Drama And Music In Russia

Press, Volume XCVIII, Issue 28822, 17 February 1959, Page 15

Drama And Music In Russia

[By BRUCE MASON} n ; The greatest figure in Russian theatre of this century is Constantin Stanislavsky, who died shortly before the last war. His system of production, his method, as it is now called, has encircled the world, and no theatrical production anywhere which has its origins in European literature can be presented without some vestige of his influence. His most notable disciple now is not a Russian, but an American, Lee Strasburg, whose actor’s workshop in New York is founded on Stanislavsky’s ideas; graduates of the calibre of Marlon Brando, James Dean, Julie Harris, and Susan Strasburg, . the director’s daughter and the first Stage Anne Frank, have made the method a world-wide theatrical symbol. Thus, when 1 found myself at the Moscow Arts Theatre, the same theatre where Stanislavsky himself first produced the plays of Chehkov, I confess to an anticipatory awe, as of one assisting it high ritual. Moscow theatres, I may say in advance, are almost all sumptuous and huge, excessively ornamented and gilded in the style of the last TSars. They have as many as five circles, great glittering horseshoes which start at one side of the proscenium and end at the other. The Moscow Arts is austere by comparison, pleasantly darkbrown in colour, with the texture of polished wood; there are only two galleries and they do not come to stage level, but begin as banks of seats set somewhat back from the stage in our manner. No gilt, no pomp, not even a hammer and a sickle (everywhere rise de riguer) simply a stylised dove, as I took it to be, on the curtain, though more knowledgeable friends at home tell me it is a seagull, after the Chehkov play of that name. All I can •ay is that it looked like a dove. Ensemble Perfect w The first play I saw at the Moscow Arts Theatre was Chehkov’s “The Three Sisters,” which I knew well in English, had once Played in, and had seen a potable production of it some years ago in London. The perfection of the ensemble playing is impossible to describe. Every smallest part was played by a consummate actor; one felt that no-one else could so <et into the skin of his character, and the atmosphere this •uperb company engendered in the •udience was completely envelop- . o°® was no longer oneself; even ® a foreign language, I found toyself drawn across the footlights •jd into the very texture of the gay. Until, that is, the last act The Stanislavsky technique dejtolil I, to put it crudely, on an fetor living his part; and this in gin is based on the assumption w hat is actual is also real jpe report of a theatrical conatoence in session while I was in

Moscow urged theatrical workers constantly to strive for “the theatre of actuality.” But theatrical reality is not the same as everyday actuality, as I was here to discover. In the last act of “The Three Sisters,” the regiment of soldiery who have been quartered nearby come to take their leave. Masha is deeply in love with an officer, Vershinin, and his departure is like death to her. They embrace, and at this very moment, I saw tears start to her eyes. What could be more actual? What more triumphant vindication of the Method? Yet was it real? Not to me; all I could think of was the actress and how clever she was, and in this speculation, I came to myself, and was no longer absorbed. Grief I felt none. The point is, of course, that the theatre can only suggest reality, because we all know that it is quite false to reality outside, and we are only prepared to surrender to mass hypnotism, which is what first-rate theatre is, if too many demands are not made on our credulity. For example, I recall the exact scene described above in the London production, when Margaret Leighton played Masha. At the moment of parting, she clasped a pillow to her breast and turned away from the audience. I have never seen a house so moved; the sounds of choking grief could be heard all round the audience.

In London, the tears were in the house; in Moscow they were on the stage, and we remained, to my observation at least, dry-eyed. In that simple incident, I find a basic flaw in the Stanislavsky technique; the actual is not always the real, and the real must often be implied to be apprehended. We saw several other productions at the Arts Theatre, all distinguished by the utmost subtlety in ensemble playing.

Realistic Opera We also attended a good deal of opera, as being more immediately accessible to us, and while we greatly admired the sumptuousness of the mounting, such as we have never seen here, or, come to that, in few other places, the quality of singing was not exceptional, and indeed, in “Don Carlos” in Leningrad, and “Carmen” in Kiev, it was not good enough for us to last the evening Nothing is left to the imagination in Russian operatic production; everything must be tangibly real; real storms, real thunder, real statues, real leaves on real trees. One . sometimes ached for the chance to fill in some of the details for them, to be considered worthy of respect, and not simply an externally recording eye. Orchestral playing, however, was everywhere magnificent, and conducting admirable. Ballet, we saw only once, “Swan Lake,” of course, at Maryinsky Theatre in Leningrad. The performance began at 12.30 am. one Sunday, and we were rather

nastily triumphant that we had pushed an East German delegation out of one of the front boxes. They muttered as they left. Our interpreter remained calm. “Yes, they are Communists,” she said, “but a few years ago, they were Fascists. You have seen what they did to Leningrad. You were our allies and helped defeat Fascism. So: we get the best scats today.” It was a good performance, decorated in the style of 1912, with huge baroque sets, and vast Gothic castles in the distance. The corps de ballet was splendid, functioning with the precisely articulated precision of a centipede; the Swan Princess was a fine dancer, alternating between a refined austerity as Odette and an equally refined malevolence as, Odile—not better, I would say, than leading soloists at Covent Garden. As for Prince Siegfried, I had always heard of the outstanding virility of Russian male dancers, but this Prince, in blue velvet and high heeled silver shoes, a look of fatuous nostalgia fixed permanently on his face, would have been quite at home at Covent Garden.

But he is evidently not typical, because I saw in England on television a Russian guest star dancing Prince Albrecht in “Giselle,” and he was all that has been said of Russian dancers; virile, noble and deeply moving. Concerts We went to several concerts, including one or two evenings which we would call variety, in Moscow’s plush, and to my taste, sugary Tchaikovsky Hall The concert consisted of the celebrated Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto No. 1 sandwiched between two works of Shostakovich, a choral work of rather empty rhetoric, with a charming boys’ choir to sing the words, and his 11th Symphony, an illustrated pageant of the 1905 Revolution. I thought it admirable film or pageant music, but meagre in purely musical qualities. The Tchaikovsky Concerto seemed to remind everyone how magnificently' the young Texan pianist, Van Cliburn, had played it a few weeks before. He made a sensation in Moscow; people went hysterical at the chance of venerating something American without having to be ashamed of it. Our interpreter, who also briefly interpreted for Cliburn, told me that simple people used to stop him in the street, and ask him to bless their children. It seems, that in a few weeks of playing and spreading an ingratiating Texan charm, he did more for American-Soviet relations than half a dozen summit conferences. One word more about audiences. The Russians live, breathe and have their being in music. Beyond the reach of ideology or “correctness,” it speaks to them-directly, and .they respond to it as directly, from their hearts. (To be Continued)