Gábor Bóta
Judit Csáki (Mancs weekly magazine)
Tamás Koltai
Life
and Literature
Year 49, number 11. (March, 2005)
*
On of the most important plays, Henry IV. is staged at the Radnóti Theatre and directed by Stefano de Luca. In this play Pirandello’s basic thought shines through crystal clearly, which almost all throughout keeps us in uncertainty about make-believe, and role-playing and unmasks this world which was made mediocre by selfishness and lies. A man thinks that he is Henry IV. for almost twenty years, – at first de facto –, as the consequence of trauma from an accident, then escaping into the role with his mind cleared up. For him the make-believe madness becomes the reality in which he would rather live than go back to that "real" life, in which the players – without being aware of it – play more cruel roles; even when they simply betray and cheat on him, even when they put on costumes, "to cure him" with the help of some new shock treatment. If the "normal", ordinary dishonesty can morally kill a man, then there is nothing left but to take revenge dressed up as of the Roman-German emperor and eventually lock oneself up forever into the hell of madness.
With more and more curtains Anni Füzér reveals more and more on the small stage, which creates the impression of theatricality and not a villa decorated with historic requisites. This is also served by the valet, Giovanni, played by Emil Keres, who prepares the location of the play. With a little brush he dusts off the curtain, and informs the audience about the beginning of both acts. The light tulles are pulled by the pre-trained servants, from behind which the protagonist, Tibor Szervét not always there and then appears, where and when they await for him. The fate of the performance is up to Szervét – the all-time Henry IV. – and he perfectly lives up to our expectations. He does not make the mistake of over-toning the madness – this being the gravest danger of the role –, even behind his exaggerations we can sense the intellectual discipline. In turn he does not stay away from extremes, paints his face a clown’s, he alternates his blond wig and crown maliciously, with his whole intent being: to convince "his audience" about his madness. Yet, there is method in it, partly because he is in possession of the role built up by him, partly because he recognizes the people dressed up in costumes, and directly addresses his message to them, without unmasking himself too early. He does not set over the boundary, he does not claim that he needs madness for discernment. Moreover, the way he plays with crown and bowler-hat claims that it was a conscious decision to finally undertake the role of the king. But he does not deny that to come to such decision one needs to have exaltation based on great disgust with the world.
The quality of the performance is wavy. The first part is weakened by lots of professional ungainliness and faults of rhythm, the scenes are scattered, we cannot sense the distinct intention to make order. The introduction of the servants is intended to be comical and is universally comedy-like, but too rousing to give us the necessary information. Sándor Csányi played many times already this comically pokerfaced tomfool (indifferent, casual, and provocative). I am curious how many times he is going to have the same success with the same thing again. From Zoltán Schneider and Tamás Mészáros the face of the latter sometimes shows that he actually thinks something about what is going on around him. Adél Kováts all throughout does not resolve countess Matilde’s coolness while plodding with her consciousness, but within this she is able to stylistically bring into unity the Italian aristocrat and the Pirandelloian style behavior. The latter is missing from Attila Epres – his baron Belcredi becomes his routine swashbuckler. For Gábor Kocsó, the doctor played by him is his basic way of acting, and (at the performance on the opening night) rarely provides hardly any curlicues. With Ágnes Kovalik and Gábor Karalyos the director was strikingly unable to lead off; he makes Kovalik look at an image we cannot see for minutes with emphatic meaninglessness. The theatricality of the image-scene has not been scenically solved. On the other hand, the second part is fairly good. Szervét – and Pirandello – save the day.
Szervét carries the play on his back, his performance of
Henry IV. almost all throughout can do the rope-dancing between madness and the
consciousness of role-playing. Solely, in the last part does he return to those
tools, which we already know from other roles of his, and this is why we really
love him. Sándor Csányi exceeds his minor role. He comes and goes, having
prepared from the French Henry IV.; he would rather return to the world he is
used to, where everything is as it seems. Still, he is always in the front part
of the stage, watching and dreading the madman: he does not understand it, but
he does sense some of the maelstrom.
At the end of the play, Henry IV. cannot choose between the role and reality. He
has to be identical to his reflection: both of these are part of him, but at the
same time neither are part of him. A bit like this performance.
Horváth Csaba, Heti Válasz, April 14, 2005
April 28 2005. Exit weekly magazine
Henry IV.
Ab start we have no idea who is really crazy. The guy who at the beginning of the 20. century has the illusion that he is in a castle in Italy and he is Henry IV., German-Roman emperor, and lives in the 11. century? Or is it his visitors who want to cure him of this madness? Luigi Pirandello’s tricky play is about far more than just this: it’s about role-playing as a game and about illness as a life-strategy and an escape.
The play is not only tricky, it is also very difficult. In the Radnóti Theatre Stefano de Luca’s direction shows and „handles” this. The casting is downright exquisite, especially as far as the main character is concerned: Henry IV. is played by Tibor Szervét, who – probably in perfect unison with the director – decided about every second, what the character is about, and plays it crystal clearly. At least the first part is needed for us to think, is he really mad or just pretends – and this part is about the "remedial" of the outside world. About the woman, who at one time was loved by this man, and who perhaps loved him back, and who was present at that costume masquerade where the accident took place. The guy fell off his horse, hit his head and when he came to his senses again, he imagined that he is Henry IV.
Adél Kováts plays the countess who wants to find out what the truth is: with her sensitivity she tries to examine each move the count makes. Adél Kováts’s performance thus becomes an interesting mirror to Szervét’s changes. The others play a sort of accompanying band behind the two main characters: the paid servants of the count who attend to his mad whims. Zoltán Schneider and Tamás Mészáros play with routine, Sándor Csányi, the new servant in turn is in total panic and incomprehension, thus he obeys. In attendance of the countess is her daughter who looks very similar to her, (and plays on this) played by Ágnes Kovalik, and her two other escorts: Attila Epres and Gábor Karalyos. Gábor Kocsó plays – with great routine – the doctor who is time and again slipped into costumes. And of course there is a plot, a great one.
We must pay attention to the actors’ performances in the barely-a-set and in the barely-costumes (both designed by Anni Füzér), especially that of Tibor Szervét’s and Adél Kováts’s. An evening both entertaining and thought-provoking.
On the verge of madness and sanity
Curtain after curtain, any yet more curtains. The set designed by Anni Füzér shows that theatre is everywhere, and everyone is playing a role, but it could also be that theatre is the most realistic reality of all. At the beginning of the performance with a ravaged and tired face, Emil Keres, the valet comes to the center of the stage, as if he were to announce a question of life and death, but only says, with an elegant bow: "first act". At that moment he is outside the play since he is the narrator, but performs his duties as a valet, at our service. It is both outside of and on the inside of the play, as most of Pirandello’s characters. They often philosophize about themselves, and are not totally sure what is dream and what is reality, they loiter on the verge of the two states of being. This levitation is important because the eternal mystery is often on the balk of comedy and tragedy. This is why it is hard to perform Pirandello. The first part of the Radnóti Theatre’s performance is not too successful. The production approaches a bit the never-failing realistic mode of acting or the fairly monotonous way of uttering the text. From this Sándor Csányi stands out in an exquisite and entertaining way. He brings portrays the councilor as a tomfool with comical charm of the outcasts as if he were part of a full-blooded renaissance comedy. The time-levels are merged, Henry IV. went to see the pope in Canossa in the 11. century, and that man who – according to the play – fell of the horse, hit his head and because of his madness thought for a long time that he is Henry IV. –lives in the 20. century. Later he becomes sober, but loathes the world and will return to his madness. Is he just playing mad or was he always demented? These are the Pirandelloan questions that cannot be solved.
Fortunately, Tibor Szervét, who plays Henry IV, does portray these. In the second part he really comes forward, his performance becomes dynamic. He is squirmy, femininely whimsical, with one word and gesture he withdraws the other, preens himself in heroic poses, then starts to speak in a simple way, thus becoming the diverse emperor. In the center of Pirandello’s work is this major role, and in the second part Szervét makes the best of this opportunity. The others have no easy jobs either, Adél Kováts plays marchioness Matilde, who used to be in love with the man who played Henry IV., but she visits him and finishes him off. According to the play he doesn’t even have a name, he is nothing but a role. Kováts shows a beautiful, enchanting, attractive but debauched woman.
A debauchedly muddled, unfathomably rigid world is portrayed by Pirandello, but makes this somewhat bearable with fabulous poetry. But this performance – directed by Stefano de Luca – is at times somewhat lumpish and this levitation filled with fantasy, as well as the ecstasy of poetry is often missing from the performance.
Gábor Bóta
Szervét, the king
(Pirandello: Henry IV.)
Since theatre is both in general and concretely about role-playing – just like life itself –, a curious challenge is presented by each play that talks about role-playing.
This masterpiece is rarely performed because it is very difficult: its meaning is evident, but its portrayal-range is so capacious that the evident meaning may easily be smudged. In the Radnóti Theatre Anni Füzér’s simple and truly Pirandelloian set – the curtains layered on top of one other –, is pure theatre – suggests anon, that we should doubt everything: not believe our own ears or eyes.
At the beginning of the past century this young and amorous aristocrat had an accident at a costume riding amusement, hit his head – and when he woke up, he was glued to his costume. From then on he was the medieval emperor, Henry IV., who went to Canossa to ask for the pope’s forgiveness. In the meantime he became angry with and suspicious of the whole wide world. The subject of his one-time love, the countess, pops into this situation – with the intention to cure – and so does her casual escort: her present lover from the twentieth century, her daughter, the daughter’s fiancée and a doctor.
According to Pirandello’s bitter diagnosis, there are plenty of illnesses and ill people. Henry IV. in the Radnóti Theatre’s performance comes on stage relatively quickly – right after the “initiation” of the audience and the doctor –, moreover slips onto stage from his wooden throne, and is altogether tüchtig mad. Tibor Szervét’s face is painted white (plus that rakish little moustache), wig on his head; he is a clown, if you like. He puts the crown on his head: he is the clown king.
The central question of the performance: is this eccentric person mad or not? But the main point becomes: “Why?“ Director Stefano de Luca is most interested in making the answer to this obscure and ambiguous – thus tension remains all throughout. According to his environment Henry may seem crazy – thus we, the audience will see him as normal. Or the other way around. When the new servant, Sándor Csányi enters into service and hears about the details, he brings almost to the bitter end the hysterical repulsion of the "healthy world": he would rather flee, and not just because he prepared from another Henry IV., from the French one . He is a delegate of the normal and apathetic world – our delegate, if you like.
The visitors, the ones who would falsely participate are the representatives of the abnormal world: those who want to cure, those who – kost was kost – will try to help, even if that is only as long as the king shall live. In the name of the one-time love Adél Kováts’s Countess Matilde feels – if needed – , she should destroy a sick man’s life.
Henry IV. is brought to life by Tibor Szervét as if he were instructed by the author himself who was very much at home and accomplished in madness and symbiosis with a lunatic. Szervét comprehends this role as an intellectual acting challenge – and that is what it really is. Because of this – though it seems that it was dictated by spontaneity – he becomes the real motor of the performance: each gesture, each utterance is a signal and reason towards the central dilemma, which is no longer madness, but role-playing.
That young man woke up to a clear conscious from the accident after some real mental power failure, and decided to continue that power failure and put on a show for the world around him. He appeared to the world as a psychotic who lives in the net of fixed ideas. It looks like Pirandello, the genius wrote his desired image into this character, who – thus – escapes from all existentialist and spiritual decisions, but in the meantime constantly makes decisions in his own irrational world. He flees from the really gloomy dilemmas of the twentieth century – he plays a role.
Szervét is magnificent. In the first part he makes fun of everyone; and for only one second does real shock flickers in his eyes. This is needed to (finally) unmask himself in front of the countess, and at the same time to seriously blame her. Adél Kováts’s Matilde clings onto this flash that seemed to be lucidous.
Since the opening night the performance has come together, the second part, through the unmaskings tends towards the ideal dénouement. The supporting actors work pretty well, that is barely: representing the younger generation Ágnes Kovalik and Gábor Karalyos are unperceivable, the countess’s lover, the baron is portrayed as a jackass by Attila Epres, Gábor Kocsó is a doctor with blinkers, the servants – especially Zoltán Schneider – skillfully lean towards changing reality. Adél Kováts’s Matilde is at once a mirror to and the motivation for Szervét’s Henry.
"Just because I felt like making believe that I was mad" (or: "I am determined to prove a villan") – says the historical fugitive, having been shocked by the present. Instead he chooses the „dark” past. But at least this way he can stab the bastard baron and through him the whole twentieth century – and not be punished.
March 24. Judit Csáki (Mancs weekly magazine)