The first act: a room the size of a ceremonial hall; creviced brown floor, flinders, broken stones, spalls of bricks; in the midst of everything — a distinctly extrinsic lacquered chair with whorls, overhead light — a person whom the chair belongs to has a certain kind of significance, although it is unclear whether he is burdened by it or not; on the background — a long row of portraits, the faces of depicted cannot be discerned, but all of them are eyeing the audience; on the left — a window, a gloomy evening on the outside, a heavy branch, withered leaves — the wind should have carried them away a long ago, but this never happened for some reason and thus they seem absolutely pointless.
You are flying out to the stage, outspreading your hands to the arched ceiling, exclaiming the first word — it does not matter what exactly, this is the new life, the new position, the futurity will come naturally; nobody yet is in the hall, the empty velour rows, the dim echoing aisles, but you have broken the silence and within this instant everything is pointed at you — and waiting for a response, for an unexpected course of events, for a thread that the one can cling to and continue, continue intricately, continue until an etude is wrung and bled dry… Were you taught like that? An actor who is taught remains a dead actor. Were you fostered like that? An actor who is fostered remains no less dead. Where the naturalness is absent, vulgarity, mechanical swaying, factitious postures and labored pathos are reigning — a plain trifling displaces the genuine art, and that stage on which the imitation of art is grinded out stealthily, is shameful!
You are beckoning, attracting, giving one more reason to do it — and, apparently, are quite aware of that, otherwise you would not have stared so impudently, otherwise you would not have said your lines with such a provocation, otherwise you would have slipped into an everlasting monologue, and you love monologues indeed, you can never be drawn into anything else so — to the extent of plainness — simply; however, you have intended something completely different now, overtly awaiting for an answer worthy of consideration, — and I will give it to you. Here it is. So what are you trying to act like at this moment, which one of the hundreds of clay masks have you chosen, who are you? Confess to me, Light Yagami, confess to me!
The second act: raking light — a deep wardrobe, nothing is left inside but a few hangers; a door is abruptly and tactlessly thrown open, as if somebody has forgotten about it — absent-mindedly or hurriedly, perhaps; on the inner, visible side of the door a slightly faded mirror measuring the half of human growth is placed; nearby the wing flat the footsteps and creaking floorboards are heard and receding; somebody is calling for a person about to leave, but the audience is not able to distinguish the reply.
Under no circumstances you come out to the stage spontaneously — everything is planned, a clear intention lies beneath any gesture, or a word, or a pause, or a smile, — and always examine beforehand all those uncountable entangled pathways which any deceptively inelaborate episode may follow; you look far ahead, from afar, from above, you foreknow and predict every single detail, and a perfect, completely natural illusion of prescience is created, and nobody dares to question your genius. I will. Your acting is rational and emotions are learned, the stage is not your home, it is rather like a chessboard or a coordinate place: heartless, soulless, cognizable. Art is subjective, but you have replaced its nature, and none has noticed: an actor's personality must appear through a character sooner or later, a fictional entity must integrate with an actual one, but in your performance it is you who cannot be seen, you are eternally separated by the fifth wall, you are as much a liar as I am.
Come out, open up, be provoked — you got used to the tops of the pedestals, there is nothing special about laurel wreaths any longer, and, perhaps, at one distant time the makings of an actor, an outstanding actor, were hidden in you, but right now you are cowardly covering with the guises of protagonists, you do not immerse into acting with the erstwhile entrancement — you have forgotten the very meaning of this word. Theater neither does tolerate the cowardice nor does tolerate the reticence: every instant on the stage must embody a confession — so confess, Ryuzaki, confess!
The third act: a strong feeling of large space; limelight — a carved golden folding screen, the ongoing movements behind; the outlines of human figures are glimpsing, a laughter is heard; in the back part of the stage something alluring is kept, something that strikingly reminds of happiness; the audience is impatient, the folding screen is about to be shifted away in a few seconds, — but expectations are deceived, nobody is allowed, nothing happens, the view remains unavailable; the laughter is tailing away; the light is gradually fading.
The theater has seen a lot and admits even the most desperate ones — do whatever you want to: the theater also does not blush. A grandiose performance: they are walking in circles, they are floating, their hands are made of candle flames, faces are made of spectators' delight, phrases are made of thousands of printed pages; come closer, closer, you can't, recoil, or you can, touch, don't, got burnt, have you, closer, who are you now, who are you, where is your face, or a mask is your face, what's the difference, I don't know, you know it yourself, who cares, closer, where are your hands, I can't bear your hands, can't bear your face, you're smirking, caustic, rawboned, look into my eyes, into my eyes, struggle, thrill, open up to me, speak the truth, create the truth, closer, more, yes, yes, yes, confess to me, confess!..
The pure art exists for a fleeting instant, but it reigns over the eternity.
For the sake of an instant people die, for the sake of an instant people arise from the dead, for the sake of an instant people overtop the mortal body, for the sake of an instant people daringly fall head down into the abyss.
An actor must drown in his partner, must disappear without a trace, and only then — only then! — they both will incarnate in themselves the pure art — the immortal art.
And they are drowning.
Applause. Louder! Louder! Louder!
They are drowning.
(CURTAINS)
24.10.16