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Childhood | Theater of the Young Spectator

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Leo Tolstoy

retelling of the story
performance duration 3 hours 20 minutes

SPECIAL PRIZE OF THE JURY OF THE DRAMA THEATER AND PUPPET THEATER OF THE NATIONAL THEATER AWARD “GOLDEN MASK”
“For the subtle and expressive reading of Leo Tolstoy’s story “Childhood” by means of an integral ensemble of actors”

In the chamber performance of the Khabarovsk Youth Theater Tolstoy’s measured prose turns into a shimmering stream of consciousness. Together with four characters, the viewer is immersed in the space of memory, where philosophical reasoning and revived episodes from the hero’s childhood float on each other, like frames in the animation of Yuri Norshtein (it even seems that the sad spinning top from the “Tale of Fairy Tales” should be behind the closet). Directed by Konstantin Kuchikin, the story is not about the legacy of a noble estate, but about the heirs of the time – the twentieth century. Their home is definitely recognizable, native: hat boxes, an old carved sideboard, a painted chest, a thin-framed bicycle, boxes with beads and old letters, photo albums, a sewing machine in a wooden case, a wall clock and a rocking horse. This world of things, lovingly collected from attics and commission rooms by the performance artists Katerina Andreeva and Pavel Ogluzdin, keeps the warmth of human hands and lives; saved by the theater from death and oblivion, he himself is called to save his inhabitants.
theater expert Ekaterina Ryabova

Important: When buying tickets, pay attention to the seating arrangements. For the seating of spectators, not chairs are provided, but benches with a soft surface. 1st and 2nd rows – without backs, 3rd row – with backs.

At the entrance to the theatre, as well as in the auditorium. to get to your place, you need to overcome the steps of the stairs.

If you are experiencing mobility problems, please contact our staff and we will assist you.

Please notify us in advance by calling (4212)32-40-37 (cash desk)

14+

Director – Konstantin Kuchikin
Artist – Katerina Andreeva

are busy in the play

Galina Baburina
Maria Bondarenko
Vitaly Fedorov
Andrey Shramko 9000
Premiere date 10/14/2016
New stage

Reviews

@minaeva.yuliya It was amazing. To tears!!!👏👏👏

@njyz56 Due to circumstances, I rarely go to the theater, but I immediately remembered Fedorova and Koltunova. These are born actors. Was at the premiere. Everyone played wonderfully with great dedication, talented, sincere, sensual, heartfelt!!! I’m glad we have such amazing artists! Good luck in your work and in your personal life.

@petrovai_rina Literally a few words from the ‘theatre critic’… the play ‘Childhood’ by Tolstoy #goldenmask the male cast is brilliant. Fedorov reminded young Menshikov at the Pokrovsky gate. The same sparkle in the eyes 🙂 Light, sound, scenery – everything makes up a single picture. You peer into the details and almost the same small chair pops up from your childhood. Only he was blue. And Grandma is nearby … friends, I don’t know where and how this performance can still be seen, but it’s necessary to remember the theater of the young spectator from Khabarovsk🎭

Oleg Lapshin The “dark horse” of the competition program turned into an amazingly bright performance in every sense To be honest, I did not believe that Leo Tolstoy’s text, which looks archaic and cumbersome today, would be able to interest the viewer in any way. However, the director Konstantin Kuchikin managed not at least a little, but to the maximum. Outwardly simple, even slightly old-fashioned tricks, but it is a very emotional and convincing simplicity that takes the viewer into the full. Prayer for childhood, like any sincere prayer, is valuable not for complexity, but for others. As for the scene with Sonechka, I generally wanted it to go on and on, without ending. An important role is played by the apartment built on the stage. (artists Katerina Andreeva and Pavel Ogluzdin). It’s less of a decoration. And the space that begins right at the viewer’s feet, in which the life of a child passes. His micro and macrocosm. Combining the signs of different eras, but this is not a stylistic patchwork, but a Shvambraniya of children’s fantasies, in which the real setting naturally combines with the invented one. All four actors are good, but Vitaly Fedorov especially stood out for me. All the time it seemed that he did not follow the pattern of the role, namely that he was a child, often not knowing what he would do next. He rests on his own, starts to play pranks, even realizing that they will be punished. burst into tears or show unexpected childish wisdom. He existed inside a children’s paradise. When you love everyone, everyone loves you, there is a God, there is definitely this mother and it sincerely seems that with that little blonde in curls you will be able to live a long happy life in the closet and no one, no one will find you And at the same time, and here this simultaneity is absolutely amazing, Fedorov looked at himself and at all the action with a bitter adult look, knowing that you will be expelled from this children’s paradise and already forever.

Elena Gordienko I will be very rooting for this performance. “Childhood” of the Khabarovsk Youth Theater, dir. Konstantin Kuchikin. The manner of the theater-story at first alerted me, it seems to me that it almost does not work at all, but the actors quickly interrupted this skepticism. So that you understand: in the end they themselves cried. The third person did not appear here for the sake of estrangement, on the contrary, it brought closer and led away from fiction: here they did not present the story as it happened according to Tolstoy’s plot, but dipped and dipped the audience into their childhood through Tolstoy’s guide text, which almost everyone also read in childhood. And there were, as it were, two views: one – the same childish, open and protected, and the other – already irrevocably matured, already overtaken by complexity, emptiness and irreversibility. And if the hero of V. Fedorov, Nikolenka, seemed to cling to every detail and fell into that attitude of his, into soaring and smiling, into his first love – when you want to knock everything around and fly on a swing, and you don’t notice clumsiness, and you are afraid – but – childishly – to run ahead, then E. Koltunova – and Natalia Savishna, and mother, first of all mother, the further, the more it seems to look into the eyes of the impending separation and death, knows about it in advance, even before the letter. Sad, bright, but not carefree eyes. For such a story, where through the story of Irtenyev everyone’s personal stories shine through on this wooden parquet, the best option was found with space (bravo to the artist Katerina Andreeva): there is no stage, no backdrop, the actors are at arm’s length, as well as authentic ones, with their own story each, objects at different levels of depth, including overhanging fabric shades of chandeliers or a bookcase with jam jars, a tied stack of books and a hinged swing – we find ourselves, as it were, in a real apartment (and even enter through the door), and everything seems to be touched with a glance – but we can’t really touch it, they let us get up from the chairs only once – in order to transfer to others. This world is completely real – but it is impossible to enter it. Dream of childhood, dream of paradise. And this apartment is not integral, not Irtenev’s with its chronotope, but composite: here are ficuses, and tear-off calendars, and a bicycle. Childhood of different generations, universal childhood. When a package was thrown onto the table with old photo albums, including passbooks, letters, I couldn’t help but cry, think about my package with my grandmother’s things, her certificates and even books .. And you think what’s after you? and what will speak only of time, and what will keep the memory of you all the same? And so you will always recognize your own, your own in the performance. And it tingles. You need to hug all your loved ones. Thank you for this performance before Easter.

@chaika13813 I can’t help writing! Not because it’s native, but because it’s GREAT! It grabbed, held and didn’t let go. For me, it’s like Kusturica only in the theater. Not to say – atmospheric. It’s so calm and deep! I drowned! This is when without anguish and guts on the stage, without saliva into the hall, but I dissolved in the heroes of this performance, in every little thing on the stage, in this cozy old house. I eagerly savored every action, every word! I tried to predict, predict, but every time I was deceived) and this is so rare and pleasant in the theater) when every minute is a surprise. Everything is delicious to the smallest detail! Pleasure! In everything! I wanted to run around with the actors and dance, swing on a log, climb chairs, walk in the dark. Like a child, I was frightened with them, laughed, cried) This is an amazing, painstakingly tortured BABY (I heard, 9months work) and now it was born!) And it’s so nice to follow him, sitting in the hall! Thanks for this director Konstantin Kuchikin! Artists! @ogluzdin_pavel Actors! To everyone who is involved!

Natalia Svyatenkaya I’m watching the third premiere… and I just can’t write a comment. I liked all the performances of this season very much. “Childhood” reminded me of the summer when I read Tolstoy… somewhere between 7th and 8th grade. Now I look at this work with different eyes. I am glad that the classics have finally appeared in your theater. Successful improvisation with space and scenery does not overshadow the “most important thing”. The cast, as always, is great.

Reminder for spectators

Read online “Childhood”, Tova Ditlevsen – Litres

Translation: Anna Rakhmanko

Editor: Olga Dergacheva

Church: Julia Kozhemyakina

Cover design: Julia Popova

Technical Editor: Laima Anderson

Educational editor -in -chief chief editor : Alexandra Shadrina

Published with the support of the Danish Arts Foundation

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the copyright holders.

© Anna Rakhmanko, Russian translation, 2020

© Russian edition, layout. No Kidding Press, 2020

⁂

1

Hope still smoldered in the morning. She was a fleeting glimpse of my mother’s dark, straight hair, which I never dared to touch; it lay on my tongue with the sweetish warmth of oatmeal; I ate slowly, looking at my mother’s thin hands, motionless resting on the newspaper, right on the news about the Spanish flu and the Treaty of Versailles. By that time, my father had gone to work, my brother had gone to school. Mom was left alone, although I was sitting next to her; and if I managed to lie low without giving myself away by a sound, then the secret silence of her impenetrable heart lasted – until the morning grew old and it was time to go shopping on Istedgade Street, as was customary with ordinary wives.

The sun was rising over the green gypsy wagon – as if it was bursting right out of it, and Scabies-Hans appeared: naked to the waist, in the hands of a basin. Doused with water, he reached for a towel, which Lily Pretty Woman immediately handed him. They did without words – just like pictures in a book when you leaf through it quickly, quickly. Like my mom, they changed after a few hours. Itchy Hans was in the Salvation Army, Lily Pretty was his lover. In the summer, they stuffed their green wagon with small children and took them out into nature, for which the parents paid a crown a day. I also went with them when I was three years old and my brother was seven. At the age of five, from the entire trip, I only remembered how Lily-Pretty Woman once dropped me out of the wagon on warm sand, which seemed to me a real desert. The green wagon started and rolled, getting smaller and smaller, my brother was sitting inside, and I thought that I would never see him or my mother again. All the children returned home with scabies. This is how Hans earned his nickname. Lily Pretty Woman was not beautiful. But my mother – yes, especially in these strange and joyful morning hours when I left her alone and in complete silence. Beautiful, unattainable, lonely, immersed in deep secret experiences that I would never have guessed. Behind her, on the floral wallpaper—her father patched up the loose pieces with brown duct tape—there was a picture of a woman gazing out the window, with a cradle with a baby on the floor next to her. The caption at the bottom explained: “The wife is waiting for the return of her husband from the sea” ^[1] . Sometimes my mother noticed where I was looking, and following me, her gaze glided over the picture, which seemed to me so tender and sad. But then she burst into sudden laughter, and it sounded as if a myriad of paper bags were exploding from the air bursting them. My heart was beating faster from longing and regret that someone had broken the silence of the universe, but I also laughed, because I, like my mother, was seized by gloomy fun. Suddenly she pushed the chair away, rose and stood in front of the picture, in a rumpled nightgown, her hands on her hips. In a clear and mischievous girlish voice – not her own, like the one she bargained with the sellers in the market – mother sang:

Didn’t I swear to my Tulla
To sing to her whatever I want?
Visselülle, visselülle.
Get away from the windows, my friend,
Come back another time.
Chill with cold drove
Old Tramp home.

I didn’t like the song at all, but I had to laugh, because my mother sang on purpose to cheer me up. Yes, I myself was to blame: if I hadn’t looked at the woman on the wall, I would have remained unnoticed. Mom, with her stern, beautiful eyes, would sit with her hands folded neatly and stare into the void that separates us. And my heart could still whisper “mother” for a long time, knowing that she would hear him in some mysterious way. I would let her be alone again and again, so that she would silently say my name and know that we are inextricably linked. Then something very similar to love would fill the whole world, and it would be passed on to Hans Itches and Pretty Lily, and they would remain color pictures in the book. But as soon as the song ended, they began to quarrel, shout and pull each other by the hair. Angry voices burst from the entrance into our living room at once, and I swore to myself: tomorrow I will pretend that this sad picture on the wall is no more.

Now that hope was shattered, mother began to dress with abrupt and irritated movements, as if every piece of clothing offended her. I also had to get dressed – the world around me became cold, dangerous and vile: the dark rage that my mother always fell into resulted in me getting slapped in the face or flying off to the stove. She seemed so alien and strange to me that I believed that I had been replaced in infancy and that she was not my mother at all. Having dressed, she went to the mirror in the bedroom, spat on some pink tissue paper and rubbed her cheeks roughly and strongly. I carried the cups into the kitchen, and long, mysterious words began to envelop my mind, as if covering it with a protective veil. A song, a poem, something soothing and rhythmic and endlessly melancholy, but never sad or disturbing, because I knew that my day would be both sad and disturbing without that. When these light waves of words overwhelmed me, I understood that my mother could do nothing more for me, because now she ceased to mean anything to me. And she knew it: her eyes were filled with hostility. While my soul was swimming, my mother never hit me, but she never spoke to me either. From that moment until the next morning, only our bodies remained side by side. But even in this closeness, they avoided the slightest, even the lightest touch. On the wall, the sailor’s wife was still waiting for her husband, but in our world, neither me nor my mother needed a man. Our fragile happiness, strange and infinite, blossomed only if we were alone, and when I grew up, it did not return – except sometimes there were rare flashes, which after my mother’s death became even more dear to me, because there was no one left who could tell her real story – what she really was.

2

At the very bottom of my childhood, my father stands and laughs. It is dark and old as an oven, but I am absolutely not afraid of anything in it. I know everything I’m allowed to know about him, and if I want to know anything else, all I have to do is ask. He himself does not tell me anything about himself, because he has absolutely no idea what to talk about with little girls. Sometimes he pats me on the head and says: hehe. In response, his mother purses her lips, and he hastily withdraws his hand. A father has certain privileges because he is a man and provides for all of us. Mom puts up with this, but not without objections. You could sit like everyone else, she says as he lies on the couch. When he reads the book, she adds: Reading makes you weird, books are full of lies. On Sundays, my father drinks a bottle of beer, and then my mother says: it costs twenty-six ore. If you continue like this, we will end up in Sunnholm ^[2] . Although I know that in Sunnholm they sleep on straw and eat salted herring three times a day, the word finds its way into the poems that I compose in moments of fear and loneliness, because it is beautiful, like a picture in one of my father’s books, which is so to me Like. It is called “Family of a worker in nature” and depicts parents with two children. They sit on the grass and laugh together and eat from a basket lying in the middle. The eyes of all four are turned to the flag planted in the grass next to their father’s head. The flag is all red. I always look at this picture upside down – I only manage to do this when my father is reading a book. Then Mom turns on the light and draws yellow curtains at the window, even if it’s not dark yet. My father was a scoundrel and a drunkard, she says, but at least not a socialist. The father continues to read – he is deaf, and this is well known to everyone. My brother Edwin sits and hammers nails into a board and then pulls them out with tongs. One day he will become a craftsman, a master. And this is good, even very good. Tables in the houses of the masters are covered with real tablecloths instead of newspapers, and they eat with a knife and fork. They will never be out of work, and they are not socialists. Edwin is handsome and I am ugly. Edwin is smart and I’m stupid. These are as commonplace truths as printed white letters at the end of a bakery at the end of the street. It says “Politiken is the best newspaper.” Once I asked my father why he was reading Social Democratic, but he frowned, cleared his throat, and my mother and Edwin broke into their usual papery laughter because I was so terribly stupid.

The living room is an island of light and warmth in those thousand evenings when the four of us gather like paper dolls from the wall behind the columns in a puppet theater – his father made a model from Familie Journalen. Eternal winter, the same cold in the world as in our bedroom and kitchen. The living room floats through time and space, and the fire crackles in the stove. Although Edwin rattles his hammer, the rustle of a page turned by his father in a forbidden book seems to drown out the noise. Father has been flipping through many pages when Edwin puts down his hammer and looks up at his mother with his big brown eyes. Maybe mom will sing? he suggests. Yes, she replies, smiling at him, and at the same moment my father puts the book on his stomach and looks at me, as if he wants to talk to me about something. But the words that my father and I want to say to each other will never be spoken. Edwin jumps up and hands his mother her only book, which she carefully keeps. Collection of military songs. While mom is flipping through, her brother is bending over her; even without touching each other, they are still so close that my father and I are excluded from this closeness. As soon as the mother starts to sing, the father immediately falls asleep with his hands folded on the forbidden book. She sings loudly and piercingly, as if separating herself from the words of the song:

Oh mother, is that you, mother?
You shed a lot of tears, I see.
You have come a long way. You must be tired.
Don’t cry, now I’m happy, mom.
Thank you for being here, against all horrors.

There are many verses in all my mother’s songs, and before she has time to finish the first one, Edwin takes up the hammer again, and father snores even louder. My brother asked me to sing to soften my mother’s anger over my father’s reading. Edwin is a boy, and boys aren’t interested in songs that make you cry. My mom doesn’t like it at all when I cry, so with a lump in my throat, I bend over a picture of a battlefield, where a dying soldier holds out his hand to the glowing image of his mother, who, in fact, I’m sure is not there. All the songs in the collection have the same content, and while my mother sings them, I can do whatever comes into my head, because she is completely immersed in her own world and nothing from the outside can distract her. She does not even hear how they start to fight and quarrel downstairs. Rapunzel lives there with a long golden braid, along with her parents, who have not yet sold her to a witch for a bouquet of bells. My brother is a prince, and he does not suspect that he will go blind after falling from the tower. He, the pride of the family, drives nails into the board. This is an occupation for boys, and girls just need to get married and have children. They must be provided for, and they have nothing more to look forward to and nothing to count on. Rapunzel’s parents work at the Carlsberg factory and drink fifty bottles of beer every day. Returning home in the evening, they continue to drink, and shortly before I go to bed, they begin to yell and beat Rapunzel with a thick stick. She always comes to school with bruises on her face or legs. Tired of beating their daughter, they rush at each other with bottles and broken chair legs; not infrequently the police come and take one of them away, and only then is the house finally quiet. My mom and dad hate the police. They believe that Rapunzel’s parents have the right to calmly beat each other to death if they so desire. Her father claims that the police carry out orders for influential people, and her mother often recalls how the gendarmes took her father away and sent her to prison. She will never forget it. My father does not drink and has never been in prison. My parents don’t fight, and I’m doing much better than when they were kids. But still, a dark streak of fear borders all my thoughts when they subside down below and it’s time for me to go to bed. Good night, my mother says to me, closes the door and returns to the warm living room. I take off my dress, woolen petticoat, bodice and long black stockings, which I receive every year as a gift for Christmas, pull my nightgown over my head and linger for a moment at the window, looking down into the depths of the black courtyard and at the wall of the front ^[3] of a building that is constantly crying as if it had just rained. There are almost never lights in the windows, because there are bedrooms behind them, and all normal people sleep without light. I can see a small square of sky between the walls, on which a single star sometimes shines. I call her the evening star and think about her with all my might when my mother comes in to turn off the light and I watch from my bed as the mountain of clothes behind the door turns into long gnarled arms trying to wrap around my neck. I try to scream, but it’s only a faint whisper, and when the scream finally breaks through, the bed and I are covered in sweat. Father appears at the door and turns on the light. You just had a nightmare, he says, I suffered from them a lot as a child too. But those were other times. He looks at me thoughtfully, not even imagining that a child with such a good fate as mine can be tormented by nightmares. I smile shyly and apologize as if my cry was just a stupid whim. I pull the blanket up to my chin, because a man is not supposed to see a girl in a nightgown.