Press: “Minor marital crimes. Eric Emmanuel Schmitt small marital crimes translation from French by Irina Prokhorova and Vladimir Alekseev Irina Prokhorova and

Eric-Emmanuel SCHMITT

MINOR MARITAL ACTIONS

Characters

LISA

GILLES

Night. Apartment.

You can hear the sound of a key in the lock and the bolts being unlocked.

The door opens, revealing two shadows in a halo of yellowish light from the corridor.

A woman enters the room, a man with a suitcase in his hand remains behind her, on the threshold, as if hesitant to enter.

Lisa quickly begins to light all the lamps one after another, she can’t wait to give light to the scene of action.

Once the apartment is lit, she opens her arms, showing off the interior as if it were a set for a play.

LISA. Well, how?

He shakes his head. She is worried and insists.

LISA. Take your time! Focus.

He carefully and thoroughly examines all the available furniture, then lowers his head. He looks unhappy and depressed.

LISA. Nothing?

GILLES. Nothing.

However, this answer does not satisfy her. She puts the suitcase on the floor, closes the door, takes him by the arm and leads him to the chair.

GILLES. It seems a little worn out to me.

LISA. I offered to change the upholstery a thousand times, but you always answered: either me or the upholsterer.

Gilles sits down in a chair. A grimace of pain appears on his face.

GILLES. Not only does the upholstery need to be changed, but the springs seem to need to be changed too...

LISA. Spring of intelligence.

GILLES. What, what?

LISA. You think that a chair is only useful when it is uncomfortable. And you call the spring that is currently cutting into your left buttock the spring of intellect, the injection of thought, the peak of vigilance!

GILLES. Who am I: a pseudo-intellectual or a genuine fakir?

LISA. Better move to the desk.

He obediently follows her advice, but the chair distrusts him, and he tentatively places his hand on it. As he sits down, a metallic groan is heard. He sighs.

GILLES. Do I have a theory about squeaky chairs too?

LISA. Of course. You forbid me to oil the springs. For you, every creak is an alarm. And the rusty stool is an active participant in your battle against general relaxation.

GILLES. It seems to me that I have acquired theories for all occasions?

LISA. Almost. You can’t stand it when I put things in order on your desk, and you call the primordial chaos in your papers “the order of historical storage.” You think that books without dust are like reading in a waiting room. You think that bread crumbs are not garbage, because we eat bread. And just recently he assured me that the crumbs are tears of bread, which suffers when we cut it. Hence the conclusion: sofas and beds are full of sorrow. You never replace burnt-out light bulbs on the pretext that you should observe mourning for the extinguished light for several days. Fifteen years of marriage education have taught me to reduce all your theories to a single, but fundamental thesis: do nothing in the house!

He smiles a soft, apologetic smile.

GILLES. Life with me is pure hell, right?

She turns to him in surprise.

LISA. You touched me with your question.

GILLES. And what will be the answer?

She doesn't answer. As he continues to wait, she ends up giving in with shy meekness:

LISA. Of course, this is hell, but... in a certain way... this hell suits me.

GILLES. Why?

LISA. It's warm...

GILLES. It's always warm in hell.

LISA. And I have a place there...

GILLES. Oh wise Lucifer...

Pacified by her confessions, he directs his attention to the objects around him.

GILLES. It's strange... I feel like I'm a newborn, but an adult. By the way, how many days?

LISA. Fifteen…

GILLES. Already?

LISA. And it seemed to me that time was passing so slowly.

GILLES. For me, it's fast. (To myself) I woke up in the hospital this morning, my mouth was wet, as if I had just left the dentist, my skin was crawling, there was a bandage on my head, there was a heaviness in my skull. “What am I doing here? Am I in an accident? But I'm alive." An awakening that brings relief. I touched my body as if it had just been returned to me. I told you...

LISA (corrects him). You!

GILLES (continues). Did I tell you about the room with the nurse?

LISA. Room with a nurse?

GILLES. The nurse enters. "I'm glad to see you with with open eyes, Mr. Andari." I turn to see who she is talking to and see that I am completely alone. She again: “How are you feeling, Mr. Andari?” And she looks so confident. Then I gather all my strength to overcome fatigue and answer her at least something. When she leaves, I climb onto the bed, reach for the temperature sheet - and there is this name: Gilles Andari. “Why do they call me that? Where does this misconception come from? Nothing in me responds to Andari. And at the same time, I can’t give myself any other name; only some childhood nicknames wander in my memory - Mickey, Winnie, Teddy Bear, Fantasio, Snow White. I realize that I don’t know who I am. Lost my memory. Memory of yourself. But I still remember perfectly well the Latin declensions, the multiplication table, the conjugation of Russian verbs, and the Greek alphabet. I repeat them to myself. This encourages me. The rest will come back too. It can’t be that, while memorizing multiplication by eight—the hardest thing, everyone knows—you can’t remember who you are? I'm trying to stop panic. At some point, I even manage to convince myself that my memory is being compressed by a bandage that is too tight on my head; Once you remove it, everything will return to its place. Doctors and nurses come one after another. I tell them about memory loss. They listen seriously. I explain to them my theory of the compression bandage. They don't dispute my optimism. A few days later, another nurse, a beautiful woman, without a uniform, enters the room. “Cool, new nurse! - I tell myself. “But why is she in civilian clothes?” She doesn't say anything, just looks at me and smiles, takes my hand, strokes my cheek. The question is brewing: was this nanny sent to me to perform special, specific functions, “serving suffering males”, the nanny is a member of the brigade of prostitutes. But then the nurse in civilian clothes announces that she is my wife. (Turns to Lisa) Are you really convinced of this?

LISA. I'm convinced.

GILLES. And you're not part of the special services team?

LISA. You must say "you" to me.

GILLES. You don't... you don't...

LISA (interrupts him). I'm your wife.

GILLES. So much the better. (Pause) And you... are you sure that we are at home?

LISA. Sure.

He looks around the room he's in again.

GILLES. Beware of hasty conclusions, I will say, however, that I like my wife more than my apartment.

Both laugh. There must be confusion in Gilles' humor. He is suffering.

GILLES. So what are we going to do?

LISA. Tonight? Relax and we will live as before.

GILLES. What will we do if my memory doesn’t return?

LISA (alarmed). Will definitely return.

GILLES. My optimism is at its limit, and the pills have run out.

LISA. She will definitely return.

GILLES. For two weeks now they have been telling me that it’s enough to experience shock... I saw you and didn’t recognize you. You brought me an album with photographs, and it was as if I was flipping through a calendar. Coming here is like coming to a hotel. (Sorrowful) Everything is foreign to me. There are noises, colors, shapes, smells, but everything is meaningless and does not add up to a single whole. There is a huge world full of life and internal interweavings, but I wander in it, not finding a role for myself. Everything has density, but not me. My Self does not exist.

She sits next to him and takes his hands in hers, trying to calm him down.

LISA. The shock will not be long in coming. Cases of permanent amnesia are extremely rare.

GILLES. As far as I can judge myself, I belong to the category of guys with “rare” reactions. Isn't it? (Pleadingly) What are you going to do...

GILLES. Pardon me?

LISA(cheerful). I'm quoting you. Since any cliche makes you angry, you complement the hackneyed expression in such a way as to make it simply idiotic. As soon as someone exclaims, “A quiet angel flew by,” you always add: “There is a lot to do at the zoo,” or: “And quietly farted.”

She laughs. But not him.

His own old jokes don't warm him up.

GILLES. There is something to be despondent about.

LISA. Yes.

Gilles' disappointment causes Lisa to burst into amusement.

GILLES. You guys had a lot of fun together. But an outsider liked this humor less. (Pause) Today this outsider is me.

Realizing that she was offending him, Lisa became serious.

GILLES. Where did my accident happen?

Lisa quickly answers:

LISA. There.

She takes him by the hand and leads him to the foot of the wooden stairs leading to the mezzanine floor.

LISA. While going down the stairs, you turned around, made an awkward movement, lost your balance and hit the back of your head on this beam.

Gilles studies the scene of the incident, which does not bring back any memories. Sighs.

GILLES. Perhaps he scared you?

LISA. You were without signs of life. (Her hands are shaking) When you turned around, we were talking. I said something that surprised you, made you laugh, or... I don’t know what. You wouldn't have fallen if I had been silent. I feel guilty. It's because of me.

Gilles looks at her intently.

GILLES. How scary it is...

LISA. What?

GILLES. Don't remember.

Feeling this confession, Lisa begins to sob. He holds her close to comfort her. But instead of sharing her feelings, he continues to reason.

GILLES. Am I a bungler?

LISA. No.

GILLES. Have I fallen before?

LISA. Never.

GILLES. And you?

LISA. I do. Several times. You see! I should have been in your place. Oh, if I could be in your place...

GILLES. Would you feel better?

LISA. Yes.

Mechanically continuing to console Lisa, he cradles her and strokes her head.

GILLES. Well, well... it's just an accident... you can't be to blame for the accident...

As she gradually begins to calm down, he lets go of her and sits down at his desk on the swivel chair, making a full rotation on it.

GILLES. In essence, I became like the hero of my novels, Inspector James Durty: investigating a crime scene.

LISA. Crimes? What other crime?

GILLES. That's just what they say. However, who knows whether some kind of crime actually happened here?

LISA. Please stop these games.

GILLES. Entering here, I did not remember anything, but I had the feeling that something serious had happened here. What was that? Rave? Intuition? Return of memory?

LISA. The influence of the profession. You write dark detective stories. You love fear, suspicion and assumptions that the worst is yet to come.

GILLES. Ahead? It seemed to me that it had already happened.

LISA. Therefore, you have changed: before you always said that only the worst awaits us.

GILLES. Am I a pessimist?

LISA. Pessimist in thoughts. Optimist in actions. You live as if you believe in life, but you write as if you don’t believe in it at all.

GILLES. Pessimism remains the privilege of a thinking person.

LISA. Nobody forces you to think.

GILLES. But no one forces you to act.

Again they glared at each other. Like enemies. Everyone would like to say much more, but does not dare.

GILLES. Amnesia is a strange thing. Like an answer to a question you don’t know.

LISA. What question?

GILLES. That's exactly what I'm looking for.

Both don't move. Time has stopped.

LISA. How do you feel?

GILLES. What, what?

LISA. How are you feeling?

GILLES. Pretty bad, so what?

LISA (tense). The fact that your intellect, it seems to me, remains in excellent shape. And it pains me to see how you have no access to memory despite such obvious merits as a polemicist.

Eric-Emmanuel SCHMITT

MINOR MARITAL ACTIONS

Characters

LISA

GILLES

Night. Apartment.

You can hear the sound of a key in the lock and the bolts being unlocked.

The door opens, revealing two shadows in a halo of yellowish light from the corridor.

A woman enters the room, a man with a suitcase in his hand remains behind her, on the threshold, as if hesitant to enter.

Lisa quickly begins to light all the lamps one after another, she can’t wait to give light to the scene of action.

Once the apartment is lit, she opens her arms, showing off the interior as if it were a set for a play.

LISA. Well, how?

He shakes his head. She is worried and insists.

LISA. Take your time! Focus.

He carefully and thoroughly examines all the available furniture, then lowers his head. He looks unhappy and depressed.

LISA. Nothing?

GILLES. Nothing.

However, this answer does not satisfy her. She puts the suitcase on the floor, closes the door, takes him by the arm and leads him to the chair.

GILLES. It seems a little worn out to me.

LISA. I offered to change the upholstery a thousand times, but you always answered: either me or the upholsterer.

Gilles sits down in a chair. A grimace of pain appears on his face.

GILLES. Not only does the upholstery need to be changed, but the springs seem to need to be changed too...

LISA. Spring of intelligence.

GILLES. What, what?

LISA. You think that a chair is only useful when it is uncomfortable. And you call the spring that is currently cutting into your left buttock the spring of intellect, the injection of thought, the peak of vigilance!

GILLES. Who am I: a pseudo-intellectual or a genuine fakir?

LISA. Better move to the desk.

He obediently follows her advice, but the chair distrusts him, and he tentatively places his hand on it. As he sits down, a metallic groan is heard. He sighs.

GILLES. Do I have a theory about squeaky chairs too?

LISA. Of course. You forbid me to oil the springs. For you, every creak is an alarm. And the rusty stool is an active participant in your battle against general relaxation.

GILLES. It seems to me that I have acquired theories for all occasions?

LISA. Almost. You can’t stand it when I put things in order on your desk, and you call the primordial chaos in your papers “the order of historical storage.” You think that books without dust are like reading in a waiting room. You think that bread crumbs are not garbage, because we eat bread. And just recently he assured me that the crumbs are tears of bread, which suffers when we cut it. Hence the conclusion: sofas and beds are full of sorrow. You never replace burnt-out light bulbs on the pretext that you should observe mourning for the extinguished light for several days. Fifteen years of marriage education have taught me to reduce all your theories to a single, but fundamental thesis: do nothing in the house!

He smiles a soft, apologetic smile.

GILLES. Life with me is pure hell, right?

She turns to him in surprise.

LISA. You touched me with your question.

GILLES. And what will be the answer?

She doesn't answer. As he continues to wait, she ends up giving in with shy meekness:

LISA. Of course, this is hell, but... in a certain way... this hell suits me.

GILLES. Why?

LISA. It's warm...

GILLES. It's always warm in hell.

LISA. And I have a place there...

GILLES. Oh wise Lucifer...

Pacified by her confessions, he directs his attention to the objects around him.

GILLES. It's strange... I feel like I'm a newborn, but an adult. By the way, how many days?

LISA. Fifteen…

GILLES. Already?

LISA. And it seemed to me that time was passing so slowly.

GILLES. For me, it's fast. (To himself) I woke up in the hospital this morning, my mouth was wet, as if I had just left the dentist, my skin was crawling, there was a bandage on my head, there was a heaviness in my skull. “What am I doing here? Am I in an accident? But I

Eric-Emmanuel SCHMITT

MINOR MARITAL ACTIONS

Characters

LISA

GILLES

Night. Apartment.

You can hear the sound of a key in the lock and the bolts being unlocked.

The door opens, revealing two shadows in a halo of yellowish light from the corridor.

A woman enters the room, a man with a suitcase in his hand remains behind her, on the threshold, as if hesitant to enter.

Lisa quickly begins to light all the lamps one after another, she can’t wait to give light to the scene of action.

Once the apartment is lit, she opens her arms, showing off the interior as if it were a set for a play.

LISA. Well, how?

He shakes his head. She is worried and insists.

LISA. Take your time! Focus.

He carefully and thoroughly examines all the available furniture, then lowers his head. He looks unhappy and depressed.

LISA. Nothing?

GILLES. Nothing.

However, this answer does not satisfy her. She puts the suitcase on the floor, closes the door, takes him by the arm and leads him to the chair.

GILLES. It seems a little worn out to me.

LISA. I offered to change the upholstery a thousand times, but you always answered: either me or the upholsterer.

Gilles sits down in a chair. A grimace of pain appears on his face.

GILLES. Not only does the upholstery need to be changed, but the springs seem to need to be changed too...

LISA. Spring of intelligence.

GILLES. What, what?

LISA. You think that a chair is only useful when it is uncomfortable. And you call the spring that is currently cutting into your left buttock the spring of intellect, the injection of thought, the peak of vigilance!

GILLES. Who am I: a pseudo-intellectual or a genuine fakir?

LISA. Better move to the desk.

He obediently follows her advice, but the chair distrusts him, and he tentatively places his hand on it. As he sits down, a metallic groan is heard. He sighs.

GILLES. Do I have a theory about squeaky chairs too?

LISA. Of course. You forbid me to oil the springs. For you, every creak is an alarm. And the rusty stool is an active participant in your battle against general relaxation.

GILLES. It seems to me that I have acquired theories for all occasions?

LISA. Almost. You can’t stand it when I put things in order on your desk, and you call the primordial chaos in your papers “the order of historical storage.” You think that books without dust are like reading in a waiting room. You think that bread crumbs are not garbage, because we eat bread. And just recently he assured me that the crumbs are tears of bread, which suffers when we cut it. Hence the conclusion: sofas and beds are full of sorrow. You never replace burnt-out light bulbs on the pretext that you should observe mourning for the extinguished light for several days. Fifteen years of marriage education have taught me to reduce all your theories to a single, but fundamental thesis: do nothing in the house!

He smiles a soft, apologetic smile.

GILLES. Life with me is pure hell, right?

She turns to him in surprise.

LISA. You touched me with your question.

GILLES. And what will be the answer?

She doesn't answer. As he continues to wait, she ends up giving in with shy meekness:

LISA. Of course, this is hell, but... in a certain way... this hell suits me.

GILLES. Why?

LISA. It's warm...

GILLES. It's always warm in hell.

LISA. And I have a place there...

GILLES. Oh wise Lucifer...

Pacified by her confessions, he directs his attention to the objects around him.

GILLES. It's strange... I feel like I'm a newborn, but an adult. By the way, how many days?

LISA. Fifteen…

GILLES. Already?

LISA. And it seemed to me that time was passing so slowly.

GILLES. For me, it's fast. (To myself) I woke up in the hospital this morning, my mouth was wet, as if I had just left the dentist, my skin was crawling, there was a bandage on my head, there was a heaviness in my skull. “What am I doing here? Am I in an accident? But I'm alive." An awakening that brings relief. I touched my body as if it had just been returned to me. I told you...

LISA (corrects him). You!

GILLES (continues). Did I tell you about the room with the nurse?

LISA. Room with a nurse?

GILLES. The nurse enters. “I’m glad to see you with your eyes open, Mr. Andari.” I turn to see who she is talking to and see that I am completely alone. She again: “How are you feeling, Mr. Andari?” And she looks so confident. Then I gather all my strength to overcome fatigue and answer her at least something. When she leaves, I climb onto the bed, reach for the temperature sheet - and there is this name: Gilles Andari. “Why do they call me that? Where does this misconception come from? Nothing in me responds to Andari. And at the same time, I can’t give myself any other name; only some childhood nicknames wander in my memory - Mickey, Winnie, Teddy Bear, Fantasio, Snow White. I realize that I don’t know who I am. Lost my memory. Memory of yourself. But I still remember perfectly well the Latin declensions, the multiplication table, the conjugation of Russian verbs, and the Greek alphabet. I repeat them to myself. This encourages me. The rest will come back too. It can’t be that while you memorize multiplication by eight—the hardest thing, everyone knows—you won’t remember who you are? I'm trying to stop panic. At some point, I even manage to convince myself that my memory is being compressed by a bandage that is too tight on my head; Once you remove it, everything will return to its place. Doctors and nurses come one after another. I tell them about memory loss. They listen seriously. I explain to them my theory of the compression bandage. They don't dispute my optimism. A few days later, another nurse, a beautiful woman, without a uniform, enters the room. “Cool, new nurse! - I tell myself. “But why is she in civilian clothes?” She doesn't say anything, just looks at me and smiles, takes my hand, strokes my cheek. The question is brewing: was this nanny sent to me to perform special, specific functions, “serving suffering males”, the nanny is a member of the brigade of prostitutes. But then the nurse in civilian clothes announces that she is my wife. (Turns to Lisa) Are you really convinced of this?

"Minor marital crimes"

It’s difficult to choose material for a debut. I want to be original, new, unexpected. But Anton Yakovlev was not afraid to take on the most common topic - the relationship between a man and a woman. He turned to the play of the modern playwright E.-E. Schmitt “Small Marital Crimes”, making his own stage version. The range of subjects in art is small; the question is from what angle to look at the problem. And here nothing limits the director's imagination.

It's no secret that people are afraid to look into the future. Of course, everyone wants to know in advance about their successes and victories. But the fear of seeing dreams destroyed always wins. Major disaster can strike too hard by dividing life into “before” and “after”. And it will become especially difficult if we ourselves turn out to be the cause of the tragedy. We are very vigilant about important turns in fate. However, beingware of serious mistakes, we stop noticing those small “crimes” that we commit against loved ones every day. Lies, deceit, and indifference do not destroy well-being suddenly, but gradually undermine it. This lump of falsehood and misunderstanding grows over the years and often crushes the hard-preserved crumbs of family happiness.

He and she are an inexhaustible topic. There is invariably a temptation to get carried away by the event outline, to immerse yourself in descriptions of romantic dates, breakups, etc. But Anton Yakovlev does not need an exciting plot. The director tries to understand the essence of the relationships between the characters, carefully “listening” to each side.

Gilles and Lisa lived together for more than ten years and accumulated enough mutual grievances and claims. The play is built on a continuous confrontation between two people who are disappointed in each other. Everyone wants to have a perfect life partner. Lisa needs a great lover who would accompany her shopping when he is not busy working on another painting or detective story. And Gilles was tired of enduring Lisa’s jealousy and stumbling upon the wine bottles she had carefully hidden. At the same time, he does not at all try to find out the reason for his wife’s dangerous hobby. Gilles simply throws reproaches in her face with disgust. Gilles needs to know how his wife treats him, and therefore he pretends that he lost his memory after falling down the stairs. And Lisa takes advantage of his “illness” to finally “raise” the man of her dreams. By telling her husband about the past, she gives Gilles abilities that he never had. Deception, in essence, - petty crime. But in the end, Gilles will behave as she should. Both heroes are fixated on themselves, but somehow I don’t want to accuse them of selfishness: after all, these two people suddenly realized that a life full of happiness and pleasure had passed them by. This is where the instinct of self-preservation kicked in, forcing you to forget about everything except yourself and look for the culprit of your troubles in the person who had been nearby for many years.

The conflict between Gilles and Lisa is not reduced to a “kitchen” scandal. The director aestheticizes their psychological drama. Anton Yakovlev's performance is not intended to entertain, but to evoke empathy, because his characters are lost and alone. Lisa, performed by Marina Ignatova, is an elegant, beautiful woman with refined manners and the plasticity of a cat. There is nothing prim and puffy about her. Lisa has a subtle mental organization and knows how to demonstrate her femininity and vulnerability. Evgeniy Baranova's Gilles is a family man, and he makes compromises easier than Lisa, his character is softer. And maybe that’s why he sometimes doesn’t mind feeling sorry for himself. An offended look, a drawn-out answer, a frozen pose, an awkward gesture. Such little things are subtle, but instantly captivate the viewer and endear him to the hero. Lisa and Gilles are different. And the more acute the misunderstanding between them.

Constantly arguing, they lie to each other more and more. It seems that, apart from reproaches, they have nothing in common. (Except for the memories of the day they met. And even those are not particularly romantic. What girl dreams of meeting a young man who vomited on the hood of her car?) A lump of family crimes is growing before our eyes. And the couple’s apartment doesn’t look like a cozy nest at all. Everything is covered with white canvas, “eating up” the space, creating a vacuum in which it is impossible to exist in harmony with oneself and the world. In this monochrome room without doors or windows, you feel squeezed, cornered. Black people on a white background (the heroes are dressed in deep black coats). No shades or halftones. The same irreconcilable confrontation is in the life of Lisa and Gilles, the same monotony that has bothered them over many years, the reluctance to give in, the ability to see only black and white in every situation. The draped walls are covered with quotes from Gilles’s book “Small Marital Crimes,” which tells the story of seemingly happy spouses who actually wish each other death. So the heroes live among these “crimes,” stuck in the vacuum of their problems. Anton Yakovlev and production designer Nikolai Slobodyanik seem to push the actors towards the viewer, not allowing the slightest nuances of the psychological drama of Lisa and Gilles to be “hushed up” among the draperies. Everything is important here: every intonation, every turn. And the actors play with great attention to words and gestures.

But isn't it possible to stop the torment? Despite all the discontent and torment, Lisa is attached to Gilles, and he is attached to her. No matter what insults they inflicted on each other, they divided a good ten years of their lives in half. They feel bad together, and even worse apart. Therefore, when Lisa collects her things, Gilles is even ready to sacrifice his selfish principles, promising to pay more attention to his wife. When she does leave, Gilles will turn into a “broken machine.” Moving like a robot, it will make several circles around the table and fall down without moving. If an important gear disappears, the entire mechanism of his life will fail. But very soon they will be rummaging through piles of Gilles’ manuscripts together, diving headlong into “Small Marital Crimes.” And in the future, probably, Lisa and Gilles will not part, still not yielding to each other in the dispute. Not everything is so simple in our life...

Anton Yakovlev

Source: “Theatrical Petersburg”

The theatrical traditions of Moscow and St. Petersburg intersected in the works of many directors. This happened in the life of Anton Yakovlev. Screenwriting and directing courses, the Moscow Art Theater School, work in cinema... This is in Moscow. Anton Yakovlev's directorial debut in the theater is a play based on the play by modern playwright E.-E. Schmitt “Little Marital Crimes” will take place in St. Petersburg on the stage of the Russian Entreprise Theater named after Andrei Mironov in St. Petersburg. Premiere: November 4.

- Anton, what do you think is better for a director: constantly working in one theater or changing venues?

Of course, when the director is free-floating. He has the ability to compare.

- But isn’t a lot of time spent getting used to new people?

Lapping in is great. Novelty is useful. Now I have two wonderful artists - Evgeny Baranov and Marina Ignatova. And our grinding in happened instantly. We just speak the vernacular. The only problem is the lack of rehearsal time; the actors work not only with me.

- Is the practice of filming beneficial for the theatre?

Working in a big movie is always good. But today, actors, at best, play in average TV series, and this is only a negative experience. “Art” and “series” are completely opposite things.

- Some actors believe that filming is a good school...

The series does not provide the opportunity to work with the material in detail. People learn the text in 15 minutes and go into the frame. This is good training for a film artist, not a theater artist. It is built on complete improvisation. This regime teaches you to swim and that’s all. The equivalent of a TV series in the theater is an enterprise. But not like in the Russian Entreprise Theater named after Andrei Mironov, where the contract system and repertory theater are combined. Here, despite the presence of the word “enterprise” in the name of the theater, there is an opportunity to constantly look closely at the actors and there is no need to fire anyone.

- What do you think about the concept of “commercial performance”?

- “Commercial” is, as a rule, a comedy with humor “below the belt”, which, unfortunately, today’s audience goes for. People are accustomed to bad taste. It's a rare occasion when a comedy is truly interesting. Also: now any actor who feels organic on stage is already considered good. But organics is the minimum that is required in the first year of theater institute. It’s bad when there is no metaphor in the play, and the actor in the role has a “background”, when the production is just a series of solo numbers, when there is no ensemble, no riddle, no real analysis of the play - this is a very dangerous trend that has developed in Moscow, too. and in St. Petersburg. But it’s ridiculous to approach today’s situation with the standards of the 1960s and 1970s.

- If we compare St. Petersburg and Moscow theaters...

For me, Peter is, first of all, Tovstonogov. Since childhood, all my theatrical associations have been connected with the Bolshoi Drama Theater. And Moscow is the basis of everything, starting with the Moscow Art Theater. All systems arose in Moscow: Stanislavsky, Mikhail Chekhov, Tairov, Meyerhold. Theater life in Moscow is more active. But Moscow is a merchant, bustling, huge metropolis, and St. Petersburg has something that Moscow sometimes lacks - sometimes deeper approaches, a special mood. The St. Petersburg world is completely different. In general, I would not compare.

- Where is modern drama most often staged, and doesn’t it discourage interest in the classics?

In this sense, Moscow is ahead. Peter is more conservative. There are more new young directors in Moscow. They often come to St. Petersburg, but here’s the paradox: in my opinion, they don’t enjoy success here. Maybe St. Petersburg audiences are accustomed to more traditional theater. But that's probably a good thing. Why repeat Moscow? It’s great that there is modern dramaturgy, foreign or Russian. It must be available in large quantities. Another question is its quality. The public, unfortunately, does not want to think. It seems to me that you need to fight this, even if sometimes you sacrifice the number of spectators in the hall for the sake of quality. Many people believe that if a play is about eternal values, then it will certainly be something boring. But you can use an interesting one new uniform. The most important thing in the theater is for there to be contact between the heart and the head. Nyakrosius holds the hall! For example, “Othello”: this is a five-hour crossword puzzle, constant brain work, but combined with amazing emotionality. I see my task in staging Schmitt’s play “Minor Marital Crimes” in combining form and content. This is a play for two people. I liked the situation proposed here, but the play is very literary, and I do everything to ensure that it does not turn out to be just conversational theater. And I hope that we managed to find an acceptable form.

- Your performance involves actors from different theater schools...

And that's great. Evgeny Baranov is a typical representative of the St. Petersburg school - a student of Vladimirov. And Marina Ignatova is a Moscow actress and a student of Goncharov. She worked for Zakharov at Lenkom for quite a long time. These actors work completely differently. They have different reactions, different approaches. Sometimes they themselves do not expect certain things from each other. And then naturalness and liveliness appears. But there is a foundation for the performance, a plan, and everything is aimed at its implementation.

- With Nyakrosius, everything is also subordinated to the main task, but his actors are “of the same school”...

Undoubtedly. Nyakrosius is in everyone there. And they work great. With strict directing, much of their work is based on improvisation. But this is not spontaneous, but prepared improvisation. The actor is responsible only for his role. And the director controls the course of the performance.

- What is primary for you in the theater?

Nemirovich-Danchenko said that the director must die in the actor. Meyerhold believed that plasticity is more important than words. I agree with both. But how to absorb all the systems, take the best from them and make sure that both plastic and emotional decisions are combined into one whole? So that it is not obvious where the director worked, where the artist, and where the actor?..

- How much freedom do you, as a director, give to the actor?

Zakharov believes that an actor should have a “corridor of improvisation” set by the director. In this corridor, the actor needs to be given a certain freedom and ensure that he does not go beyond it. Otherwise, you won’t be able to extract some successful non-standard solutions from the actor, which the director sometimes doesn’t even suspect. But this already depends on the talent, because giving freedom to a mediocre actor is pointless.

- Are Stanislavsky or Meyerhold closer to you?

It is impossible to compare a student with a teacher. Meyerhold came out of Stanislavsky, he just took a completely different path. Stanislavsky is like a primer, like a foundation. There's no getting away from the basics. His system cannot become obsolete. This is the foundation of an artist’s life, an attempt to help him identify the emotions that are necessary at the moment. This is not a theory, but an elementary aid in theater practice. You know, like in a movie: in order to shoot one frame, you must know that you need such and such light, such and such a lens and such and such a film sensitivity. The system must be used. She doesn't need to be idolized.