July 01, 2007

A New Art: Theater and the 18-hour Meal

In Russia, literature has always been the primary art form. Writers and poets were towering presences in Russian cultural life, furiously castigating social failings, singing the praise of heroes, and prophesying a bright future. In short, they shaped public opinion.

But there was a period in the history of Russian culture when theater suddenly became no less important than literature, when new theatrical productions had just as much impact as the appearance of a new novel. It was a time when lines started forming in front of theaters in the evening for tickets that would not go on sale until morning, when students tended fires throughout the night, to keep warm as they discussed a production’s mise-en-scène and the actors’ performances.

This transformation was due to a legendary meeting of two very remarkable individuals: Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko, creators of the Moscow Art Theater (MKhT). By the time they met one another in the summer of 1897, both had been active in the theatrical world for many years, but their paths had never crossed.

Konstantin Sergeyevich Alekseyev, who had taken the stage name of Stanislavsky, was 34 years old in 1897. He could afford to engage in amateur theater, as he belonged to one of Russia’s richest merchant families. But the word “amateur” is probably not a good adjective to describe his activities – for some 10 years, Stanislavsky had led a dramatic group at the Society for Art and Literature. Stanislavsky’s extraordinary acting abilities were already widely recognized.

Vladimir Ivanovich Nemirovich-Danchenko was older. He had turned 39 in 1897, and was much more famous than Stanislavsky. In those days, he was best known as a playwright, and his plays were staged all over Russia (fame is fleeting: today, his plays are all but forgotten). Nemirovich-Danchenko seems to have understood that his plays were less than great. He refused to accept a prestigious prize, feeling that it should go to Chekhov’s Seagull that year, and later, when he headed MKhT, he absolutely refused to stage any of his own works. He apparently understood that his main talents were in teaching.

When he met Stanislavsky, Nemirovich was working at the Moscow Philharmonic Society’s School of Music and Drama. To some extent, it was his desire to maintain his current group of theater students as a cohesive unit that prompted him to write a note to Stanislavsky, with whom he was not yet acquainted, and ask him to meet at the Slavyansky Bazaar restaurant.

And so it was that, on June 22, 1897 (July 3, new style), a meeting took place that would mark the dawn of a new era in Russian culture. Slavyansky Bazaar was on Nikolskaya Street, just a few hundred yards from the Kremlin and not far from Kamergersky Lane, where a year later architect Fyodor Shekhtel would construct the MKhT building. The conversation that started in the restaurant did not end for 18 hours, having been continued at the Alekseyev dacha. “The most marvelous thing about that conversation, is that we did not have a single argument,” Nemirovich recalled later. “An international conference does not discuss important matters of state with the scrupulousness with which we discussed the basis of our future undertaking, questions of pure art, our artistic ideals, stage ethics, technical matters, organizational plans, plans for future repertoires, our relationship,” was how Stanislavsky described the now-famous conversation.

What did these two men – fated to become idols of all educated Russians – come up with that was so new? From today’s perspective it seems terribly simple, even banal: theater must exist not for the entertainment of idle high society and not for the needs of the multitude. Instead, everyone and everything must serve art. “Today – Hamlet, tomorrow – a bit part, but he must play that bit part as a true artist,” they wrote in the protocol of their meeting. Another phrase that would become legendary was: “There are no small parts, only small actors.” Today, it would be hard to find someone to argue with this, but back then most productions were built around the star who played the lead role. Everything else was inconsequential – those playing the smaller parts, the scenery, the curtain. The audience might come not at the beginning of the performance, but just in time for their beloved actor’s entrance on stage, and leave, noisily, if they knew that their idol would not be making another appearance.

Stanislavsky and Nemirovich’s partnership was unexpected. It was also a bit surprising that they built a theater that was both simple and unpretentious, without elegant private boxes or expensive decor. This was an indication that they expected their productions to be attended by intelligent audiences with modest means rather than well-dressed society ladies. There was no heavy velvet curtain to be raised out of sight. The Art Theater’s first curtain did not yet feature Chekhov’s seagull, the theater’s long-time symbol, but it was (and still is) a lightweight draw curtain opening to both sides to reveal simple, but thoughtfully-conceived sets.

What a contrast this was from what theatergoers of that day were used to. One provincial director at the turn of the century recalled, “The stage in Tiraspol was illuminated with kerosene lamps. When the lamps would start to emit fumes during the show, one of the actors would interrupt the play and calmly walk over to fix the lamp, and then the action would be resumed. Sometimes the audience, which did not want to breathe fumes, would take care of this themselves... During some Spanish play, one of the lamps was really acting up. Various brave hidalgos were constantly going back and forth to adjust the wick. But one of the lamps just did not want to work properly... Then Philip II himself, risking a bad burn, bravely grabbed the blazing torch and quickly carried it out of the theater, where it burned unimpeded. It should be noted that Philip II mustered the courage for this feat because he was the only one at his court to be wearing gloves.”

One can hardly imagine the actors of the Moscow Art Theater finding themselves in such a situation – and not only because the theater’s lighting was given as much attention as the rest of the production. Here, for example, there was no music before the performance or during the intermission, although this had been customary “to entertain the audience.” But the Art Theater was not out to “entertain.” They took their business very seriously, and did not permit anyone to enter the theater after the play had started. They even forbade applause or calls for additional bows.

The theater is a temple; the theater is a place to serve art – this is what the two restaurant-goers agreed on. But, beyond that, they also agreed that the art they were planning to serve must be a modern art. Now that the very concept of the Moscow Art Theater has become a symbol of traditional, at times even conservative art, it is hard for us to understand just how innovative it was when it was founded in 1897, how cutting-edge, new and unusual were the plays it staged – plays by Chekhov, Ibsen, and Hauptmann, where the actors had to act simply, “like in real life.” This was a truly revolutionary idea. Of course, no theater and no repertoire would have saved Stanislavsky and Nemirovich’s idea if they had not found and nurtured marvelous actors. But perhaps it can also be said that such actors would never have reached the level of greatness they attained, had Stanislavsky and Nemirovich not had that first conversation.

July 01, 2007

A New Art: Theater and the 18-hour Meal

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