"Let Rome in Moskva Melt": Antony and Cleopatra at Sovremennik

Abstract

Let Rome in Moskva Melt: Antony and Cleopatra at Sovremennik After famous Moscow Arts Theatre, Sovremennik (in Russian name means the contemporary) is probably most prestigious theater in Moscow. In its current repertory Sovremennik boasts several productions by Kiryll Serebrennikov, young director who, after emerging less han decade ago as an enfant terrible of Moscow stage, has rapidly evolved into one of most admired directors in country, famous, among other things, for his uncompromising modernizations of classics, riotously inventive staging, and wickedly post-modern sense of humor. Recent years have seen Serebrennikov's rise to status of brand name of sorts; theater mangers across country vie for his Midas touch: his taking charge of production has been proven to guarantee combination of artistic sophistication and, despite his flair for shocking, resounding commercial success. His contribution to Sovremennik's 2006 playbill was greatly anticipated production of Antony and Cleopatra. The project was Serebrennikov's first direct foray into Shakespeare. Probably in an attempt to forestall accusations of too-extravagant departures from Shakespeare, both program and playbill bore unnecessarily coy subtitle a version. This version of Antony and Cleopatra was set against backdrop of an unspecified location in contemporary Middle East, which occasionally also looked like present-day Chechen Republic. This staging bristled with all things Muslim and was iconically evocative of everything television viewer is likely to associate with more fundamentalist elements of Islamic world. The costumes varied from motley hijabs to black burkas for women, and from kaftans to military camouflage or black commando/terrorist outfits for men. In contrast, Rome's representatives looked decidedly western and projected corporate efficiency and sober imperturbability. Caesar, every inch ruthless CEO, wore an austere suit and comported himself with frigid reserve. The stage was framed by booth on each side (at end, booths were turned into pair of museum sarcophagi in which heroes found their final rest). A female figure in Muslim attire inside one of booths was in charge of soundtrack of sorts: lesson in Arabic that intermittently accompanied action. With placidity of tape recording, voice first introduced audience to simple locutions and their translation; as play progressed, innocuous salam aleikums gradually gave way to more complex and disturbing ones, such as I have lost my wife and other disconcerting appeals for help and exclamations of despair. Translation, or rather untranslatability and miscommunication--whether between east and west or love and duty--turned out to be one of production's extended metaphors. As for spoken text itself, it appeared to be reasonably modernized blend of prose and verse--a synthesized version of several standard translations. At times more colloquial, even folksy (though not unpalatable) diction disturbed decorum. Philo's report about dotage of our General was delivered to accompaniment of video transmission from Cleopatra's bedroom: two interlocked bodies, busy at making beast with two backs, for some time writhed on giant screen, before rolling, minimally dressed, from behind scenes onto stage, dusting themselves off, and assuming roles of Antony and Cleopatra. Serebrennikov cast his favorite, Chulpan Hamatova, Sovremennik's most accomplished, versatile young actress as his Cleopatra. Of small stature, still wisp of girl at thirty-two, Hamatova only for moment seemed an unusual match for production's Antony, veteran of silver screen Sergei Shakurov, twice her age. The inventiveness of opening was but foretaste of Serebrennikov's imagination, which is famous for never running dry. …