1958, Jacques Tati était une star internationale ayant atteint un niveau de renommée que peu de réalisateurs touchent. Mon Oncle était un succès massif qui a charmé le public de l’autre côté de l’Atlantique et prouvé que son humour visuel pouvait transcender les barrières culturelles et linguistiques. Il a remporté l’Oscar du Meilleur Film en Langue Étrangère et le Prix Spécial à Cannes, confirmant sa place de figure majeure du cinéma mondial. Lors des Academy Awards de 1959, Tati a accepté la statuette des mains de Cyd Charisse et Robert Stack avec une humilité caractéristique. Il s’est adressé à l’assemblée en disant : «Je vais dire quelques mots avec mon très mauvais anglais. J'ai remarqué que les personnes qui parlent le plus mal l'anglais veulent parler plus que les autres. Pour ma première visite à Hollywood, je trouve que je m'en sors bien.»

La célébration ne s’est pas arrêtée à Hollywood. Quand Tati est retourné chez lui à Saint Germain en Laye, la communauté locale a été si émue par son succès qu’elle a organisé une reconstitution de la cérémonie des Oscars. Les habitants ont organisé un défilé et une présentation formelle où Tati a été honoré comme un héros local. Un détail particulièrement touchant de cette journée fut la présence de la mère de Tati, qui regardait depuis la foule tandis que son fils était célébré par ses voisins. Ce moment représentait le sommet de sa connexion avec son public, incarnant cette figure maladroite mais douce qui luttait pour naviguer dans la vie domestique de plus en plus mécanisée de la classe moyenne française. Ce succès lui a donné un sentiment de sécurité totale et la conviction qu’il pouvait tout accomplir.

La Construction de Tativille

Il avait évolué de comédien à cinéaste capable de commander d’énormes budgets et une liberté créative complète. Les éloges et les retours financiers de Mon Oncle l’ont convaincu que son public le suivrait n’importe où, même dans un territoire plus abstrait et expérimental. Il a utilisé cet élan pour planifier un projet qui irait bien au delà de la petite échelle de ses travaux précédents, avec l’intention de remplacer le quartier pittoresque de son film précédent par une métropole sprawling et ultra moderne.

Tati estimait que le vrai Paris n’était plus adapté à ses besoins car il était trop encombré et incontrôlable. Il voulait montrer une ville parfaitement plate et stérile. Pour ce faire, il a commandé la construction d’un immense décor à Saint Maurice, situé entre Vincennes et Joinville le Pont, que tout le monde appelait Tativille. Cette entreprise énorme a été dirigée par l’architecte et décorateur Eugene Roman, qui a travaillé étroitement avec Tati pour réaliser l’esthétique moderniste sévère de la ville. Le projet impliquait la construction de gratte ciel entiers en acier et en verre à une échelle qui en a fait la production la plus coûteuse de l’histoire du cinéma français. Le décor couvrait plus de 15 000 mètres carrés et comprenait des bâtiments atteignant cinq étages, avec des milliers de mètres carrés de vrai verre et des intérieurs fonctionnels. La ville possédait sa propre infrastructure incluant des rues et l’électricité. Tati a dépensé plus de 15 millions de francs pour ce rêve.

Il a investi son propre argent dans le projet et a contracté des emprunts massifs pour maintenir la construction lorsque la météo ou les retards menaçaient d’arrêter le tournage.

Le Poids de la Perfection

Le processus de tournage a révélé la profondeur réelle de l’obsession de Tati. Il a choisi de filmer en 70 millimètres, ce qui signifiait que chaque détail à l’écran était d’une clarté absolue.

Tati a interprété chaque rôle pour ses figurants car il voulait que leurs mouvements soient rythmiques et mécaniques. Il a passé des jours à filmer une seule scène lors d’un salon professionnel juste pour obtenir le son exact d’un couvercle de poubelle. Il ne voulait pas de stars de cinéma ou de jeu d’acteur traditionnel. Il voulait que l’architecture soit la véritable star du film. Ce perfectionnisme a fait que le tournage a duré des années. On voyait souvent Tati sur le plateau, épuisé et accablé par l’échelle monumentale du monde qu’il avait créé. C’était un homme qui ne pouvait pas faire de compromis alors même que son compte bancaire commençait à se vider.

Une Vision de l’Europe Moderne

Playtime devait être la déclaration définitive de Tati sur la façon dont l’Europe perdait son âme à cause de la modernisation. Le film dépeint un Paris où les monuments ne sont visibles que sous forme de reflets dans des portes vitrées. Les personnages errent dans des rangées infinies de bureaux gris et des halls lisses qui ressemblent plus à des hôpitaux qu’à des espaces de vie. Tati voulait montrer que le monde moderne était conçu pour être efficace mais qu’il rendait en réalité les gens plus isolés et confus. Il a utilisé une couche complexe de sons comme le bourdonnement des néons et le claquement des talons pour remplacer les dialogues classiques. Il pensait que c’était la manière la plus honnête de décrire l’expérience de la vie dans une ville des années 1960. C’était une critique profondément personnelle d’une société qu’il jugeait trop froide et standardisée.

La Chute Finale

La sortie de Playtime en 1967 a été un désastre dont Tati ne s’est jamais vraiment remis. Le public était dérouté par l’absence d’intrigue traditionnelle et de gros plans. En quelques années, la dette de Tativille est devenue un poids qu’il ne pouvait plus porter. La banque a saisi sa société de production et sa maison familiale. Il a même perdu les droits légaux de ses chefs d’oeuvre précédents comme Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot. Il a réussi à réaliser deux autres films plus tard dans sa vie mais il a toujours considéré Playtime comme sa dernière véritable réussite car il y avait donné tout ce qu’il possédait. C’est l’histoire d’un homme qui a bâti un monde parfait et a perdu le sien dans l’aventure. Ce sacrifice semble particulièrement poignant à une époque où l’on nous dit sans cesse de vivre nos vies à travers des écrans de verre lisses qui nous renvoient notre propre reflet, tandis que le monde réel à l’extérieur devient de plus en plus difficile à parcourir.

Vous pouvez désormais le regarder avec le sentiment d’admiration et de reconnaissance approprié.

Jacques Tati went from being the most celebrated filmmaker in France to a man who lost his home and the rights to his own life’s work because of a single project. After the global triumph of Mon Oncle, he decided to gamble everything on a single vision of a glass and steel Paris, Playtime. He spent years building a literal city and directing every footstep of his actors with an intensity that bordered on madness. The resulting film was a failure at the box office that plunged him into deep debt and forced him into bankruptcy. While he eventually returned to the director’s chair, the loss of his independence haunted him until his death. He believed he had achieved his ultimate artistic goal but the world he built ended up destroying his personal life.

The High of Mon Oncle

By 1958, Jacques Tati was an international star who had reached a level of fame few directors ever touch. Mon Oncle was a massive hit that charmed audiences across the Atlantic and proved that his brand of visual humor could transcend cultural and linguistic barriers. It won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film and the Special Prize at Cannes, cementing his status as a leading figure in world cinema. During the 1959 Academy Awards, Tati accepted the statue from presenters Cyd Charisse and Robert Stack with characteristic humility. He addressed the audience by saying, “I will say a few words with my very bad English. I noticed that the people who talk the worst English want to talk more than the others. For my first visit to Hollywood, I feel like I’m doing fine.”

The celebration did not end in Hollywood. When Tati returned to his home in Saint Germain en Laye, the local community was so moved by his success that they staged a reenactment of the Oscar ceremony. A particularly poignant detail of the day was the presence of Tati’s mother, who watched from the crowd as her son was celebrated by his neighbors. This moment represented the peak of his connection with his audience, a bumbling but gentle figure who struggled to navigate the increasingly mechanized domestic life of the French middle class. This success gave him a sense of total security and the belief that he could do anything.

Construction of Tativille

He had evolved from a comedian into a filmmaker with the power to command huge budgets and complete creative freedom. The accolades and financial returns from Mon Oncle convinced him that his audience would follow him anywhere, even into more abstract and experimental territory. He used this momentum to begin planning a project that would move far beyond the small scale of his earlier work, intending to replace the quaint neighborhood of his previous film with a sprawling, ultra modern metropolis.

Tati felt that the real Paris was no longer suitable for his needs because it was too cluttered and uncontrollable. He wanted to show a city that was perfectly flat and sterile. To do this, he commissioned the construction of a massive set in Saint Maurice, situated between Vincennes and Joinville le Pont, which everyone called Tativille. This enormous undertaking was led by the architect and set designer Eugene Roman, who worked closely with Tati to realize the city’s severe, modernist aesthetic. The project involved building entire skyscrapers out of steel and glass on a scale that made it the most expensive production in the history of French cinema. The set covered more than 15,000 square meters and featured buildings that reached heights of five stories, complete with thousands of square yards of real glass and functional interiors. The city had its own working infrastructure including streets and electricity. Tati spent over 15 million francs on this dream.

He poured his own money into the project and took out massive loans to keep the construction going when the weather or delays threatened to stop the shoot.

Weight of Perfection

The filming process revealed the true depth of Tati’s obsession. He chose to shoot in 70 millimeter film which meant every detail on the screen was crystal clear.

Tati acted out every single role for his background extras because he wanted their movements to be rhythmic and mechanical. He did not want movie stars or traditional acting. He wanted the architecture to be the real star of the film. This perfectionism meant that filming dragged on for years. Tati was often seen on the set looking exhausted and overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the world he had created.

Vision of Modern Europe

Playtime was meant to be Tati’s definitive statement on how Europe was losing its soul to modernization. The movie depicts a Paris where the landmarks are only visible as reflections in glass doors. Characters wander through endless grey cubicles and slick lobbies that look more like hospitals than living spaces. Tati wanted to show that the modern world was designed to be efficient but was actually making people more isolated and confused. He used a complex layer of sounds like buzzing neon lights and clicking heels to replace standard dialogue. He felt this was the most honest way to describe the experience of living in a 1960s city. It was a deeply personal critique of a society that he felt was becoming too cold and standardized.

Final Fall

The release of Playtime in 1967 was a disaster that Tati never truly recovered from. The public was confused by the lack of a traditional plot and the absence of close ups. Within a few years, the debt from Tativille became a weight he could no longer carry. The bank seized his production company and his family home. He even lost the legal rights to his previous masterpieces like Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday.

He managed to make two more films later in life but he always looked back at Playtime as his final true achievement because he had given it everything he owned. It is a story of a man who built a perfect world and lost his own in the process.

Now you can watch it with the appropriate sense of awe and appreciation.

La Farce du Mal et l’Histoire Contrefactuelle

La production donne souvent l’impression d’avoir une qualité similaire au film Les Producteurs de Mel Brooks. Il y a une tentation claire de se moquer du mal pour ne plus en avoir peur. Cela suit l’idée que «rire du pire, c’est s’armer contre lui». Les acteurs dépeignent les figures historiques comme vaines et assez ridicules ce qui les dépouille de leur aura terrifiante. J’ai regardé la pièce osciller entre cette approche comique et un ton plus sombre. Elle suggère fréquemment que la tragédie de l’histoire aurait pu être évitée si seulement certains événements s’étaient déroulés autrement. Par exemple la pièce souligne le désordre logistique de l’armée allemande pendant l’invasion de l’Autriche. Les chars tombaient en panne et l’opération entière était un bluff qui aurait pu être arrêté par une opposition plus confiante. Cela crée un sentiment de tristesse pour ce qui aurait pu être si les gens avaient fait de meilleurs choix à ces moments critiques.

Les Listes d’Industriels et la Question du Travail

Un des messages les plus directs de la pièce implique la projection d’une liste d’industriels sur un écran. La production place un blâme direct sur ces hommes pour leur soutien financier au parti nazi. Des noms comme Krupp et Siemens apparaissent en grandes lettres pour rappeler au public que le capital a joué un rôle majeur dans l’effondrement politique. Le texte mentionne que ces entreprises ont bénéficié du travail français pendant la guerre. Cependant la pièce n’aborde pas la manière dont ce travail a fini dans les camps de concentration.

Cette section ressemble à la conclusion principale de la pièce où le metteur en scène utilise un blâme appuyé pour souligner l’avidité des entreprises et ses conséquences historiques. Le visuel des noms sur l’écran force le public à affronter la réalité que beaucoup de ces marques existent encore aujourd’hui. Cela ajoute un niveau d’inconfort à la scène car cela connecte le passé directement au monde moderne.

Cela a fonctionné bien sûr car comment en serait il autrement ? Je me suis demandé quels appareils je possède et que je devrais jeter dès mon retour à la maison.

Le Talent de l’Ensemble

Les acteurs sont la partie la plus forte de cette production. Baptiste Chabauty est un virtuose musical qui joue de nombreux instruments différents pendant le spectacle et ajoute une couche d’art au milieu de chaque scène. Il se déplace sans effort entre un xylophone, un violoncelle et d’autres instruments ce qui fait de la musique un participant actif de l’histoire. Laurent Stocker a une présence si puissante qu’il est impossible de quitter ses yeux. Il est le genre d’acteur qui pourrait jouer n’importe quel rôle et rester fascinant par sa voix et son mouvement. Julie Sicard est une maîtresse du timing comique et utilise un style improvisé qui semble très naturel. Elle parvient à trouver de l’humour dans les moments historiques les plus rigides ce qui aide à briser la tension. Jérémy Lopez joue aussi très bien et assume le rôle de narrateur pour garder le public connecté à la chronologie. Il fournit le contexte nécessaire pour que le public puisse suivre les changements historiques rapides.

L’Effort de Mise en Scène et le Texte Source

J’ai eu l’impression que Jean Bellorini et les acteurs ont dû travailler très dur pour rendre cette œuvre engageante. Le texte original de L’Ordre du Jour est essentiellement une archive historique sans un arc dramatique traditionnel séparé de l’histoire. Pour corriger cela le metteur en scène utilise une grande variété d’outils théâtraux comme des masques, un miroir géant et du maquillage blanc sur les visages. Le miroir géant reflète la scène et le public ce qui suggère que nous faisons aussi partie du processus historique. Il y a aussi des têtes de masques et une utilisation constante d’accessoires et de musique pour créer une variété visuelle. Ces éléments sont nécessaires car le talent de la troupe est ce qui maintient l’intérêt du public pour un récit qui serait autrement une récitation sèche de faits historiques.

Conclusion et la Théâtralité de l’Archive

Le processus de transformation de documents historiques secs en drame exige de trouver un pouls humain à l’intérieur des fichiers bureaucratiques. Dix Sept Moments de Printemps y parvient en trouvant le noyau émotionnel d’un espion travaillant à l’intérieur de la machine du Troisième Reich. Il utilise le poids de l’archive et la narration clinique des fichiers pour construire un récit où chaque pause et chaque regard porte le fardeau des dossiers.

À l’inverse Bellorini utilise les outils du théâtre comme les masques et la musique pour combler le fossé entre le document et la scène.

Bien que j’aie énormément apprécié la performance ma réaction honnête n’a pas été de me précipiter pour lire L’Ordre du Jour mais plutôt de revisiter la sophistication de Dix Sept Moments de Printemps qui n’avait pas besoin d’autant d’accessoires ou d’un message aussi didactique pour souligner la banalité du mal.