This operatic tale of folkloric ghost-kings, aristocrats and curses resuscitated from the mists of time seems like peculiarly conventional fare for Belarus Free Theatre, a company born underground that typically integrates urgent political consciousness-raising with experimental, erudite storytelling.
Based on the 1964 novel by Uladzimir Karatkievich, it has a classic storybook framework: set in the 19th century and told by an elderly Belarusian ethnographer, Andrey (Andrei Bondarenko), it recounts his youthful encounter with Nadzeya (Tamara Kalinkina), a woman of noble birth who is trapped by a family curse. It was laid, generations ago, by King Stakh who, with his men, was duped into drinking poison by her ancestor and who all now stalk the grounds as violent spectres.
Fairytales have, of course, long held potent political subtexts and this production, adapted by Nicolai Khalezin, who also co-directs alongside Natalia Kaliada, certainly holds current-day echoes with its rebellions, uprisings and false myths held up by a corrupt ruling-class.
Significantly, the show incorporates both Belarusian performers and Ukrainian artists, most notably Bondarenko and its lead soprano, Tamara Kalinkina, both of whom bring powerful voices and compelling stage presences.
It does not, though, bear the same political underpinning as the company’s last work, Dogs of Europe, which also employed fairytale imagery but was a far more open commentary on war and dictatorial aggression. King Stakh is prevailingly a haunted house story – creepy, atmospheric and immaculately transposed to the stage with captivating music (composed by Olga Podgaiskaya with libretto by Andrei Khadanovich).
Gothic tropes abound, from flickering candlelight and dark staircases adorned with family portraits to the witchy housekeeper and other-worldly characters who resemble figures from Tales of Hoffmann or Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
The company excels in physical performance (choreographed by Maryia Sazonava) and there is stunning movement here, from one forest scene in which a chorus enacts violence in circular mime, and another in which a row of hanged bodies dangle and twitch.
The visual stagecraft (set design by Nadya Sayapina and Khalezin), is just as ravishing. An occasional u-shaped front screen gives the action the gauzy hue of a snow-globe, enhancing its storybook Gothicism so that characters resemble figurines from a music box. But alongside is the modernity of a back screen with cuts of film (video design by Dmytro Guk) so that we see the sharp bends in the house on screen as characters move through it on stage.
Its dialogue melts away too quickly, such as one too cursory early conversation between Andrey and Nadzeya about the nature of love, and it jumps in its story, with surtitles that are positioned on the back screen and not always easy to read. Yet even with these confusions it builds intrigues and keeps us captivated.
In a pre-show panel discussion led by Cate Blanchett on opening night reflecting on the effect of war on Ukraine’s children, Kaliada called theatre an act of “provocation”. This is not that but it is certainly an act of support, unity, and a preservation of cultural memory.
