Stage Worlds of Poetry and Human Passions: Iasi National Theatre Showcase

Savas Patsalidis*

What stands out in my memory from my second visit to Iasi, which extended from 30 November to 7 December 2024? If I were pressed to pinpoint the most remarkable part of the festival, undoubtedly it would be the flawless organization of the festival and the graciousness of our hosts, who made sure our entire experience was enjoyable. The captivating and diverse lineup of performances also left a lasting impression.

*Lysistrata, Mon Amour* (*Lysistrata, dragostea mea*) by Matei Visniec. Directed by Zalán Zakariás. A musical version of Aristophanes classic antiwar satire. In the middle of the picture is the leader of the sex strike Lysistrata played by the talented Diana Roman. Photo: George Popovici. Courtesy of the Festival

Among the six (out of seven) performances I attended, three carried the signature of the renowned and award-winning Romanian director Radu Afrim. One could argue that this showcase served as a mini tribute to his work, and rightly so.

Similar to other renowned Romanian directors like Silviu Purcărete and Andrei Șerban, Afrim creates a distinct and recognizable stage universe populated by everyday people, showcasing both their virtues and flaws. His works depict human microcosms rich with themes such as disappearance, homecoming, betrayal, scapegoating, fragility, victimization, traumatization, denial of freedom, violence, migration, boredom, desolation, death, rebirth, nostalgia, youthfulness, and childhood memories.^[1] Collectively, these worlds weave a revealing tapestry that reflects contemporary Romanian history, which he poignantly described as “drowning culturally, educationally” (Rusiecki 13). This statement, made in 2013, emphasizes his pursuit of a more radical method for portraying the challenges of his homeland.

Radu Afrim. Photo: Claudia Gorun. Courtesy of Radu Afrim

Since then, he has sought solutions inspired by contemporary issues, but without the confrontational stance of the earlier years. Now, with greater self-assurance and a more assimilated set of artistic tools, along with a clearly different and more receptive audience, he no longer feels the need to shout or provoke to make his voice heard. He is well known and established within the mainstream, though this doesn’t mean that his earlier style has disappeared. On the contrary, while he draws from the well of everyday realism for his ideas and characters, he still diverges significantly from the conventional approach to familiar realism that typically presents psychologically and emotionally well-rounded portraits. His characters emerge through fragmented actions and unpredictable reactions, indicating that he does not conform to the principles of psychological theatre realism. Instead, he aims to highlight the theatricality of his subjects, drawing from a range of influences such as the grotesque, melodrama, pop culture, and technology. These elements find their significance and presence on stage through a carefully calibrated use of performative exaggeration, characterized by an overall theatrical style and behavior encompassing gestures, facial expressions, speech, playfulness, stylized movements, colors, makeup and soundscapes. In the insightful reflections below, he articulates his motivations for directing:

“I started directing because I wanted to combine painting, poetry, architecture and literature. […] [F]or me a work is good when it manages to break as many of the textbook rules of directing as possible. When it contains a sufficient dose of energy of uncertain provenance and a slice of ephemerality is delivered by heavy goods vehicles, […] if the relationships between the characters are completely unpredictable, then it’s almost perfect” (Rusiecki 198).

Afrim undeniably belongs to the category of auteur creators. His stage grammar diverges from established conventions, following more fluid structures and more oblique pathways, one of which is his propensity to engage with texts not originally intended for the stage, such as prose writings, poetry, memoirs, and biographies. While he does not dismiss traditional dramatic texts, he appears to be more attracted to works that allow him greater latitude for creative and personal expression.

This approach, while inviting, does present challenges, as not all original material is suitable for the dynamics and demands of the theatrical medium. Some works, despite their quality within their respective genres, may struggle to convey their essence effectively, lacking the immediacy required for theatrical discourse.

These very brief comments serve as a prelude to the work of a great artist, who, upon his debut, created a stir among the audience and critics due to his style of directing, his engagement with his international theatrical models, and more generally his unique approach to managing theatrical and interpretative codes, dramatic forms, character development and current social trends and issues. It is no coincidence that from the beginning, a large portion of his audience has been, and still is, young people, those individuals who are always ready to embrace change, the unfamiliar, the new, the visionary. It is not an exaggeration to say that Afrim’s presence, although controversial at first, would later prove to be the key factor in the transformation of Romanian theatre. It is also important that the Romanian theatre public is now far more mature, more cosmopolitan and receptive to new ideas, more willing to adopt a policy of tolerance, qualities that are necessary for the legitimation of an art form which a few years ago triggered tensions and controversies.

Having said that, we will now shift our focus to the primary subject of this short article: the three performances I attended in Iasi in 2024.

Time for Joy **(Zi de bucurie)**

Time for Joy, authored by Norwegian playwright Arne Lygre, releases an aura of Scandinavian psychology and temperament infused with elements reminiscent of Jon Fosse, and an atmosphere akin to Samuel Beckett. This play resonates on a universal level, engaging with fundamental human themes and concerns such as loss, grief, sadness, desire, and, most prominently, joy. It explores how individuals derive joy from their lives by pursuing their unique paths. A notable example is the character of the Mother of the play, who perceives the community cemetery, particularly the specific location where she wishes to be interred, as the ideal place to reunite with her two children. However, only her eldest daughter responds to her call, while her son remains absent. No one knows if he will appear.

Gradually, the cemetery becomes populated with people who have experienced the loss of their loved ones, coming to leave flowers or simply to chat. These individuals want to feel part of a collective experience, each carrying their own narratives and personal stories that they wish to express. Ironically, they find attentive listeners in a space where life stories and experiences ultimately converge to a close.

The playwright adeptly and thoughtfully explores the seemingly ordinary lives of these individuals, illuminating their fears, passions, tensions, loves and joys, as well as the profound sorrow of abandonment. Dramatic figures emerge unexpectedly within the encompassing context of these stories, only to vanish just as swiftly, as if conjured from our imagination, denying us the opportunity to fully understand them. This raises pertinent questions, such as the following:

What significance lies in this abrupt intrusion and equally abrupt exit?
Is it an act of violence, a deliberate disruption of narrative continuity, a theatrical representation of our ephemeral existence on Earth, or perhaps a commentary on the spectral presences that accompany us in our daily lives?

The author refrains from providing definitive answers, and does not feel compelled to contextualize this choice within a coherent and stable framework. His dramatic figures resemble rolling entities, charting their own trajectories and governed by their own internal logic. With a counterpart in theatre, this movement represents a journey of perpetual transformation. The author’s reflections in an interview further elucidate his perspective on writing and creation. As he explains,

“When I start writing a play, I let my imagination flow, without having a clear idea of what will happen to my characters. I don’t write about events from my own life. I create fictions and carefully work on the language in an intuitive way, waiting for something important to emerge. What is fascinating about writing for theatre is how the material transforms. At first, it’s a literary text. Then, a director takes over the text, creating a new artistic work. The plays I’ve written are more alive than prose. Dust begins to settle on my novels and collection of short stories. In theatre, there is much more play. A feeling becomes a thought, which takes the form of a spoken word. Words have power” (interview conducted by Finn Skaderud Oslo, 2022).^[2]

The Performance

According to the director, the performance A Day of Joy, designed by Anna Krupas, explores themes of tenderness and the poignant awareness that such emotions may ultimately be ephemeral, evoking a sense of abandonment as the characters traverse the streets devoid of identity or purpose. These directorial reflections align closely with the author’s narrative positions and focus. After all, Afrim is familiar with the playwright’s work, having previously staged The Memory Trilogy at the National Theatre of Craiova. The thematic concerns presented in Lygre’s work match his own preoccupations, including identity, the fragility of human relationships, loneliness, tolerance and the pursuit of happiness.

Similar to those of the playwright, Afrim’s dramatic stories do not adhere to a conventional structure featuring a clear beginning, middle, and end. Instead, they function primarily as stimuli or contemplative reflections on the concept of enjoyment, culminating in a multi-layered scenic montage of impressions. This is particularly evident in the second act, where preceding elements dissolve to reveal a queer scenario imbued with kitsch, reminiscent of a theatrical rendition of the Eurovision Song Contest. Discussing the structure of his work, Lygre has this to say:

“A lot of situations call upon our independence, the attachment we feel to the other or the lack of it. The play switches spaces, evolves constantly and none of the characters travel all the way with us. Everyone has their own path and their own reason to declare that the time of joy has come. Even if the play talks about forgiveness, I am equally interested in the notion of hope.” (quoted from the programme of the showcase)

While I respect the playwright’s views and the director’s choices, I found it difficult, as a viewer, to grasp the logic of the final act. The atmosphere of joy felt contrived, verbose and rather superficial. Had the first part remained intact, the overall impressions would have been stronger, resulting in a more cohesive impact. The sudden introduction of new characters, without even minimal development, fragmented my understanding and severely challenged my engagement. Although these new dramatis personae brought vibrant energy, mirth and warmth to the stage, they did not assist in providing the overall performance with contours that enriched the idea of joy and enjoyment. The director’s handling of these newly introduced characters, gentle, colorful and warm as it was, did not develop into a more solid portrayal of their stage presence. Simply put, overturning the logic of linear narration is not sufficient for a nuanced reading or performance to achieve its objectives. Some structural supports are required to maintain the flow of events within their seams, so as not to derail the overall storyline.

Even in performances that may raise questions about their dramatic cohesion and completeness, the director’s talent remains evident, along with his recurring thematic focus—families portrayed with a playful sense of humor that brings color and complexity to the dynamics within this intimate microcosm.

As far as the actors are concerned, regardless of the impression one may get from the play’s text, they believed in what they were called to do and supported it tooth and nail They functioned as a cohesive unit, demonstrating readiness, very good stage chemistry, a well-developed sense of rhythm and stage presence, all of which are the result of both their solid theatrical education and their coexistence in a repertory theatre, where ongoing collaboration and rehearsal naturally cultivate a strong sense of collectivity and shared creation.

The Anthology of Disappearance **(Antologia disparitei)**

One of the standout performances from Radu Afrim’s directorial repertoire is The Anthology of Disappearance (Antologia disparitei), which won Best Show at the 32nd edition of the UNITER Awards Gala. This nearly four-hour piece is a compilation of prose texts by female authors Stefania Mihalache, Anca Vieru, Lorina Bălteanu, Ruxandra Burcescu, Lavinica Mitu and Simona Popescu, prominently featuring individual narratives and experiences that delve into themes of human relationships and loneliness.

The audience is first confronted by the striking set design of Cosmin Florea, where black soil covers the floor, an image rich with connotations related to fertility, hope, belonging, ancestral lands, the burial of hope and dreams, and the eventual reception of the body’s death, that very body which once celebrated, rejoiced, suffered, ate and drank.

In line with Afrim’s distinctive approach, nothing extraordinary happens in the lives of the people who inhabit his stage world; humor and lack of communication dominate. The narration frequently shifts from first-person to third-person perspectives, adding new layers to the action and providing fresh angles for audience reception. This dynamic foster both intimacy and distance, intertwining drama and post-drama, realism and surrealism. Family gatherings accompanied by poignant stories are depicted alongside a scene on a train where the girls onboard call their mother on New Year’s Day, expressing their feelings of loneliness.

The symbolic figure of the father also carries significant weight; notably, all the women refer to him and express a desire to expel him in their quest for freedom. A pivotal moment occurs when a daughter on the train purchases a ticket for him to get off the train and leave, indicating her rejection of his presence. The father is portrayed as a drunkard and a failure, a clear critique by the director of patriarchy and the violence it produces.

As in Afrim’s other works, the relationships between parents and children, particularly mothers and daughters, are prominently featured. However, in his plays, none of these relationships withstand the test of time. The imagery of abandonment permeates the narrative. Ultimately, everything disappears, bodies, seasons, hope. The final scene in the cemetery poignantly underscores this theme, as everyone remembers what has departed, the small things and joys in life. All characters are shrouded in black, dressed as skeletons with hoods and flashlights; the scene ultimately culminates with a large coffin that appears on stage. Meanwhile, a worker disinfects the area, a priest continues to chant, and the women, parodying the Chorus of ancient tragedy, gossip and entertain themselves, conveying an overarching image of departure.

Despite the pervasive presence of death haunting the narrative, the performance brims with life. The female characters confront life’s challenges head-on, passionately seeking truth. “Who are we in the face of the specter of death?” they ask. Is disappearance final, or is there a second chance? As with most of Afrim’s works, the underlying theme ultimately revolves around nostalgia for things that have ended, particularly the search for truth.

As I said at the beginning, Afrim likes to engage with themes so vast that one could say all of life fits within them. I’m not claiming that this is a bad thing. It’s simply “risky,” in the sense that the more the lens widens and the inclusiveness of a performance expands, the more painful and urgent becomes the need to develop a mechanism that will ensure the economy of the events, otherwise, everything becomes flabby, and loses its dynamic, which is none other than the “here and now” communication with the audience.

A performance of two, or even three or four hours, simply cannot contain everything. Theatre is not a novel. The writing and reading process has a different form and temporal scope than the theatrical one. Completely different. And I believe that Afrim’s direction here had moments of weakness, precisely because it failed to construct a coherent and flowing performative whole. The volume of material he ultimately chose to put on stage was indeed very interesting, but it demanded more performative processing in order to facilitate the unobstructed and smooth development of a steady momentum.

Nonetheless, the performance was quite impressive, with elegant choreography by Alice Veliche, excellent lighting by Cristian Niculescu, and an impressive and multi-layered atmosphere created by soundscape and video, also designed by the director. Vibrant, humorous, poignant and demanding in terms of execution, the performance was also a challenge for our memory as well, our only defense against disappearance. It is to memory that I now turn as I write, striving to recall what I witnessed, particularly the faces of the actors who passionately embodied the journey of stage presence and disappearance, the fate of every performance, after all. I genuinely enjoyed this production even though it occasionally left me bewildered, and I especially enjoyed its touch of absurdity and sense of humor.

The Poor Girls Town **(Orașul cu fete sărace)**

This performance, based on Radu Tudoran’s 1941 novel, centers around themes of loss and defeat intermingled with poetic sensitivity. As the director states, “It is about this city with poor girls in a poor country full of sad poetry, an endless sadness, much like poverty.” Indeed, a pervasive melancholy envelops everything and everyone. The sentiment that life is hard for everyone resonates from the outset and lingers until the end, setting the backdrop for the drama: few prosper while many starve, culminating in the tragic fate of the girls who find themselves in a brothel, devoid of hope.

The narrative is characterized by worn-out romances, nostalgia for innocent years and confessional monologues revealing life in the Romanian countryside. As one of the girls who recalls the first boy who kissed her and wonders if he’d want to meet her anymore, says: “For a while I lived with the hope of seeing him again, even from a distance, but the days came and went and didn’t bring him….I miss the boy who kissed me”. “You are merely a shadow of that now, a ghost,” the madam of the brothel tells her, “ like all the girls who surrendered to love or were forced to do so…. He moves on, you stay put.” Unfulfilled promises linger everywhere in the town with poor girls.

Everyone leaves the city, abandoning the impoverished girls, who speak of their experiences of poverty, as well as their mothers, who insisted they get married to find comfort and security. A blanket, serving as a dowry, symbolizes their economic plight. Olea’s monologue is quite revealing when she describes the conditions under which many girls were forced to marry: “I married death. My dowry is a blanket my father made. You wanted me to be a wife, Mother!….You wanted me off, Mother!….You married me off to a stranger. That’s what you did to me.”

At the back of the stage, designed by Cosmin Florea, a large door occasionally opens to reveal all the girls singing traditional Romanian songs. Their Choric interludes aptly reflect the tone and style suggested by the title. They enhance the emotions, moods, thoughts and promises that run through the play. They create a melodious atmosphere that underscores the poor girls’ vulnerability and their unfulfilled dreams. Outside the brothel it is freezing cold; “the trains from the mountains are stuck in the snow drifts at the edge of the plains…. The town freezes from cold to its innermost bowels”; inside the brothel, it is equally cold, and winter sweeps over the girls’ bodies. “Winter passes over us like a heavy wheel with sharp cogs, from under which we emerge in spring with thick skin, as if after a leather treatment.” Only one man, played by Ionuț Cornilă, appears to warm the space; he is the caretaker of the municipal wood storage, evoking an image of rural Romania from decades past.

The narrator’s voice creates bridges between the here and now of the performance and the there and then of the provincial narrative, focusing primarily on the lives of the girls who yearn for the warmth of some clothing, a thick scarf or a hat. Yet, in Marinica’s brothel (Cosmin Maxim), the girls have surrendered their bodies and souls to passing clients. Men are protectors or exploiters, but only occasionally do they appear as sensitive individuals. The Petty Officer, played by Dumitru Nastrusnicu, embodies the violent male client of the brothel. Healthy relationships are absent; only desires remain unfulfilled, perpetually shadowed by melancho

Although he depicts a cruel world, both inside and outside the brothel, Afrim allows no room for the nauseating ugly and repulsive to penetrate it. He maintains his positive outlook and playfulness in the face of tragedy. He leans in with care, tenderness, and empathy over his dramatic characters and the wounds they carry, illuminating them and thus transforming the direction of external space and time (mise en scène) into a mise en abyme, a staging of the landscapes of the psyche. He lays out before our eyes, in a remarkable way, a human geography that reveals a bygone era, one that has passed, but has not been forgotten. It is etched in the memory of those who lived it.

The language of the play is poetic, lyrical, nostalgic and almost bucolic, reminiscent of what has been lost. For me, this performance was the highlight of the showcase, featuring outstanding acting by Diana Roman, Ada Lupu, Cosmin Maxim, Ionuț Cornilă, Dumitru Nastrusnicu, and of course all of the so-called girls of the brothel, clever directorial choices and exceptionally mournful songs by Alice Veliche, complemented by captivating lighting and an intriguing soundscape.

For me, out of the three productions by Afrim, I consider this one to be the best, the most thorough, solid, and clear in its aims and development. Although it was long in duration, it didn’t feel tiring, precisely because it wasn’t verbose, it didn’t waste time on unnecessary things. It didn’t sidestep its theme. It went straight to it. It focused. Everything was in its place, bodies, voices, speech, songs, emotions. Everything converged toward a coherent center: the female body, its traumas, its dreams, its experiences and unfulfilled promises.

Yes, there were many moving moments but not melodramatic ones. Moments of authentic human pain. And just like in the other two productions, here too the talented actors of the National Theatre of Iași did what they were called to do and they did it with the necessary professionalism, knowledge, talent, and enthusiasm. And they were rightly applauded by the crowd that had filled the venue to the brim. A well-deserved recognition.

Concluding Remarks

In many ways, Afrim’s work exhibits strong postmodern elements. He does not seek causes and effects but rather emotions and momentary reactions. Characters do not linger long behind their masks; instead, they step forward frequently, speaking about themselves in the third person and addressing the audience directly. This back-and-forth interplay between drama and meta- or post-drama characterizes the entirety of his work. As noted above, there is no development of characters or relationships: instead, Afrim briefly freezes an image, examines it, and then moves on to another, thereby creating a montaged human geography akin to a mural. Characters introduced at the beginning may not reappear. Many of his female characters are reminiscent of the classic victim, the loser, the defeated, at odds with the real world, but without the coloring of the familiar type. Afrim finds more playful and theatrical ways to surpass the limitations of the archetypical victim while at the same time safeguarding the ability of new audiences to recognize the type.

Song is also a constant presence in Afrim’s work, serving as an interlude. Afrim demonstrates a particular affinity for literary texts, attempting to infuse them with theatrical warmth. Even though he does not always succeed, when he does, which happens quite often, the result is astounding.

In sum, Afrim consistently displays a mastery and deep knowledge of the theatre, as well as a strong sense of group mentality and compassion for the weak; he also surrenders freely to natural impulses and smashes taboos but without succumbing to the cliches of melodrama and conventional thinking.

*Fears (Frici)* by Ana Sorina Corneanu. Stage design: Caralin Tarziu. Directed by Irina Popescu Boieru. Photo: Bogdan Artene. Courtesy of the Festival

Postscript

Since this note specifically addresses a single director, I must also acknowledge the other performances of the showcase: Women Beware of Women (O tragedie veninoasă) directed by Silviu Purcărete, Fears (Frici) directed by Popescu Boieru, Lysistrata, mon Amour directed by Zalán Zakariás, and Hague directed by Cristian-Hadji-Culea. Although some resonated with me more than others, none left me indifferent. I also found captivating elements in performances whose directorial vision did not fully match my own, as in The Hague and especially in Lysistrata, mon amour, which I reviewed in a previous article for Critical Stages (#28, 2023). If Matei Visniec had better managed his material in his attempt to modernize, the play could have been much more cohesive and impactful.

*The Hague* *(Haga),* by Sasha Denisova. Directed by Cristian Hadgji-Culea. Stage design: Dragos Buhagiar and Andrada Chiriac. Music: Mihai Cornea. Photo: Julian Ursachi. Courtesy of the Festival

The program also featured a performance by the esteemed Silviu Purcărete, which I did not attend in Iași but had seen elsewhere. Two years ago, at the National Theatre of Iași, I had the good fortune to see one of his finest works: Death and the Ploughman.

In each of his directorial efforts, Purcărete draws from all the synthetic elements of theatre, presenting us with a total, inclusive spectacle, a feast of colors, bodies, movement and language. He is among the best in the world at crafting stunning images, a painter-magician of colors and more. A true poet of the stage.

Having completed fifty years in theatre, Purcărete was honored in June 2024 by the National Theatre of Craiova in a week-long celebration of his life and his work; an award he truly deserved, considering his substantial contribution to Romanian and global theatre.

*Women Beware of Women (O tragedie veninoasă)* by Thomas Middleton. Directed by Silviu Purcărete. Stage design: Dragos Buhagiar. Music: Vasilie Sirli. Photo: Julian Ursachi. Courtesy of the Festival

Purcărete interprets the relationship between page and stage in his distinctive style characterized by humor and strong, Ionesco-like elements of the absurd. These traits are also present in his direction of the adapted work Women Beware Women: A Tragedy (with set design by Dragoș Buhagiar, original music by Vasile Șirli), which may represent the most mature exploration of power dynamics and desire, political authority, and civil society, by Thomas Middleton, a Renaissance playwright long undervalued.

In some performances, I was more impressed with the set design while in others with the lighting or the music; however, in all instances, I admired the actors’ interpretive skills, their expressiveness, their readiness, their energy, and their excellent stage chemistry. Some of them performed in three or even four completely different plays within the span of a single week, and these were long performances, lasting up to four hours. This is an extraordinary feat, both physically and interpretively, and I am in awe of their exceptional talent and grace.

Endnotes

^[1] See among others: The Sexual Neuroses of Our Parents (2003), Kinky ZoOne (2003), Adam Geist (2005), Plasticine (2005), Scarred Hearts (2006), Cheek to Cheek (2004), The Pillowman (2009), Thieves (2014), Blind Spot (2016).

^[2] More plays by Lygre: Mother and Me and Men (1996), Sudden Eternity (1999), Shadow of a Boy (2003), Man Without Purpose (2005), Days Beneath (2006).

Bibliography

Nagy, Imola. “The Transylvanian Postdramatic Theatre of Radu Afrim.” Theatron, vol. 17, no. 4, 2023, pp. 110-16. Accessed 17 May 2025.

Rusiecki, Cristina. Radu Afrim: The Fabric of Fragility. Trans. Samuel W. F. Onn and Eugen Wohl, Entheos, 2016.

Skårderud, Finn. “Finn Skårderud i samtale med dramatiker Arne Lygre: Mannen med forestillingsevnene” [Finn Skårderud in conversation with playwright Arne Lygre: The Man with the Powers of Imagination]. Aftenposten, 3/03/2019. Accessed 17 May 2025.

*Savas Patsalidis is Professor Emeritus in Theatre Studies at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, where he has taught at the School of English for close to 35 years. He has also taught at the Drama School of the State Theatre of Northern Greece, the Hellenic Open University and the graduate program of the Theatre Department of Aristotle University. He is the author of fourteen books on theatre and performance criticism/theory and co-editor of another thirteen. He is on the Executive Committee of the Hellenic Association of Theatre and Performing Arts Critics and the editor-in-chief of Critical Stages/Scènes critiques, the journal of the International Association of Theatre Critics.