Das Pathos trieft: »Penthesilea: Ein Requiem«
Photo: Jasmin Schuller
With the Russian attack on Ukraine as well as the terror of Hamas and the subsequent invasion of Israeli troops, the perspective on war has changed in this country. Previously it lacked an article and was simply “war”, a topic like many others that could be addressed theoretically, historically or with a view to culturally and geographically distant countries. Of course, without having to, because nothing about it seemed particularly urgent, both mentally, emotionally and politically. Now things are completely different, as every abstract study of war is expected to make a statement about the threatening specific war, be it that in the Ukraine or that in the Middle East.
This expectation is also fueled by the premiere of Nino Haratischwili’s new piece in the Kammerspiele of the Deutsches Theater Berlin. The Tbilisi-born author is best known for her novels. Orders such as “The Eighth Life (For Brilka)” or “The Lack of Light” brought the history and present of Georgia closer to the German readership. Now she is directing her new adaptation of the Penthesilea story, a secondary strand of the story about Troy. In »Penthesilea: A Requiem”, the Amazons come to the aid of the besieged Trojans and attack the Greeks. While the armies wear themselves out in new battles, their leaders meet for a duel. But the Amazon queen Penthesilea and Achilles don’t want to kill each other because they have fallen in love with each other.
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A story about war – told by a German-Georgian ensemble on the anniversary of the Russian invasion. There must be, there must be a current reference hidden somewhere! But nothing there, the search remains in vain. If a political statement is to be made about the Ukraine war at all this evening, it is that, regardless of its rage, one should continue to be able to talk and think about organized violence in a very general way in the theater.
At the beginning, Almut Zilcher sits dressed in black in the middle of a mountain of white fabric, being both a bride and a widow. She tells how the Amazons and Greeks surround Penthesilea and Achilles, how they force the two to fight each other, and how they finally comply and kill each other. The way Zilcher declaims to himself is dripping with pathos. Her monologue is a single demand that, for the next two hours, the Trojan War be taken more seriously than any real bloodshed.
This does not result in any moral wrongdoing. Because what good would it do for soldiers if educated German citizens felt their way into their trenches? But Haratishvili is setting herself up for an aesthetic and an intellectual problem when she so harshly dramatizes past the present. Actual wars have been taking up space in the minds of the audience for at least two years, which is why some scenes on stage seem quite silly in comparison.
Zilcher later sneaks across the stage, continues to tell the story, conjures up the noise of the battles with her smoky voice, but then repeatedly breaks Haratischwili’s threatening mythical prose by commenting on the events or observing the warrior couple’s lovemaking with a skeptical eye. And with some justification.
The love scenes between Penthesilea and Achilles are partly reminiscent of provincial musicals. For example, when Eka Nizharadze and Manuel Harder court each other through dance, while musician Nestan Bagration-Davitashvili repeatedly croones “Save me” into her microphone. Even at the outset, this isn’t exactly a couple that would make you understand why they’re remembered across the millennia. Harder plays Achilles in the style of a hardened action hero who no longer finds meaning in killing but has learned nothing else. Nizharadze fits into the Hollywood cliché by resisting the hero’s dirty charm for a while, but then turns into a jealous fury.
When the two of them modestly spread a white sheet of material over themselves before their first act of love, the audience is at least spared from watching the two of them make an advanced attempt at imitating intimacy. Because no, nothing crackles. Attraction and eroticism cannot be felt here, only deciphered. It may be due to the language barrier that Nizharadze and Harder don’t get along well with each other. The production is constantly surtitled, she speaks Georgian, he answers in German.
This obstacle further promotes Haratishvili’s rather wooden directing style. For her, moods or atmospheres do not arise from the dynamics of what is happening on stage, but can always be traced back to their causes. For her, the action is synonymous with a series of events. When Jens Koch, as Achilles’ servant Thersites, is killed by Achilles, he goes to the back of the stage, straps white panels to a harness, which is pulled up a little until it covers Koch. If the material falls off shortly afterwards, the actor can no longer be seen on stage. In this production, death is a magic trick, a technical challenge. The playwright’s escapist enthusiasm for the myth and its bright imagery – blood, hearts, flesh everywhere – meets the director’s joy of a craftswoman looking into her toolbox. Feelings, fate, curses – everything finds its expression here, even if it is through stubborn assertion.
The class struggle also finds its place in the two-hour evening. Achilles doesn’t kill his servant without reason. Thersites had previously seen through his love for Penthesilea and urged him to take up the sword anyway. This is the only way the war can finally come to an end. Viewed this way, the lovers are not the heroes of the piece, who protect their pure desire against the laws of war. On the contrary, they form a higher caste whose enthusiasm prolongs the misery of the infantry on the battlefield. One would have liked to have stayed with this idea a little longer, but then the director takes over the plot again and gives in to the action again. Then Nizharadze and Harder swing across the stage on ropes, kicking, hitting and kissing each other. Like the blessed Thersites, you’re a little happy when they finally throw fake blood on each other.
Next performances: March 7th, 8th and 28th
www.deutschestheater.de
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