The following is a somewhat condensed and edited account of a conversation between the prominent Russian writer and journalist Dmitry Bykov and the visionary theater director Dmitry Krymov. The exchange took place on March 21, 2026, as part of the Krymov Fest at the Peter Jay Sharp Theatre in New York City.
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 Bykov 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!