A Confession

With stops and starts, with fury and serenity, with tremendous effort and chronic devastation, Glissando has come together in its final form. And as it did, as I stood there watching it (I can never sit while directing a play), I had a profound realization: throughout the entire process I had censored myself – my methods, my impulses, my habits. This, perhaps, explains the infrequent blog entries. 

I hid nothing during Noir, because it was that kind of play, one that began at the moment the main character had nothing left to lose. I’ve never made a secret of the kind of transference that happens between me and the characters during a play. I call it transference, but it’s more of an obsession: they’re made of my thoughts and my dilemmas, but they’re better than me because they have the courage to say everything, without fear of consequences.

I am (in retrospect) convinced that I started writing plays all those decades ago in Romania, because I felt that silence, and the constant manufacturing of lies necessary for survival, were going to choke me in the end. I wrote plays to be able to breathe, and place the truth in the mouths of those talking heads who raged, and loved, and feared with the best of them, while never being me. They spoke, as I kept silent.

It is very difficult for me to differentiate between characters and actors. This is a problem, since people are sometimes more surprising than I write them. Or less splendid. I’ve written on this subject before, and I found similar echoes only in the people who do exactly what I do: academics turned loose on the stage (see Mary Zimmerman and the Metamorphoses conversations), directors not quite of “the theatre world,” but not exactly assimilated by academia either. The ones who, like me, hesitate to take a good look at the people they work with (mostly their students) for fear that what they see may not reveal itself to anyone else. I sound like my Chehov: “There are too many words, I’m drowning in words.” 

What I mean is that what I do is both dangerous and beautiful. Beautiful because the precision work we do – the attention to detail – creates a sense of harmony. Dangerous because the relationships forged during a production are more honest, a little more intense than the ones established in the classroom (for the most part, I too work with my students). I see the raised eyebrows, and I’m pretty used by now to the smiles that accompany oblique questions regarding the nature of this camaraderie. But I sleep well at night knowing that truly professional lines are never crossed, and that only the people who conceive of theatre as light entertainment think that you can stage a play without getting close to the actors. The danger, really, consists in the unbearable honesty that’s involved. The mask I have perfected for my teaching disappears almost completely in rehearsal. This is why the people I work with always remember their work with the Milena Group. Sometimes a year passes by, sometimes five, or seven, or ten. In the end, I hear back from all of them and in that moment, in that looking-back – a kind of nostalgic inventory they go through, invariably – I know that what I do is justified, that the unspeakable intensity of these productions communicates somewhere in the distance, in a territory that extends well beyond the physical stage.

And yet, during the making of Glissando, I have censored myself repeatedly. In a way, the play demanded it. All those revelations, all that crying, all that unrequited love the characters experience and talk about, had to have an impact on the cast. Small existentialist crises erupted one after the other, followed by larger ones. I often saw the smallness of the incident (a year from now will any of this matter?) but said nothing to contradict expectations, thinking that even small-scale, real-life suffering might contribute to the emotional range of the character. 

Often, I had to change the way I work – directing in narrower and narrower circles, letting things go in the beginning, establishing large patterns of movement or behavior for certain scenes, only to focus on more and more details as the days went by. I believe in fractures and interruptions, in taking scenes apart while they unfold, in bringing actors back to the moment of the deviation. It kills me to let a rehearsal go on and not focus on the moment that needs work at the moment when that work is needed. But not every actor works like that (only the people I work with repeatedly are used to this fractured rhythm, and the actors I worked with in Romania), so to accommodate other ways of inhabiting characters, I stopped interrupting scenes. The consequence: certain characters took shape faster, emerged fully-formed, but certain scenes took longer to perfect. Some are still evolving. I don’t regret trying a different method of directing, but I can’t lie: it felt foreign, uncomfortable.

There were many emotional shifts during the making of Glissando. There were times when I’d wait the entire day for the rehearsal (my refuge) only to be met with slight resentment (“I have so many other things to do!”) and have to swallow the disappointment, and smile, and focus only on the play, the only thing that matters. 

I get it. Sometimes this is only my refuge, no one else’s. By the time we meet in the evening, everyone has had a full day of living, with the whole mess that “living” implies: tedious or exhilarating jobs, belligerent lovers, impossible tasks, money worries. And I would like to say, “Listen, so have I. I too have a difficult task, and people who expect me to solve every daily tragedy, and money worries, and emotional upheavals. And you are all here because you believe in what we do, because you wanted to work with me, and because being on the stage helps you cope with all this living. Why not enjoy it?” I don’t say it. I say it here, still with much hesitation, because there’s always a moment in a Chehov play, when everyone confesses to everything. ”This is what I feel. This is my confession.” It would be dishonest not to confess.

But then there are days like today when everything comes together, when I see the beauty and potential of every scene, when I look at the graceful movements of the women who walk…no, glide on the stage, ethereal; when I look at the uncanny connection that Chehov and Emma have formed; when I see clearly the separation between his reality and his imagination; and I see her struggling to inhabit both…oh, Emma, I know you so well, I feel what you feel, I know who you are…and I think, what does it matter – the small obstacles, the adjustments, the forgotten masks? There is grace and beauty here, and every character in this play speaks a truth that is mine, and I feel an unspeakable sense of freedom and detachment, as if everything tense, and tedious and ugly (all that living) never existed.

I feel (uncensored) affection for these people who’ve decided to spend their Saturday in rehearsal, and, as I watch them pack to go back to their lives, I know that I’ll never be able to tell them just how much affection, for fear they might find it a little scary. A little odd. 

I can’t help it. A truth forms in my mind. A character utters it, on paper. Then an actor catches it, mid-air, toys with it, tries its every possibility until the best one presents itself. Magically, the actor and the character become one. My characters. My actors. My obsessions. They join together in a dance of sorts, an alternation of attraction (truth) and frustration (censorship). They find their rhythm and I find myself standing before another play that’s taken shape while no one else was watching, and I think that I am the luckiest being in the world, and I think that other people’s lives must be so boring. Chehov does this to me, to us, makes us oscillate, erratically, between disappointment and gratitude, between sadness and joy, between a sense of belonging and utter, unalterable, loneliness.

This is the play. These are the actors. And we are almost there.