Part I
Introduction
1 On Vakhtangov’s Work and Writings
Prologue
Russian-Armenian director Yevgeny Bogrationovich Vakhtangov was born on February 13, 1883, in the Russian provincial city of Vladikavkaz (currently the capital of the Russian Republic of North Ossetia-Alania—the neighboring region of the ongoing Russian–Georgian and Chechen conflicts). Like Konstantin Treplev from Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull, nineteen-year-old Vakhtangov arranged his first theatre outdoors; an open stage merged with the mountainous landscape of the Caucasus. Vakhtangov’s production of Chekhov’s short comedies “began before dark and ended by the time the sun set down” (Vakhtangova 1959: 334). It breathed in unison with the natural rhythms.
Vakhtangov’s Heritage and Contemporary Theatrical Practices
In 1955, Michael Chekhov (1891–1955), an actor still considered as Russia’s greatest twentieth-century talent, delivered one of his final lectures to a group of Hollywood actors. The subject of the lecture, entitled ‘On Five Great Russian Directors’, was personal to Chekhov. In it he spoke of his mentors, contemporaries, colleagues, and friends: Konstantin Stanislavsky (1863–1938), Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko (1858–1943), Alexander Tairov (1885–1950), Vsevolod Meyerhold (1874–1940), and Yevgeny Vakhtangov. He spoke of them in that particular order, saving Vakhtangov for last, thereby placing him at the top of the pyramid:
Now, this combination of Nemirovich and Stanislavsky was also taken by Vakhtangov. He always found, very easily too [like Nemirovich], this main line, this scaffolding [of the performance], and he took from Stanislavsky the human, warm-heart[ed] feelings, emotions, atmosphere – brought them together. Vakhtangov was, as it were, a vessel into which all the positive things came. Not that he robbed them [Nemirovich and Stanislavsky] of their good qualities. It was his genius, Vakhtangov’s genius; he just quickly, naturally swallowed it, digested it. So, he was a kind of vessel, as I say, where all the positive things of this period of the Russian theatre of which I am talking were accumulated, amalgamated in his own way, in Vakhtangov’s way.
… And these things, coming from Stanislavsky, Nemirovich, Tairov, Meyerhold, apparently can be combined. And Vakhtangov did combine them; he brought them together – these extreme and seemingly irreconcilable things – he brought them together … Vakhtangov showed us that everything can be brought together, amalgamated and a new product – very beautiful, very wonderful, very deep, and very light, and very mathematically clever and humanly bright – it can be done.
(Vinyl audio record; Bakhrushin State Central Theatre Museum; HB 4904/17)
That statement Michael Chekhov made more than half a century ago still rings true today. Out of the five great Russian directors of the first half of the twentieth century, Vakhtangov remains the most relevant. Vakhtangov’s work considerably affected twentieth-century theatrical practices. The concepts that today’s theatre artists continue to experiment with, explore, and consider were all approached by Vakhtangov in an unorthodox and highly individual way. Moreover, many of the paradoxes and dilemmas of the theatrical art were resolved by Vakhtangov in the final two years of his short creative life.
In his 1922 production of Carlo Gozzi’s1 Princess Turandot Vakhtangov brought an actor’s point of view on his or her character into the foreground, foreshadowing the Brechtian principle of “alienation.” In Turandot, as well as in other productions he directed at his own studio, Vakhtangov interpreted the problem of an actor’s improvisational freedom versus formal discipline, and paved the way for Jerzy Grotowski (1933–1999).2 In his productions, Vakhtangov also anticipated Grotowski in his approach to such theatrical aspects as ‘act’ and ‘ritual’.
The Dybbuk, directed by Vakhtangov at the Habima Studio, made the critics speak of the Theatre of Cruelty before the time of Antonin Artaud (1896–1948). For example, Russian critic and scholar Nikolai Volkov3 wrote, in 1922, “In The Dybbuk Vakhtangov demonstrated how cruel his talent was, how dear the beauty of ugliness was to his soul” (Volkov 1922: 20). Contemporary Russian scholar, Vladislav Ivanov, wrote on The Dybbuk, “Vakhtangov’s cosmic ecstasies did not just anticipate Antonin Artaud’s ‘cosmic trance.’ They also had an indisputable advantage before the fantasies and incantations of the French theatre’s poet, as they came fully armed with theatrical means, realized in the art’s matter” (1999: 96).
Michael Chekhov, according to his own admission, took notes of Vakhtangov’s talks and rehearsals; he was influenced by Vakhtangov’s concept of rhythm and gesture. The influence in this case was mutual, as Vakhtangov arrived at some of his own conclusions studying the work of Chekhov, the actor.
Edward Gordon Craig (1872–1966) and Max Reinhardt (1873–1943) praised Vakhtangov’s productions in the press.4 Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) and Jerzy Grotowski carefully studied Vakhtangov’s heritage. Grotowski, who trained in Moscow under Vakhtangov’s disciple Yuri Zavadsky (1894–1977), frequently mentioned Vakhtangov in his lectures. Peter Brook saw the revival of Princess Turandot in Moscow.5 Among those who feature Vakhtangov in their writings are Lee Strasberg (1901– 1982), Eugenio Barba, and David Mamet. One way or another, through agreement or disagreement, direct or indirect influence, Vakhtangov’s heritage is present in the works of these masters. As for Vakhtangov’s elder colleagues and mentors, such as Konstantin Stanislavsky, Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, and Vsevolod Meyerhold—all of them acknowledged Vakhtangov’s outstanding contributions to the art of theatre, as well as his influence on their own work.6
Because of Vakhtangov’s lack of interest in theories not supported in practice, his own theoretical conclusion always followed the creation of a practical model. In his final productions, staged within the last two years of his short life, Vakhtangov created the practical model for his method of fantastic realism. As for the method itself, Vakhtangov did not have time to write it down, or to explain it fully. The key texts on fantastic realism, featured in the sourcebook, such as Discussions with Students (April 1922) and All Saints’ Notes (March 1921), provide us with a limited understanding of Vakhtangov’s concept. This introduction is a partial reconstruction of Vakhtangov’s method of fantastic realism, based on his own writings, memoirs by the colleagues, audience recollections, critical reviews and scholarly works on Vakhtangov, and my experience of training at the Vakhtangov School in Moscow, as well as my own research and practices. Last, but not least, this reconstruction would not be possible if not for my fortune to work directly with two of Vakhtangov’s students: Vera L’vova (1898–1985) and, my mentor in theatre, Aleksandra Remizova (1903–1989).
Vakhtangov’s Theory of Creative Perception
Vakhtangov and the Stanislavsky System
Anyone writing on the Stanislavsky System is bound to encounter one significant difficulty: the theory, as outlined in Stanislavsky’s writings, was seldom followed in teaching practices. This is true of the two original and most trusted disciples of Stanislavsky’s: his close friend and associate, Leopold Sulerzhitsky (1872–1916), and Sulerzhitsky’s student Yevgeny Vakhtangov. Out of all directors and teachers associated with the Moscow Art Theatre (MAT),7 Stanislavsky only considered these two leaders capable of surpassing Nemirovich-Danchenko and himself at the MAT’s helm.8 Both Sulerzhitsky and Vakhtangov taught Stanislavsky’s technique at the First Studio of the MAT. Vakhtangov, who became extremely popular as both a director and teacher outside of the MAT, gave himself generously to numerous Moscow theatre collectives. By doing so, Vakhtangov often incurred the wrath of both Stanislavsky and Sulerzhitsky.
Leopold Sulerzhitsky died in 1916, and Vakhtangov outlived him by only six years—he died on May 29, 1922, at the age of thirty-nine. Later that year Stanislavsky established the MAT School. With both Sulerzhitsky and Vakhtangov gone, Stanislavsky turned to the third and only remaining teacher of his technique who he trusted: Nikolai Demidov.9 Stanislavsky’s letter to Demidov, written on the occasion, featured bitter words on Vakhtangov:
I am doomed!
I worked with Vakhtangov; he gave me a lot of trouble. They did not recognize him, tried to sack him from the theatre; at the end—he was lured to teach in one place, promised to direct at another; he worked nights at the Habima Studio; as for me—in his entire life he only found 2 evenings to work together on Salieri.10
Whatever I do, whatever I prepare—they tear it from my fingers, and I am left with nothing.
(Stanislavsky 1999: 54)
This passionate cry was meant as a reproach to Demidov whose initial reception of Stanislavsky’s offer to head the MAT School was restrained. Demidov responded to Stanislavsky’s plea and accepted the position. The results he achieved with the students made Stanislavsky proclaim, two years later, “Our school, prepared by Demidov, must carry God in it” (Stanislavsky 1999: 167). As for Demidov himself, in his book Actor Types, he made the following peculiar confession:
If Konstantin Sergeyevich [Stanislavsky] did practice pedagogy, he only did so in the course of rehearsals, in passing: it was done to help the actor bring to life a particular moment of the role. He never taught School—there was no time. His students taught it, starting with Sulerzhitsky and Vakhtangov. For Stanislavsky it was simply impossible to perform consistent and regular control over results achieved by the methods he proposed, as well as the outcomes of the program as a whole.
As for the teachers’ work, sometimes it brought good results, sometimes bad … Why?
Perhaps, because one teacher applied their talent to the “system,” another—did not.
Somehow, it came as a matter of fact that, in the case of a teacher’s failure, no one ever asked the question: perhaps, the imperfection of the method is to blame?
And in the case of success, no one ever asked: perhaps, the teacher, except for using the established methods, also used some other methods of their own, sometimes without noticing it?
(Demidov 2004a: 392–393)
Alexander Adashev (1871–1934), a MAT character actor, organized a private acting school in Moscow, where Vakhtangov studied from August 1909 to March 1911. The MAT’s leading actors, such as Vasily Kachalov (1875–1948) and Vasily Luzhsky (1869–1931), taught at the Adashev School. Even at the most progressive Russian acting schools or conservatories of the period, students spent most of their time studying parts. The teacher, instead of providing training for specific skills and qualities essential to an actor, would see his or her duty as imposing their own way of acting particular roles on the students. Vsevolod Meyerhold, who trained at the Philharmonic Society’s Drama School under Nemirovich-Danchenko, wrote down the following quotation from the French actress Rachel in his 1897 student notebook: “For those with no talent, Conservatory will polish their facilities and make them decent actors; it will kill every talent, however, as it forces them to act its own way” (Maikov 1896: 3, cited in Meyerhold 1998: 135).
Among the Adashev School teachers, Sulerzhitsky stood out because of his involvement with the newly developed Stanislavsky System. The starting point of Stanislavsky’s methodological journey was based in the organic creative nature. The organic principles of the creative process conducive to revealing an actor’s creative individuality—such was the platform Stanislavsky shared with Sulerzhitsky. Vakhtangov, a natural-born director and actor possessing the inborn feeling of truth, accepted Sulerzhitsky’s principles as unshakable; they were in perfect harmony with Vakhtangov’s own genetic makeup as an artist.
The Creative Individuality
In March 1911, Vakhtangov, who served as prototype for the student Nazvanov, the narrator of Stanislavsky’s An Actor’s Work (also known as An Actor Prepares), made his near stenographic record of Stanislavsky’s first talk to the MAT youth. Two other talks followed; in Vakhtangov’s notes we find the Stanislavsky System’s goal, as defined by Stanislavsky himself: “to cultivate in students, abilities and qualities which help them to free their creative individuality—an individuality imprisoned by prejudices and clichés” (Zakhava 1930: 23).
So, what is this mysterious creative individuality, not featured in Stanislavsky’s major writings, and, most importantly, what are the means of getting in touch with it? Leopold Sulerzhitsky had this to say on the subject:
All the intense work of the contemporary director … concentrates in helping the actor to discover his own self or, as they put it, help him “express” his personality to its inmost depth, and separate in his work what actually represents his true individuality from everything generic and theatrical, from the so called “tone.” Although one actor’s tone is unlike the other actors’, it has nothing to do with their true individuality. Several beloved “tones” (this actor has two, the other—three or six) are always in every actor’s arsenal. At times the actor is empty, the role does not want to submit; yet they have to speak and act it all the same. In this case, some “tone,” or a combination of tones, immediately comes to the rescue. This conventional manner, this tone can be quite pleasant in some actors, and, in the majority of cases, the press and the audience take it for individuality, as it differs with every actor; at the same time, its inner makeup is always the same.
In actuality, this acted mannerism is the fiercest enemy of the individualized experience.
(Sulerzhitsky 1970: 319)
Sulerzhitsky’s speeches and writings contain only hints of the organic means that can be utilized in order to inspire a true individualized experience in an actor. And, yet, Sulerzhitsky maintained that without this individualized emotional experience, an actor couldn’t transform, or live creatively. Unless an actor engages in this highly personal an...