Ah, student travel, how I have missed you. I’ve missed your trains with sleeper cars where sleep is impossible. I’ve missed your dorm room bunk beds and hopefully clean sheets. I’ve missed the scouring of side streets and maps, the watching of weather and camera battery, the inescapable hunt for the one restaurant downtown that won’t cost $100. But mostly I’ve missed packing an amount of things you thought impossible in one day, seeing more of the city in 48 hours than some see in a week, and feeling damn well accomplished for doing it.
My class went to Saint Petersburg last weekend. Though it was a planned group trip, it somehow felt a lot more like the weekends I spent country hopping two years ago. 40 hours in Saint Petersburg (and that’s literally all it was) didn’t seem to scratch the surface, and I’m disappointed I may never get there again.
We took an overnight train both ways, leaving our dorm in Moscow at 9pm for a 10:40pm train. I was lucky my expectations for the train were low – my bed was hardly more than a park bench with sheets, and the compartment was so tiny one person couldn’t get by another if they were standing between the bunks. But hey, at least it had a door. (I was told there was a possibility it wouldn’t. Yikes.) After an 8-hour journey, the train arrived in Petersburg at 7am. Our leaders, Tanya, Nastia, and Polina herded our group of 21 into a Coffee House (the name of the chain) to have breakfast and await our bus tour, which didn’t begin until 9. A few hours and cups of coffee later, we headed out to meet the bus, some more cheerful, some…not. Our wonderful tour guide drove us around the sights of Saint Petersburg, which included quite a lot.
A brief pause to describe Petersburg and showcase all the fancy knowledge I’ve gotten from my history class. Saint Petersburg was founded by tsar Peter the Great (ahha!) in 1703, and built on a spot in the middle of swamps where there was absolutely nothing previously. Basically, Peter hated Moscow and decided to build his own new capital just the way he liked it, in just the place he wanted. The city is built on the mouth of the Neva River where it meets the Baltic Sea, and consists of the mainland and several islands. The entire thing was planned out in advance, meaning that it is both exquisitely beautiful and artificial. In the 1700s Peter thought that Amsterdam was the epitome of modernity, efficiency, and beauty, and though the reason for that will remain forever a mystery, Petersburg was built to model Amsterdam. Its wide avenues are lined with beautiful architecture and bridges arch across the canals and river. There are four major cathedrals and God knows how many pretty little churches, not to mention enormous palaces (note, plural) and official buildings. In short, the city was engineered to be beautiful and it is.
So, we drove around the city and saw all of these beautiful places. At some point, the sun came out – a seeming miracle, since the forecast had predicted rain and snow. We stopped at a cathedral to see an Orthodox service going on, the girls donning scarves out of respect. We drove around the islands, where the more industrial areas are, and saw Peter’s original log cabin (now with another building built around it to keep it intact.) We also drove up and down Nevskiy Prospect, the main avenue of the city and setting of many a story by Pushkin and Gogol.
That afternoon, we gathered again as a group to visit the Hermitage. The Hermitage is what they call the gargantuan art museum that is housed in the Winter Palace, the main residence of the Romanov tsars. Both the palace and collection are absolutely mammoth in size and completely overwhelming. You thought the Louvre was big? This puts those silly French to shame. The palace itself is breathtaking, but when you consider the art inside of it, it’s staggering: two da Vincis, Raphael, Michelangelo, a huge Rembrandt collection, Picasso, Monet, Renoir, Matisse, Gauguin, Degas, Cezanne, and room upon room upon room beyond. There’s also Asian art, modern European, Russian handicrafts, antique furniture and design, and Greek and Roman classical, none of which I even saw in the four hours we spent there. You could easily spend two days.
Unfortunately, as you might imagine, many of the group had either become sleep-deprived zombies or moaning malcontents, so we were happy to part ways for the evening. Some of us ended up at a Georgian restaurant for dinner, savoring our favorite hatchapurri (cheese bread from heaven) and a new chicken dish that involved honey, apricots, crushed walnuts, and cheese (also, apparently made in heaven, which seems to be in Georgia).
The next morning, the bus took us out of the city center to visit Pushkin, the town that houses one of the Romanovs’ summer palaces. I understand now why Russians refer to Petersburg as provincial, because it’s really a very small city, and once you hit the outskirts, there is basically nothing. Tsarskoye Selo (Tsar’s Village) is just one of several suburban palaces. I get the impression that every new tsar felt the need to build a brand-new palace, more lavish than the one before. This palace wasn’t really lived in, just used for parties. Somehow the Revolution of 1917 has ceased to seem so drastic. During the siege of Petersburg in World War II, Germans occupied the palace and between bombing and looting it was completely destroyed. The restoration work is really incredible to see, because after the war there was basically nothing left.
We had the afternoon free, so Sara and I set out to cram as much as we could into four hours. We started at the Russian Museum. The Hermitage may be massive, but surprisingly, it has no Russian art. The Russian Museum houses works from famous Russian artists like Kandinsky, Chagall, and Vrubel. It was a really great museum, and we got a surprising amount out of it in our two-hour speed through. Mostly, it was game to spot the works we had learned about in our art history class.
It was 4:30, and we had until 5:45. After hitting the 20th century and picking up some postcards, we ran across the city to St. Isaac’s cathedral, stopping only to pick up a blini (think crepe) on the way. Though they’re usually eaten with knife and fork, we pioneered the eat-off-plate and walk method with enormous success. Our goal was to have time to climb to the dome of St. Isaac’s and take in the view, which had been recommended by several professors. We made it (just barely) and climbed the spiral staircase to the top – not nearly as difficult to climb as some of the others I’ve seen, but definitely a cool view, especially since the weather was nice. Sadly, we didn’t even have time to see the inside of the church, since once we got back down to the ground, we had to hurry along the Moika Canal to meet the group.
That night, thanks to Anatoly, we saw a performance of Berthold Brecht’s Man = Man at the Alexandrinsky Theater, one of the famous imperial theaters of the city. The inside was beautifully decked out in red and gold, but the lobby was an 8-floor maze of staircases. Instead of orchestra and balcony, there was an elaborate system of several balconies and boxes, each reached by its own seemingly secret passageway that puzzled us all to no end. I don’t even want to talk about trying to find the bathroom. So, after seeing a great show, we only had enough time to get a quick dinner and head to the train station for our next overnighter. Thankfully, this train was a bit more amenable to sleep. Or maybe it was just our exhaustion.
The pictures tell the story better than I can, probably. Take a look: http://picasaweb.google.com/lmhenry16
Friday, April 30, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Tales from the Russian Tonys
Last night, I went to the Golden Mask Festival awards ceremony. Since I went by myself and didn't have anyone with which to share my witty commentary, I decided to keep a minute-by-minute account.
2:54pm – Sitting in Anatoly’s office for class, he tells us, “Guys, I am sorry, I have only one ticket for the Golden Mask tonight.” We decide to flip a coin. I win.
6:34pm – On my way to the ceremony I exit GUM, the huge and lavish department store bordering Red Square, and hang a left. There it is: the Gastini Dvor, a hulking mass of white columns and not-quite-yellow paint. I found it all by myself (the few times we’ve been sent somewhere on our own, this has been a problem). The only question now is which door? Congratulating myself on my city-savvy, I search for people in the evening gowns and crazy getups I’ve been told to expect. Nothing. Only people in jeans and business casual. Oh God. Am I overdressed? Relax, Laura, there is no overdressing in Russia. Everyone’s probably at the door at the other end.
6:41pm – This door is also deserted. Suddenly I see television equipment being loaded in a side door. Panic. I look at my ticket. 20:00. That would be 8pm. Not 7pm, like I was told. And of course I didn’t think to check myself. Now I’m one hour and 19 minutes early. Fabulous.
6:47pm – Now berating myself for being stupid, I wander into GUM and decide to fill my time with some condolence ice cream. Since it’s nice out, I go outside onto Red Square to eat said condolence ice cream. Only then do I realize that I’ve chosen a variety that is almost impossible to eat daintily. Half the chocolate shell falls onto the cobblestones as I watch the sun sink below the Kremlin wall.
7:33pm – After mining my purse for something to amuse myself (unsuccessful), the time finally comes to go back to the Gastini Dvor. I take my dress shoes out of my purse and change my shoes, attracting some reproachful looks from Russians who were probably born wearing heels. Then I totter down the street to the door – the one that I can now clearly see is the right entrance.
7:40pm – Inside, I step through metal detectors and onto the landing of an enormous staircase, and I pause to survey the scene below me. The space is similar to Washington’s National Building Museum: a cavernous open hall, surrounded by four floors of balconies, stretching the length of the city block on which it sits. Tables for snacks and cocktails are scattered below, and halfway down the hall a gigantic curtain with the Golden Mask symbol hangs, cutting the space in half. I walk down the stairs an
d am immediately overwhelmed by the number of people and the enormity of the space. Where do I put my coat? How will I ever find Anatoly? How will I ever find the BATHROOM!? Most of all, why am I here by myself at this fancy awards ceremony, not understanding a word of what’s being said around me or who any of these supposedly famous people are? What the hell am I doing here?
7:53pm – I venture to the bathroom to collect myself. It’s on the other end of the hall (of course). As I take my five minute walk back to the entrance, I have a revelation. I’m probably not going to find Anatoly – and that’s ok. I’m completely by myself. No one knows me or cares what I do. I can be a tourist. I can gawk and take pictures and just love the semi-absurdity of my being here. Why not? After almost two months of constantly being with other people and trying to fit into the madness of Russia, this was a unexpectedly liberating realization.
8:00pm – The tinkling of harps is suddenly replaced by reverberating drums. Stepping
through the curtain, I see what Anatoly meant when he said a set designer was in charge of the décor. A wide walkway is lined with blue and green columns. Between these columns stand pedestals with living statues, like the street performers you might see on a sidewalk, all dressed in Grecian wear. Goddesses and warriors, Athena and Poseidon – even a minotaur inside its own cage. There must have been at least 15. In the center, there’s a tall podium where four harpists sit strumming. I wander through, taking it all in, and finally find my way to my seat, where the actual set of the awards continues the funky-Grecian theme.
8:12pm – An Anatoly sighting! I finally see him, down at the bottom of the amphitheater setting, glad-handing presenters. I
know there’s no time to run down and say hello, so I watch him chat with Oleg Tabakov (head of MXAT and the country’s most famous actor) and some others. Finally, everyone’s seated and the ceremony begins. Two young actors I don’t recognize are hosting. Very Ryan Seacrest. More living statues appear, holding the beautiful Golden Mask awards. Apparently, they’re this evening’s Oscar girls.
8:22pm – I think the guy that’s sitting next to me was in something I saw. He’s definitely an actor.
8:37pm – I am completely lost during the first presentations and start to give up hope. How can I not understand ANYTHING?! Oh wait, they just said “musical.” I totally know what that means. Oh...I see now, it’s in the program. “мюзикл”. Right. Good thing I go to Harvard.
8:47pm – The Producers just swept the musical theater awards. In Russia. Ok?
8:58pm – I begin to realize there’s no orchestra. Instead of strings, the ceremony is underscored by two percussionists, surrounded by a jungle of chimes, drums, and symbols.
8:59pm - Omigod. It’s that guy. The guy sitting next to me is from Opus No. 7, one of the most amazing shows we’ve seen, and the one that everyone raves about. It’s totally that guy! I take a closer look at the people sitting on his other side. They’re ALL from the cast. THIS IS SO COOL.
9:05pm – One of my professors from the Stanislavsky Music Theater accepts an award for an opera singer at her theater who is out on tour. She’s dressed in her typical head-to-toe black, with one large addition: a huge pink flower pinned to her chest.
9:12pm – Every time the goat-man statue comes out with an award it freaks me out. Seriously.
9:25pm – Suddenly I understand why an orchestra is unnecessary. No need to play someone off when their acceptance speech is too long – Russians handle it themselves. When the audiences tires of listening, they just start applauding right over the “spasiba bolshois”. It’s very effective.
9:33pm – The category in which Opus No. 7 is nominated is announced: best experimental drama. I have an inkling they might win, and I’m so excited for them. [A side explanation: Opus No. 7 is one of the shows I talked about in my previous post, the one about the Holocaust and Shostakovich. The cast is made up of incredibly talented and young 20-somethings – unusual in a city where the average age of most casts is probably 35+. All of them are acrobats and puppeteers, singers and dancers, performing any number of crazy things that Krymov asks of them. It’s really an incredible thing to see.] Opus No. 7 is announced as the winner, and they go crazy. No muted smiles or jaded reactions here – whoops and fist pumps, texting of friends and family. Ah, youthful enthusiasm. I can say this because I’m so old and wise. I grin at them as they take their seats again, wishing desperately that I knew the word for “congratulations” in Russian. They put their heads together, all smiles, and people around us shake their hands. They are the cool kids, and I really, really want in on their club.
10:00pm – As the ceremony continues, I practice in my head: “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho, no ya looblu Opus 7. Mayi droogi tolja.”
10:08pm – After the major awards have been given, Anatoly does his duty as head of the jury and gets up to give the jury’s special awards. Just like in class, he speaks effusively. No idea what he’s saying, but the Russian audiences laughs. After he’s done, I realize he didn’t go back to his seat. Probably wanted to escape, ahem, unhappy nominees. Probably smart.
10:22pm – “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho…”
10:37pm – The ceremony finally ends. I gather my courage and tap the actor on the shoulder. Later, Jane will tell me I said something like this: “I’m sorry, I no good speak Russian, but I love Opus 7. My friendly also!” Luckily, he is very sweet, and just smiles at me and says thank you. Clearly he sees that is all that I would understand.
10:41pm – Proud of myself for trying with the Russian, and sure that I won’t find Anatoly, I decide to grab some finger food and head home. Unfortunately, there is way less food than people, and Russians have an aversion to orderly lines. Incidentally, it’s even worse here than in Italy, because Russians are way more physical. I discover I’d have to be a linebacker to get to the snack table, and so I content myself with a solitary pastry, get my coat, and walk home through Red Square.
2:54pm – Sitting in Anatoly’s office for class, he tells us, “Guys, I am sorry, I have only one ticket for the Golden Mask tonight.” We decide to flip a coin. I win.
6:34pm – On my way to the ceremony I exit GUM, the huge and lavish department store bordering Red Square, and hang a left. There it is: the Gastini Dvor, a hulking mass of white columns and not-quite-yellow paint. I found it all by myself (the few times we’ve been sent somewhere on our own, this has been a problem). The only question now is which door? Congratulating myself on my city-savvy, I search for people in the evening gowns and crazy getups I’ve been told to expect. Nothing. Only people in jeans and business casual. Oh God. Am I overdressed? Relax, Laura, there is no overdressing in Russia. Everyone’s probably at the door at the other end.
6:41pm – This door is also deserted. Suddenly I see television equipment being loaded in a side door. Panic. I look at my ticket. 20:00. That would be 8pm. Not 7pm, like I was told. And of course I didn’t think to check myself. Now I’m one hour and 19 minutes early. Fabulous.
6:47pm – Now berating myself for being stupid, I wander into GUM and decide to fill my time with some condolence ice cream. Since it’s nice out, I go outside onto Red Square to eat said condolence ice cream. Only then do I realize that I’ve chosen a variety that is almost impossible to eat daintily. Half the chocolate shell falls onto the cobblestones as I watch the sun sink below the Kremlin wall.
7:33pm – After mining my purse for something to amuse myself (unsuccessful), the time finally comes to go back to the Gastini Dvor. I take my dress shoes out of my purse and change my shoes, attracting some reproachful looks from Russians who were probably born wearing heels. Then I totter down the street to the door – the one that I can now clearly see is the right entrance.
7:40pm – Inside, I step through metal detectors and onto the landing of an enormous staircase, and I pause to survey the scene below me. The space is similar to Washington’s National Building Museum: a cavernous open hall, surrounded by four floors of balconies, stretching the length of the city block on which it sits. Tables for snacks and cocktails are scattered below, and halfway down the hall a gigantic curtain with the Golden Mask symbol hangs, cutting the space in half. I walk down the stairs an
d am immediately overwhelmed by the number of people and the enormity of the space. Where do I put my coat? How will I ever find Anatoly? How will I ever find the BATHROOM!? Most of all, why am I here by myself at this fancy awards ceremony, not understanding a word of what’s being said around me or who any of these supposedly famous people are? What the hell am I doing here?7:53pm – I venture to the bathroom to collect myself. It’s on the other end of the hall (of course). As I take my five minute walk back to the entrance, I have a revelation. I’m probably not going to find Anatoly – and that’s ok. I’m completely by myself. No one knows me or cares what I do. I can be a tourist. I can gawk and take pictures and just love the semi-absurdity of my being here. Why not? After almost two months of constantly being with other people and trying to fit into the madness of Russia, this was a unexpectedly liberating realization.
8:00pm – The tinkling of harps is suddenly replaced by reverberating drums. Stepping
through the curtain, I see what Anatoly meant when he said a set designer was in charge of the décor. A wide walkway is lined with blue and green columns. Between these columns stand pedestals with living statues, like the street performers you might see on a sidewalk, all dressed in Grecian wear. Goddesses and warriors, Athena and Poseidon – even a minotaur inside its own cage. There must have been at least 15. In the center, there’s a tall podium where four harpists sit strumming. I wander through, taking it all in, and finally find my way to my seat, where the actual set of the awards continues the funky-Grecian theme.8:12pm – An Anatoly sighting! I finally see him, down at the bottom of the amphitheater setting, glad-handing presenters. I
know there’s no time to run down and say hello, so I watch him chat with Oleg Tabakov (head of MXAT and the country’s most famous actor) and some others. Finally, everyone’s seated and the ceremony begins. Two young actors I don’t recognize are hosting. Very Ryan Seacrest. More living statues appear, holding the beautiful Golden Mask awards. Apparently, they’re this evening’s Oscar girls.8:22pm – I think the guy that’s sitting next to me was in something I saw. He’s definitely an actor.
8:37pm – I am completely lost during the first presentations and start to give up hope. How can I not understand ANYTHING?! Oh wait, they just said “musical.” I totally know what that means. Oh...I see now, it’s in the program. “мюзикл”. Right. Good thing I go to Harvard.
8:47pm – The Producers just swept the musical theater awards. In Russia. Ok?
8:58pm – I begin to realize there’s no orchestra. Instead of strings, the ceremony is underscored by two percussionists, surrounded by a jungle of chimes, drums, and symbols.
8:59pm - Omigod. It’s that guy. The guy sitting next to me is from Opus No. 7, one of the most amazing shows we’ve seen, and the one that everyone raves about. It’s totally that guy! I take a closer look at the people sitting on his other side. They’re ALL from the cast. THIS IS SO COOL.
9:05pm – One of my professors from the Stanislavsky Music Theater accepts an award for an opera singer at her theater who is out on tour. She’s dressed in her typical head-to-toe black, with one large addition: a huge pink flower pinned to her chest.
9:12pm – Every time the goat-man statue comes out with an award it freaks me out. Seriously.
9:25pm – Suddenly I understand why an orchestra is unnecessary. No need to play someone off when their acceptance speech is too long – Russians handle it themselves. When the audiences tires of listening, they just start applauding right over the “spasiba bolshois”. It’s very effective.
9:33pm – The category in which Opus No. 7 is nominated is announced: best experimental drama. I have an inkling they might win, and I’m so excited for them. [A side explanation: Opus No. 7 is one of the shows I talked about in my previous post, the one about the Holocaust and Shostakovich. The cast is made up of incredibly talented and young 20-somethings – unusual in a city where the average age of most casts is probably 35+. All of them are acrobats and puppeteers, singers and dancers, performing any number of crazy things that Krymov asks of them. It’s really an incredible thing to see.] Opus No. 7 is announced as the winner, and they go crazy. No muted smiles or jaded reactions here – whoops and fist pumps, texting of friends and family. Ah, youthful enthusiasm. I can say this because I’m so old and wise. I grin at them as they take their seats again, wishing desperately that I knew the word for “congratulations” in Russian. They put their heads together, all smiles, and people around us shake their hands. They are the cool kids, and I really, really want in on their club.
10:00pm – As the ceremony continues, I practice in my head: “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho, no ya looblu Opus 7. Mayi droogi tolja.”
10:08pm – After the major awards have been given, Anatoly does his duty as head of the jury and gets up to give the jury’s special awards. Just like in class, he speaks effusively. No idea what he’s saying, but the Russian audiences laughs. After he’s done, I realize he didn’t go back to his seat. Probably wanted to escape, ahem, unhappy nominees. Probably smart.
10:22pm – “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho…”
10:37pm – The ceremony finally ends. I gather my courage and tap the actor on the shoulder. Later, Jane will tell me I said something like this: “I’m sorry, I no good speak Russian, but I love Opus 7. My friendly also!” Luckily, he is very sweet, and just smiles at me and says thank you. Clearly he sees that is all that I would understand.
10:41pm – Proud of myself for trying with the Russian, and sure that I won’t find Anatoly, I decide to grab some finger food and head home. Unfortunately, there is way less food than people, and Russians have an aversion to orderly lines. Incidentally, it’s even worse here than in Italy, because Russians are way more physical. I discover I’d have to be a linebacker to get to the snack table, and so I content myself with a solitary pastry, get my coat, and walk home through Red Square.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Curriculum
“What are you doing in Moscow, Laura?”
“Seeing theater. Every night.”
While I feel like I’ve said this at least once to almost all of you, I realized that maybe I should explain myself a little more. Anatoly and our inexhaustible program leaders, Tanya and Nastia, provide a theatrical itinerary for us that is beyond what I ever expected. And yes, it’s exhausting after a while. Seeing great theater is awesome, but doing anything 9 nights in a row can become laborious. That said, I really can’t complain (although, obviously, I do.)
I feel like the best way to give you an idea of our theatrical adventures might be to chronicle the shows we saw in seven days last week. They are a pretty good sampling of the, um, varied shows that we see, spanning dance, theater, and “other”, shifting spectacularly from astounding to atrocious. The last couple weeks have been particularly interesting because we’re smack in the middle of the Golden Mask Festival, which brings productions into Moscow from all over world for a competition. Anatoly is the head judge this year, so we’re seeing quite a lot.
Sunday: Ulysses, Fomenko Theater. A six-hour production, if you include the two intermissions. Luckily, it was fantastic. The design was really interesting, a mixture of Greek and Irish elements that were rearranged to make the stage look different for every episode. The production culminated in a forty-five minute monologue by Molly Bloom – a forty-five minute monologue at the very end of a six hour production. That’s gutsy. And maybe that’s why I thought this was so great – simply the nerve and skill required to master the sheer impossibility of putting that novel on stage.
Monday: Seagull, the ballet, Stanislavsky Music Theater. I’ve seen next to no ballet. I know next to nothing about it. In fact, the first ballet I saw (that I can remember) was here, which means I’ve seen four dance productions total, in my life. Needless to say, I have little reference for judging dance. But what I can tell you is that the Seagull ballet was stunningly beautiful. They took a play we knew well and explored it uniquely, focusing on the heartbreaking relationships and unrequited love. Instead of a writer, Treplev is a choreographer, and the production has fun making jokes at the expense of both classical ballet and modern dance. This ballet brought out the melancholy beauty of Chekhov’s play like I’ve never seen in an actual production.
Tuesday: Night off.
Wednesday: Opus 7, director Dimitri Krymov. This production is literally indescribable. Arthur would call this a “pious cliché”, but it’s true. Krymov has been labeled a “theater painter”, which means several things: he’s a set designer turned director; he generally works with images rather than words; and he actually uses paint. The first half of the production was about the Holocaust and used haunting imagery and musical soundscapes (actors sang, played instruments, and created sound effects) to struggle to find a way to aptly remember the victims’ suffering. The second half was about Russian composer Shostakovich, who narrowly escaped being murdered by Stalin’s regime and was forced to become their puppet (again, in this production, literally). I’m really not sure how these two themes connect, or if they’re supposed to. But both halves were surprising, striking, and unique.
Thursday: Another Sleepy Dusty Delta Day, Troubleyn Company of Belgium. That day, my streak of amazing productions expired. It was supposed to be a ballet. It was….not. However, it WAS, without doubt, the worst production I’ve seen here. I described it on Facebook as “Sex seizure + model trains + coal dust + canaries + suicide = yikes and a half.” Bizarre? Oh yes. Terrible? More than you know – it deserves extensive description. The piece was based around the song “Ode to Billie Joe“. The stage was covered in piles of coal that had a model train running through them. It also had 12 cages hanging from above, each with a live canary. So, logically, what should happen? The actress read a long suicide note about jumping off a bridge. Then she danced (which looked more like a seizure.) Then she drank a beer and stuck it in her underwear. She danced again, took off her dress, and rubbed herself in coal dust so that her skin was black. Danced again. Then she took another beer, grabbed a canary out of a cage, and bludgeoned the canary’s head. Don’t worry, animal lovers, that particular canary was fake. And she was still naked, by the way. Oh, and then she sang the song. Really badly. In a Belgian accent. Ryan, our Harvard professor who was visiting last week, came with us to the show because he had seen Troubleyn’s work before. He said at that performance, a woman came out on stage, stared down the audience, and then began to crack nuts. She cracked nuts for half an hour, and that was the show. I think I would have rather watched that.
Friday: A Month in the Country, Tovstonogov Bolshoi Drama Theatre of St. Petersburg. An awful production of what, as it turns out, is a pretty good play by Turgenev. The acting was horrendous and the second act deteriorated completely into hysterics. For example, when Natalya admitted her clandestine love, she paced up and downstage, stopping to look at her love and flop her arm around, a gesture that supposedly was meant to send him away but faltered halfway through, making it look more like a tic. That gem was second only to the blaring melodramatic sound effect that accented particularly overwrought moments. (Think, a sudden blaring of horns that happens in a movie when someone discovers a body.)
Saturday: Eugene Onegin, the ballet, Boris Eifman. Eifman is a legendary choreographer in Russia. He focuses on modern ballet. Though the music and design were, well, puzzling at some points (Tchaikovsky, then 1980s rock ballad with screaming saxophone?) the movement was really incredible. I’ve never seen dancers do anything like that before. It was completely different than the traditional conception of ballet and exciting to watch in every moment – which is a lot to say for ballet.
So that’s a week in the life, as they say. A pretty good range, especially if you add in what we’ve seen this week: a Macbeth, an Uncle Vanya, and a student piece based on Carmen. And hey, at least it was a 4:3 good:bad ratio.
“Seeing theater. Every night.”
While I feel like I’ve said this at least once to almost all of you, I realized that maybe I should explain myself a little more. Anatoly and our inexhaustible program leaders, Tanya and Nastia, provide a theatrical itinerary for us that is beyond what I ever expected. And yes, it’s exhausting after a while. Seeing great theater is awesome, but doing anything 9 nights in a row can become laborious. That said, I really can’t complain (although, obviously, I do.)
I feel like the best way to give you an idea of our theatrical adventures might be to chronicle the shows we saw in seven days last week. They are a pretty good sampling of the, um, varied shows that we see, spanning dance, theater, and “other”, shifting spectacularly from astounding to atrocious. The last couple weeks have been particularly interesting because we’re smack in the middle of the Golden Mask Festival, which brings productions into Moscow from all over world for a competition. Anatoly is the head judge this year, so we’re seeing quite a lot.
Sunday: Ulysses, Fomenko Theater. A six-hour production, if you include the two intermissions. Luckily, it was fantastic. The design was really interesting, a mixture of Greek and Irish elements that were rearranged to make the stage look different for every episode. The production culminated in a forty-five minute monologue by Molly Bloom – a forty-five minute monologue at the very end of a six hour production. That’s gutsy. And maybe that’s why I thought this was so great – simply the nerve and skill required to master the sheer impossibility of putting that novel on stage.
Monday: Seagull, the ballet, Stanislavsky Music Theater. I’ve seen next to no ballet. I know next to nothing about it. In fact, the first ballet I saw (that I can remember) was here, which means I’ve seen four dance productions total, in my life. Needless to say, I have little reference for judging dance. But what I can tell you is that the Seagull ballet was stunningly beautiful. They took a play we knew well and explored it uniquely, focusing on the heartbreaking relationships and unrequited love. Instead of a writer, Treplev is a choreographer, and the production has fun making jokes at the expense of both classical ballet and modern dance. This ballet brought out the melancholy beauty of Chekhov’s play like I’ve never seen in an actual production.
Tuesday: Night off.
Wednesday: Opus 7, director Dimitri Krymov. This production is literally indescribable. Arthur would call this a “pious cliché”, but it’s true. Krymov has been labeled a “theater painter”, which means several things: he’s a set designer turned director; he generally works with images rather than words; and he actually uses paint. The first half of the production was about the Holocaust and used haunting imagery and musical soundscapes (actors sang, played instruments, and created sound effects) to struggle to find a way to aptly remember the victims’ suffering. The second half was about Russian composer Shostakovich, who narrowly escaped being murdered by Stalin’s regime and was forced to become their puppet (again, in this production, literally). I’m really not sure how these two themes connect, or if they’re supposed to. But both halves were surprising, striking, and unique.
Thursday: Another Sleepy Dusty Delta Day, Troubleyn Company of Belgium. That day, my streak of amazing productions expired. It was supposed to be a ballet. It was….not. However, it WAS, without doubt, the worst production I’ve seen here. I described it on Facebook as “Sex seizure + model trains + coal dust + canaries + suicide = yikes and a half.” Bizarre? Oh yes. Terrible? More than you know – it deserves extensive description. The piece was based around the song “Ode to Billie Joe“. The stage was covered in piles of coal that had a model train running through them. It also had 12 cages hanging from above, each with a live canary. So, logically, what should happen? The actress read a long suicide note about jumping off a bridge. Then she danced (which looked more like a seizure.) Then she drank a beer and stuck it in her underwear. She danced again, took off her dress, and rubbed herself in coal dust so that her skin was black. Danced again. Then she took another beer, grabbed a canary out of a cage, and bludgeoned the canary’s head. Don’t worry, animal lovers, that particular canary was fake. And she was still naked, by the way. Oh, and then she sang the song. Really badly. In a Belgian accent. Ryan, our Harvard professor who was visiting last week, came with us to the show because he had seen Troubleyn’s work before. He said at that performance, a woman came out on stage, stared down the audience, and then began to crack nuts. She cracked nuts for half an hour, and that was the show. I think I would have rather watched that.
Friday: A Month in the Country, Tovstonogov Bolshoi Drama Theatre of St. Petersburg. An awful production of what, as it turns out, is a pretty good play by Turgenev. The acting was horrendous and the second act deteriorated completely into hysterics. For example, when Natalya admitted her clandestine love, she paced up and downstage, stopping to look at her love and flop her arm around, a gesture that supposedly was meant to send him away but faltered halfway through, making it look more like a tic. That gem was second only to the blaring melodramatic sound effect that accented particularly overwrought moments. (Think, a sudden blaring of horns that happens in a movie when someone discovers a body.)
Saturday: Eugene Onegin, the ballet, Boris Eifman. Eifman is a legendary choreographer in Russia. He focuses on modern ballet. Though the music and design were, well, puzzling at some points (Tchaikovsky, then 1980s rock ballad with screaming saxophone?) the movement was really incredible. I’ve never seen dancers do anything like that before. It was completely different than the traditional conception of ballet and exciting to watch in every moment – which is a lot to say for ballet.
So that’s a week in the life, as they say. A pretty good range, especially if you add in what we’ve seen this week: a Macbeth, an Uncle Vanya, and a student piece based on Carmen. And hey, at least it was a 4:3 good:bad ratio.
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