Słobodzianek, Tadeusz

When The Bedbug’s Dream premiered in 2001 under Kazimierz Dejmek’s direction, Słobodzianek’s play read as a biting satire of (post-)Soviet Russia. Today, however, against the backdrop of the ongoing war in Ukraine, its grotesque tone resonates more as a form of horror. It also allows for an understanding of the Russian invasion not so much on the level of geopolitical analysis, the struggle for resources, or — worse still — armchair psychology, but rather as the result of a monstrous  cultural entanglement: on the one hand, laden with historical baggage, and on the other, driven by desires fuelled by that very history.

The Bedbug’s Dream picks up where Vladimir Mayakovsky’s famous “faerie comedy” The Bedbug left off. That earlier play, which inspired Słobodzianek, follows Prisypkin, a young man accidentally frozen on his wedding day in 1929. Revived decades later, Prisypkin finds himself in what appears to be the communist utopia he once dreamed of… and discovers it is a world in which he no longer belongs. Modern Muscovites treat Prisypkin as an oddity, view him as a relict of the past, and lock him in a zoo alongside a bedbug that was also frozen with him.

Słobodzianek takes up the narrative from there. We encounter Prisypkin still in the zoo, this time after the fall of the Soviet Union. The communist utopia has vanished and no one even remembers to feed him. Our hero escapes and embarks on a surreal, often absurd journey through post-Soviet Moscow — where Faith, Hope and Charity prance around town in Armani tights.

A vagabond, who calls himself the Prophet, takes Prisypkin seriously when the latter introduces himself as Jesus Christ. But instead of offering Russia “salvation”, the miracles, which the Prophet attributes to Prisypkin, merely expose a profound chaos of values. Every one of Słobodzianek’s characters is steeped in a contradictory mix of national myths and desires. Ideologies (or rather their hollowed-out remnants) combine into a ghastly collage — communism, capitalism, Russian Orthodoxy — and result in absurd hybrids, such as “Comrade Christ,” as Słobodzianek’s Prisypkin calls himself.

A miraculous transformation of Millionaires into Bolsheviks happens not through any divine power of the “Saviour,” but simply because such a narrative conveniently suits the wealthy, whose banks refuse to release their funds. And when that fails — because the bank quite simply does not have money — the Millionaires immediately turn against “Jesus.”

Meanwhile, a chase ensues — full of errors, unexpected twists and fruitless (though telling) philosophical debates. The chase is led by the Colonel (a gangster/corrupt politician/military man),  followed by the Free Media as well as the zookeepers and their tracking dog, Nero. The nightmare, however, soon comes to an end, while the resurrection of the Soviet Union — or the dream of redeeming the Russian soul — turns out to be an illusion. Prisypkin humbly returns to his cage and his bedbug.

What “Comrade Christ” witnesses in Słobodzianek’s Moscow feels strikingly relevant in the context of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. With remarkable insight, the author captures the nuances and paradoxes of post-Soviet Russia, a country in which, as Roman Pawłowski wrote, one might encounter “former communists beating their breasts in Orthodox churches, calling for moral renewal and adherence to the commandments; politicians whose election platforms fuse fascism and anti-Semitism with Christianity and social justice; secret police agents who have stepped out of the shadows and are clawing their way to power; and impoverished intellectuals whose heads have been turned inside out by successive ideological acrobatics.” And all of this stewing in a sauce of increasingly extreme, perverse messianism. As Leonard Neuger observes: “Słobodzianek’s Russia is looking for the Saviour. Słobodzianek’s Russia must become the Saviour.”

In Young Stalin, Słobodzianek invites the audience on a journey through pivotal events in the life of the future dictator, recreating in a distorting mirror the decadent yet politically charged atmosphere of 1907. It is by no means a biographical piece or a psychological study, but rather a kind of ritual. In  a grotesque rhythm, the play disenchants the figure of the tyrant, inflated by history, scholarly studies, accounts and fantasies.
In 2013, when the play was written, the mocking jabs at an ardent idealist with a gangster-like modus operandi could have been seen as a warning or expression of concern. After all, analogies to modern times in the play were easy to spot. However, in today’s context, as the idea of Great Russia once again reaps a bloody harvest across the eastern border, Słobodzianek's portrayal of Parisian ladies performing a cancan at Stalin's wedding takes on a more ominous tone, resembling a danse macabre – although devoid of any semblance of equality in the face of death. There is no point in disenchanting Putin, and the opportunity for a history lesson seems long past, heightening the significance of the play. Słobodzianek's sarcastic humor, while amusing, now evokes a sense of fear. Thus, the laughter here is not so much a respite from the horrors of the still ongoing war, but rather an unsettling echo of the sinister chuckle of history repeating itself.

The play offers ample opportunities for laughter: in a Viennese café, where Stalin meets Trotsky, Freud and Jung engage in a duel of complexes at the neighboring table (Oedipus vs. Electra), Hitler convinces Wittgenstein that the fate of the world hinges on upcoming art college exam. On the other hand, in London, a convention of revolutionaries turns out to be financed by an American capitalist (harboring the hope that post-revolution Russia will use the soap he produces), and Lenin's discussions with the Mensheviks on political strategies are repeatedly interrupted by disputes over unequal accommodations for comrades.

In spite of being filled with Parisian cancan, Georgian folklore, and political satire, the story has a tragic ending nonetheless. When an idea turns into action, and revolutionaries attack a convoy transporting a substantial sum of money, the beauty of the political utopia becomes obscured by a bloody red. The robbery results in the deaths of bystanders, including children, and the banknotes turn out to be unusable as they are all from the same marked series. There is nothing left to do in the aftermath beyond "icing" the suspicious comrades, whom furious Stalin unceremoniously shoots in the head. At the order of the future dictator, music plays as he once again dances the lezginka... this time, however, on a stage of corpses.

In Genius, the ailing Stanisławski seeks an audience with Stalin with the hope of saving the repressed Meyerhold. Employing subterfuge and flattery, Stanisławski convinces the dictator into making a deal: in exchange for teaching Stalin how to better play the role of a ruler, the latter will grant his three wishes. And so, the famous method of physical action is used in a completely non-artistic context. After all, in the words of its creator, “Ruling over a state can be an art. Also one of acting...”. Thus, the dictator learns to utilize gestures, props and proper intonation to inspire even more respect, and he also learns how to reveal physical weaknesses to create a trustworthy image. Satisfied with the lesson, Stalin complies with Stanisławski's requests and, in a gesture of generosity, decides to return the favor by teaching the director how to administer beatings and punishments, using the recalcitrant chairman of the Committee for the Arts as an example.

Słobodzianek's play is part of a series of Quartets - chamber plays written during the pandemic. While each stands as an independent work, the dramas interweave seamlessly, complementing each other through shared ideas, form, and subject matter. The author blends in varying proportion historical facts, meticulously gathered through in-depth research, with anecdotes, gossip or even fiction. This strategy allows the exploration of the great ideas of twentieth-century theater history, where prominent artists engage in discussions amidst the constant interference of politics in matters of art. Meyerhold's biomechanics clashes with Stanislavsky's method of physical action, and Kantor meets Grotowski in a café in Kraków. And it is the founder of the Theatre of 13 Rows, appearing as the protagonist of most of the Quartets, who turns out to be of particular interest to the author. However, as Dariusz Kosiński notes in the afterword to the book edition of the Quartets, the focus is not on studying and interpreting Grotowski’s work. Instead, he “appears as one who, through his very presence, poses inquiries about theater and the sense of theater-making”. This is the reason why appreciating Słobodzianek's series doesn't demand a background in theater history.

The narrative is peppered with spicy details of Moscow’s theater life at the time and discussions of theatrical aesthetics in the context of communist doctrine. Although Genius initially appears to be a light and entertaining play that is a pleasure to read and immerse oneself in, Słobodzianek leaves the audience with a lingering sense of hollowness and contemplation regarding the role of art. In the hand of the dictator, art becomes just another issue for the authorities, managed akin to filling party seats. It is, however, a constructive doubt, it would seem, one that prompts the audience to look more closely at the relations between art and politics.

The play, written in the form of a mystery play, presents the story of a group of peasants who, influenced by Ilya's biblical prophecy about the approaching end of the world, decide to 'help' God in his work of salvation (and save themselves in the process) by performing a second crucifixion. So they set out, assigning amongst themselves the characters they will play: Pontius Pilate, Judas, and so on. Naturally, they decide to cast the supposed prophet Ilya himself in the role of Christ. But the Way of the Cross on which they embark to save the world turns into an arduous experience of misery and suffering, a procession of the tormented, the wronged and the demeaned.

The titular Ilya is based on the authentic figure of Eliasz Klimowicz, the leader of an Orthodox religious sect in the 1930s. He attempted to reconstruct the world of biblical events, including Miracles and Healings, the Crucifixion and Resurrection, the End of the World and the Last Judgement, in Wierszalin (New Jerusalem) in the Białystok region.

As Krzysztof Wolicki insightfully wrote:

“In Słobodzianek's play, it is completely irrelevant whether Ilya really is the Messiah, as indeed it is also irrelevant whether religion has any truth in the classical, Aristotelian sense. In other words, all supernaturalism is a fact of culture, and Słobodzianek, though not at all blasphemous, joins the long line of those whom every church should blacklist. They are, in a way, worse than atheists and blasphemers who argue with God: they do not argue with God, they are not interested in him at all other than as an object of worship. They talk, write and think about God like an entomologist does about insects, or worse still, because they exploit him symbolically and poetically...”

In this daring in form drama, Słobodzianek rewrites the myths of King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, and the quest for the Holy Grail. Through this reinterpretation, he reflects on the nature of evil, the relationship between religion and state, and the failures of utopian political projects.
In the play, the author foregoes dialogue in favor of third-person narration. The story of Merlin planning to build a perfect kingdom in a ruined, broken Britain is presented to the audience by an amateur theater group, with the actors playing mythical characters on stage. As Joanna Chojka notes in her dissertation, “this structure of expression fuels the interplay between a person, a persona, and a role, allowing the characters to show or even comment on their actions”. Słobodzianek's approach also allows the author in Merlin to skillfully use ambiguities, where sanctity mixes with blasphemy, and the divine plan of salvation turns out to be the source of evil.

The structure of the play, organized into seven parts, corresponds to the structure of the (seemingly intentionally desecrated) Latin liturgy, including events and motifs that are repeated seven times. Thus, the seven knights, whose coats of arms symbolically correspond to the seven deadly sins, pledge their allegiance to the king and the "holy cause" one by one, the story of their wandering during the quest for the Holy Grail and their fight against the monster to defend a maiden is repeated seven times, and seven times, despite being victorious, they leave with a sense of defeat and abandon their mission. However, upon their return to the castle, each of the knights claims to have kept his oath, except Lancelot, who admits his failure in not finding the Grail. The knights feast, replacing the sacred goblet with a secular cup filled with wine. As Chojka states, “iniquity, wickedness and treachery prevail in the clash with knightly honor”. That same night, Lancelot confesses his love to the queen and spends the night in her chamber. The infidelity leads to another round of duels (this time between the members of the court) described the same way as was the quest, with a language repetition scheme. Eventually, all the characters of the "other story" presented by the actor-narrators die, and with them the image of the perfect kingdom falls.

This disaster, however, escapes the attention of the titular Merlin, who, blinded by the power of the utopian dream, naively believed the assurances of his beloved Viviana, that "Britain is happy." In other words, Słobodzianek seems to argue that sooner or later ideology always becomes concerned only with its own perfection, ignoring reality, which usually deviates far from the initial plans. After all, Merlin is, as mentioned at the beginning of the play, a cautionary tale: both against the false promise of salvation brought by utopian projects, and against – certainly a more contemporary phenomenon today – the mixing of political and religious doctrine. It was, after all, inspiration of a religious nature that pushed Merlin to outline his plan, and the unsuccessful search for relics revealed not only the far-from-sacred nature of the “knights in a holy cause” but also led to the kingdom's eventual downfall as a consequence.

On the Argentinian prairie, Lord Jesus travels atop a donkey, accompanied by Saint Peter struggling to match their pace on foot. Along the way, “the mount” loses a horseshoe, so the travelers seek the assistance of an old blacksmith named Misery, accompanied by his dog Poverty. However, the duo has no money to pay for the blacksmith’s service, so Jesus offers to grant his three wishes. Against  Peter's advice ("Ask for Heaven, blacksmith!"), Misery uses them to obtain magical power over three objects: a saddle, a snuffbox, and a nearby tree. Later, the blacksmith regrets not asking for youth and “a bit of money to start with”, so he makes a pact with Jesus’ competitor: the devil.

Słobodzianek's play follows a structured pattern of three. That is why there are three wishes, and three time periods: 19th, 20th and 21st centuries. Each time, the rejuvenated Blacksmith tries to make the most of the time he's been given, pursuing his vision of a joyful life: playing truco (a cheat-based card game), sipping tinto (wine), and dancing malambo (a dance of gauchos), in the company of his beloved Lola. Each time old age catches up with him, he uses one of his enchanted objects to outsmart the devil and force him to again make a pact with him. However, with each successive life, the craftsman feels increasingly severe disappointment: in the 20th century, tango has replaced malambo in his favorite bar, and Lola's singing has become a paid service. The current century is dominated by watered-down tinto, tacky disco-samba and equally kitschy "luxurious" club decor.

This time, the blacksmith tricks the entire retinue of hell led by Beelzebub, imprisoning them in his snuffbox. From Jesus' perspective, this development proves troublesome, as the existence of evil is a part of the divine plan.  Therefore, Christ comes to the devils' rescue, imploring the Blacksmith to release them. In an accusatory monologue, the craftsman lays blame on Jesus for the corruption of the once-simpler world that existed before his coming, because, as the motto of the play, taken from the Bible, says:

“no is no, and yes is yes.”

The play hypnotizes the viewer with a dreamlike language steeped in repetitive phrases, swaying to the rhythmic beats of malambo and playing truco. The stifling atmosphere of the "hellish bar", from which there is no escape, is broken with the author's characteristic sense of humor.

Inspired by an Argentine legend, and referencing its Western counterpart in the tale of Faust, Słobodzianek's play is a story about the world's losing battle with civilization, whose destructive impact has led to the loss, or at best trivialization, of traditional cultural values.

In Burning bush, Konrad (Swinarski) and Kazimierz (Dejmek) visit Jerzy (Grotowski) in his Wrocław apartment. Jerzy, after four years of exile (following the events of March 1968) to foreign stages, is offered the position of theatre director at the Polish Theater in Wroclaw by the authorities. The artists, liberal with cognac, proceed to plan the form and repertoire of the new national stage. The directors share their experiences of working on both foreign and national stages, argue about theatrical aesthetics, work with the actor, and compare the profound ideas of the theatrical avant-garde. They come to the conclusion that there is no national theater without Greek tragedy, Shakespeare and, above all, without Polish Romanticism. Amidst the casual expression of opinions on contemporary theater artists, the dredging up of old quarrels, petty insults and the frequent raising of toasts, the blueprint for the new Wrocław theater is conceived, which... never sees the light of day.

Slobodzianek's play is part of a series of Quartets - chamber plays written during the pandemic. While each stands as an independent work, the dramas interweave seamlessly, complementing each other through shared ideas, form, and subject matter. The author blends in varying proportion historical facts, meticulously gathered through in-depth research, with anecdotes, gossip or even fiction. This strategy allows the exploration of the great ideas of twentieth-century theater history, where prominent artists engage in discussions amidst the constant interference of politics in matters of art. Meyerhold's biomechanics clashes with Stanislavsky's method of physical action, and Kantor meets Grotowski in a café in Kraków. And it is the founder of the Theatre of 13 Rows, appearing as the protagonist of most of the Quartets, who turns out to be of particular interest to the author. However, as Dariusz Kosiński notes in the afterword to the book edition of the Quartets, the focus is not on studying and interpreting Grotowski’s work. Instead, he “appears as one who, through his very presence, poses inquiries about theater and the sense of theater-making”. This is the reason why appreciating Slobodzianek's series doesn't demand a background in theater history. It is not just the brilliantly written, dynamically flowing dialogues, but also the profoundly relevant questions posed about the intricate relationship between art and politics in today's context.

In Burning bush Słobodzianek directly bombards the audience with anecdotes in the brilliantly crafted dialogues, inviting them to immerse themselves in the narrative with pleasure, even if not all historical references are immediately recognized. The author unceremoniously combines drastically different registers: discussions on staging the classics coexist within the text with mundane details, such as Konrad's socks, which haven't been washed in days. The narrative takes unexpected turns as intoxicated recitations of excerpts from the dramas of the Three Bards are interrupted by the intervention of a community policeman, to whom the neighbors complain about the noisy artists.

Burning bush, however, is not a love letter to a bygone theater, or a mere satire on great artists. Although Jerzy, Kazimierz and Konrad still being fueled by the fire of creative zeal, on the one hand they struggle with artistic and intellectual doubts, on the other they are constantly forced to make concessions or even collaborate with the authorities. Słobodzianek plays with theatrical ideas, biographies and anecdotes, yet, ultimately, he is quite seriously contemplating how to balance the artistic vision with the institutional and political conditions of its realization.

The art of intonation presents two trips to Moscow of Jerzy Grotowski: the first during his student years in 1956 and the second as a globally acclaimed director in 1976. Under the moniker “Apprentice”, Grotowski engages in two conversations with the “Master”, a figure unmistakably resembling Yuri Zawadski – a Russian actor and director whom the Polish creator regarded as one of his masters. Through anecdotes, Zawadski imparts to the Apprentice his approach to uncovering the essence of theater: the titular “art of intonation”, which he discovered together with Vakhtangov. Moreover, he imparts an important lesson to Grotowski: after detailing an extensive list of national titles, awards, and decorations, showcasing a telephone with a direct line to the Kremlin, and describing luxuries, limousines, and a passport granting him the ability to travel all over the world, he also says, “Don't take this path. It's not worth it”.

Slobodzianek's play is part of a series of Quartets – chamber plays written during the pandemic. While each stands as an independent work, the dramas interweave seamlessly, complementing each other through shared ideas, form, and subject matter. The author blends in varying proportion historical facts, meticulously gathered through in-depth research, with anecdotes, gossip or even fiction. This strategy allows the exploration of the great ideas of twentieth-century theater history, where prominent artists engage in discussions amidst the constant interference of politics in matters of art. Meyerhold's biomechanics clashes with Stanislavsky's method of physical action, and Kantor meets Grotowski in a café in Kraków. And it is the founder of the Theatre of 13 Rows, appearing as the protagonist of most of the Quartets, who turns out to be of particular interest to the author. However, as Dariusz Kosiński notes in the afterword to the book edition of the Quartets, the focus is not on studying and interpreting Grotowski’s work. Instead, he “appears as one who, through his very presence, poses inquiries about theater and the sense of theater-making”. This is the reason why appreciating Slobodzianek's series doesn't demand a background in theater history. It is not just the brilliantly written, dynamically flowing dialogues, but also the profoundly relevant questions posed about the intricate relationship between art and politics in today's context.

Upon Grotowski's return to Zawadski after two decades, it turns out that the Apprentice has surpassed the Master. Now, it is the Polish director who shares tales of his discoveries and career, detailing his departure from theater in pursuit of the truth about humanity. He reflects on the concept of the total act and, ultimately, introduces the idea of the interpersonal church as a community of shared experiences beyond the confines of traditional theater. Meanwhile, the art of intonation turned out to be completely “useless”, and the Master's groundbreaking discovery turned out to be just one of many now forgotten aesthetics, now relegated to the shadows of forgotten artistic approaches.

Simultaneously, the Master poses the impertinent yet crucial question: “Who will pay for it?”. Grotowski's communal experiments, as it turns out, are made possible through government funding and the director's affiliation with the party. Słobodzianek, however, has no interest in accusing Grotowski of hypocrisy, let alone settling which of the great theatrical ideas is the most important. Instead, the focus turns to the desperate cry of the dying Master: “Jerzy, only in the theater are we free...”. As the art of intonation breathes its last breath with Zawadski, and the Apprentice proclaims the death of theater, Słobodzianek doesn't attempt to express the vision of a uniform history of the theater, but rather to show his concern for the place of art in society.

In his most well-known*, Nike Literary Award-winning and most frequently staged play, Słobodzianek explores Polish-Jewish relations. Our Class, however, doesn't so much attempt to join the dispute among historians, politicians and publicists about Polish antisemitism and the Jedwabne pogrom. Instead, he addresses what these discussions usually have no room for: the individuals affected by, as Leonard Neuger described it, “the curse of fate.”

The history of Polish and Jewish students at a school in a village near Łomża spans several decades, beginning in pre-war period and ending in the present day. The carefree nature of the first “Lesson,” as the author refers to parts of the play, however, is supplanted by divisions, prejudice, hatred and violence as the occupation begins. A classmate reports his desk neighbour (an underground resistance fighter) to the NKVD, who, in retaliation, tortures him to death. To the villagers, the Jews are no longer Neighbours (the title of the book written by Jan T. Gross, which, among others, the author was inspired by), but rather Communists and traitors. Tensions culminate in horrific and brutal portrayals of the pogrom: the humiliation and beatings of Jews at the town square, the rape of a Jewish classmate, and ultimately, the burning alive in the barn of all the remaining survivors.

Although most people would easily recognize the Jedwabne pogrom in these scenes, Słobodzianek does not directly refer to the massacre from 1941. This significant detail reveals the author's intentions, as he seems to distance himself from historical settlements and recognitions, making the play more universal and still relevant today. The author is not concerned with issues of blame, accusations, nor does he create his version of the great historical narrative. Instead of presenting antisemitism as the shameful truth of the Polish nation, Słobodzianek provides the viewer with a portrayal of antisemitism that, as Paulina Małochleb describes, “becomes a convenient means of bearing personal disputes, concealing feelings of inferiority, rejected affection, belittled self-love”.

The author presents “the damned fate” of the students of Our Class forever bound whether by friendship or hatred, trauma and grief to the audience. The complementary testimonies of the characters are interwoven with the re-enactment of events on stage. The plot is, therefore, presented in the form of flashbacks because, as can be inferred from the list of Persons, all the characters in the play are already dead. In Słobodzianek's drama, the characters can't break free from the past. Some, like Rachelka, who was re-baptized as Marianna, a Jewish woman who survived the massacre, seek oblivion in their old age, drowning out the voice of trauma with a never-ending TV broadcasts. Others, like Menachem, seek solace in revenge, turning from victim to executioner, or, like Heniek, trying to redeem guilt through priestly service.

The strength of Our Class, however, does not lie in the depiction of credible life stories of the characters in the tragedy. Somewhere between one fractured life and another, among the desires, delusions, disappointments and pain experienced by the characters, lies a disturbing realization: this is also our class, our tragic fates, our faults, and hatred. One can never leave this class, and the stories of its students have been irrevocably intertwined.

Through his characters' voices, the author also describes his own experience of the tragic history of Polish-Jewish relations, or perhaps hatred and prejudice in general. This is by no means a narcissistic act; Słobodzianek, it seems, is rather trying to invite the audience to emotional work, which nowadays may be more important than the endless disputes among historians. It’s a form of work that, much like the play, instead of providing answers and constructing a coherent narrative of the past, creates even more questions instead.