Text author: Maria Hulber
Taken from LaPunkt.ro

Postdramatic theatre today knows some of the most unusual forms. By this formula – postdramatic theatre – we do not necessarily refer to the meaning of directing games and stage languages, as often unconventional transpositions of classical scenarios, but to the emergence of intertexts capable of reinvigorating already established models. A number of contemporary dramatic authors propose interpretations in a personal register, materialized in as many new creations that connect to a tradition of broad artistic inspiration. William Shakespeare is, from this point of view, the most offering playwright, provoking a continuous authorial dialogue that transcends time and space. From an extensive list of titles, more or less glorious, let us mention just a few of the recent and noteworthy ones, namely the plays of the trilogy În inima noptii, staged by Gavriil Pinte at the Regina Maria Theatre in Oradea, based on scripts with inserts by George Banu and Monique Borie. Moreover, it is not only the dramatic text that knows such rewritings with essayistic extensions or touches of parable, but also epic works. (See the case of the thriller Macbeth by Jo Nesbø, a noir novel recently released in Romanian bookstores and inspired by the Shakespearean masterpiece of the same name). Thinkers on the dynamics of theatrical forms have often reflected on this return of theater to itself, to its roots, reinforcing them with an ideological contribution cut from the issues of the contemporary world. In the collective volume Le Théâtre postdramatique. Vers un chaos fécond?, Jean-Marie Valentin rightly observes that, ”La question du présent dans son rapport aux origines est une interrogation permanente du théâtre sur lui-même.”

With so many exciting formulas around, a rewriting of Hamlet from the perspective of some characters, namely the troupe of actors invited to Elsinore Castle to carry out the detective plan of the Prince of Denmark, should not surprise anyone. However, a dose of confusion hovers around the show Hamlet's Trap, staged earlier this year on the stage of the Oradea theater. The association between the title of the announced adaptation and the name of Nedialko Yordanov - Bulgarian poet, playwright and publicist -, as well as the graphic element on the promotional poster are reminiscent of another staging, from the 2009/2010 season, The Murder of Gonzago, based on a play by the same author. The translation belongs to Elvira Rîmbu, and the direction is signed, each time, by Petru Vutcărău. In the dramatic work of the Bulgarian writer, The Murder of Gonzago brings an added significance, at a time when Eastern Europe was entering a context of intense political fever. Written at the end of the 1980s, it is a subversive play, a dramatic parable that denounces, in its ideological substratum, the horrors, denunciations, crimes and bloody violence committed against the backdrop of the installation of Stalinism in Bulgaria. If we dispel a little the fog surrounding the creative sources of the recent performance, we understand that it is an adaptation after an… adaptation, or after a palimpsest play, or after a reinterpretation in the key of the anti-totalitarian political manifesto. How much of the core will have been diluted by this "rebranding" is difficult to say.

Yordanov is an actor of the stage word, taking from Shakespeare some of the finest nuances. Always a bit behind his model, he opens up new fronts and interpretative interrogations regarding the idea of the double, what is hidden behind the mask, the disjunction between the role to be performed and the real condition of the artist. It would be difficult to judge, otherwise, why the words that Thomas Ostermeier records, regarding Shakespeare's work, in Theater and Fear, would fit him so naturally: "he is not content simply to put characters on stage; but, more, he stages them so that, later, the characters can stage themselves” (sa). But it is precisely this horizon of expectation that is fulfilled on Yordanov’s stage, where the troupe formed by the six itinerant actors enters from the beginning, challenged to play on the score of the scenario imagined by Hamlet in order to expose his father’s murderer. The subtle self-referential allusions metamorphose into a unique ars theatralis, with areas of reflection on the theater, spread throughout the entire dramatic scenario. Even Polonius, animated by older acting nostalgia, enters this dialogue about each person’s place in the troupe. This is one of the strong roles, emanating force and aggressive authority, traits well supported by the gaze of the man touched by the fever of power and constructed without rigidity by the actor Sorin Ionescu. In contrast, the character of Ophelia, interpreted by Consuela Egyed, sometimes seems devitalized, sometimes in an inertia that could have been avoided by a few directorial touches. Polonius offers the troupe complete freedom of direction, because, of course, it is not their virtuosity, in itself, that will make the difference, but the allusive challenges in the script's fabric, similar to the contexts of reality. At first, only rumors are heard about Hamlet, a role played by Ciprian Ciuciu and clarified only towards the end. Henric, in whose role we find Răzvan Vicoveanu with great interest, notices the prince's madness, disguised under the appearance of illness. In turn, Horatio, played by Alin Stanciu, confirms Hamlet's madness when the script is handed over.

Beyond the actual incident cut from Shakespeare's work, a whole world comes to life: the dissensions in the prosaic everyday life of the troupe, the picaresque existence, the condition of the actresses, Henric's histrionic reflections, Benvolio's played numbness, in the remarkable interpretation of Petru Ghimbășan (especially in the scene of unexpected animation under the influence of the spicy subject about good wives), the tics of the Prompter, with their shy-impersonal modulations interpreted by Pavel Sîrghi, etc. In the delicious scene of the direction of a pantomime show, permeated more by a bright humor than by a comic with critical reverberations, the improvised props are matched with the clothing devoid of stylistic pretensions. Charles, the troupe's director, appears in a sort of detective trench coat à la Columbo, and Henric in an outfit of a modern-day unbridled hipster. Returning to Charles, it must be appreciated that Richard Balint builds a complex, multifaceted character in his case, with lights and shadows, a man whose high principles are sometimes hindered by acceptable concessions when it comes to the women in his life. Caught between his passion for the beautiful Amalia, the actress played by Denisa Vlad, and his duty as husband and band director, he always seeks to gain time through skillful backstage play to carry out his plans. In the role of his wife Elisabeth, Elvira Rîmbu creates energetic moments, exceeded by crises of jealousy and malice. Like a sui generis Xanthippe, she confronts her consort under the threat of "I won't play with that slut!" or sharply reproaches him for his "lack of authority" in front of the entire band.

The scenography created by Oana Cernea captures, in essential form, the royal symbols of the palace: ornamental columns in the Ionic style, the high platform in the background, accessible thanks to the stairs – an echo of the rise to power. A disadvantage of this spatial arrangement, however, is the far too weak resonance of the voices in the background, sometimes leading to serious acoustic interruptions. It compensates somewhat through the modularity of the decor that allows for rapid reconfiguration under the metamorphoses of the theater in the theater.

What the Bulgarian playwright distilled with great art from the tragic thrill of Shakespearean theater is fear. A fear that springs not from the encounter with the mysterium tremendum, infused by the appearance of the ghost of the former king, but from the dense and overwhelming terror established in the second part. If the first act dragged on, unnecessarily prolonging itself around insignificant, sometimes banal and unimaginative lines, this time we feel the cold, anesthetizing conciseness of torture. Sebastian Lupu, in the terrifying role of the Executioner, seems to control both the instruments of torture and the souls of those who fell during interrogations. There would have been room here for an intensification, an essentialization of the madness of torture, of the bloody delirium. The abysses of the human become more visible through the confrontation of extremes: fear and candor, moral guilt and innocence, unspeakable and angelic, denunciation and honor. First of all, the visual metaphor of the floral veil that ominously covers, like a shroud, the entire troupe of actors accused of treason and attempted murder is impressive. Then, under torture, the Prompter betrays, and Henric mystifies the facts, creating a false scenario of betrayal, to the liking of the torturers. Through a similar modus operandi, the show trials of the Stalinist years were carried out in reality, preceded by investigations of a shocking brutality.

The shadow theatre conceived in the spotlight, in the scene of Charles's investigation, mixes effects that amplify the tension towards the final theatrical blow. Everything now focuses on a single question: "Why are kings unable to do what a single actor does?" To a certain extent, the interrogative equation at the end of the play could be resolved by another observation of Thomas Ostermeier, due to the immersion in the contradictions of the human condition: "And the truth is that we, humans, are capable of everything, of everything that is higher and everything that is lower." In return, he, the actor, can tell the truth, declare it ritosh until his last breath, in the shadow of his double and his masks.

Note. Article published in the Familia Cultural Magazine, series V, year 55 (155), no. 5 (642), May 2019