In a time of armed conflicts, overwhelming streams of information, and relentless daily politics, theatre for young audiences that addresses war and deconstructs the mechanisms of conflict can offer viewers a key to understanding reality. Theatre has the power to break down complex political events and, in doing so, help audiences develop their own perspectives. During the past theatre season in Denmark, for example, dozens of productions — dance, drama, documentary theatre, and others — were created about the situation in Greenland, attempting to systematize and untangle the national traumas of Danish colonialism. Children and young people, who are only beginning to form critical awareness in an era of media contradictions and who have questions about the world around them, can find guidance in theatre through the maze of conflicting news. Young people will inevitably seek information and form opinions, but it is far better for them to do so through theatre than through unreliable or false sources.
An Eye for an Eye, a Life for an Eye
Political themes are rare in our theatre for young audiences, and with that in mind, the decision to include productions dealing with war and politics in this year’s Novi Sad Theatre Festival is all the more courageous. The first puppet production allegorically portrays the relationship between oppressors and the oppressed. Don’t Poke the Bear, by the Key Theatre from Tel Aviv, created and performed by Avi Zlicha and Dikla Katz, tells the story of a drunken circus owner and his cruel treatment of a bear and a monkey. After enduring prolonged abuse, imprisonment, and even blinding, the bear kills the circus owner, thereby freeing both himself and the monkey.
The production thus suggests that violence is the answer to violence, raising moral and ethical questions about whether killing another person can ever be justified. If someone throws a stone at you, do you answer with a larger stone? Or rather: if someone throws a stone at you, do you kill them with it? Does that make us nobler or better? Is this how humanity should live — believing that some members of society are beyond redemption, incapable of spiritual growth, socialization, or integration? Is fear of revenge from the weak the only thing that prevents cruelty against them? The poetic justice and punishment for the exploitation of animals in the performance could have been achieved differently.
It is impossible to watch the performance without considering the context of violence that Israel has inflicted on the Palestinian people for decades, and the question inevitably arises whether one possible interpretation of the production is as a rationalization of those horrors and brutalities.
Technically and visually, the production skillfully creates a sinister atmosphere of circus life through its dim lighting (lighting design by Liad Malone and Dikla Katz) and ominous music (Johnny Tal). The slowness and repetitiveness of the first part of the performance somewhat reinforce the sense of passing time and prolonged suffering, although greater variation in recurring situations — such as the circus acts — would have contributed more diversity to the animation and the overall rhythm of the piece. The puppetry itself was deft, accomplished, and captivating, although the illusion of living characters was repeatedly interrupted by blackouts after most scenes.
An Odyssey of the Twentieth Century
A far more successful example of addressing the theme of war was the production performed on the festival’s second day — The Journey of the Good Hans Böhm Through Europe, directed by Tomsa Legierski and performed by the extraordinary actor-puppeteers of the Alpha Theatre. The performance text was shaped from an authentic life story. The total design, including puppets made from solid wooden rectangles connected by magnets, was created by Karel Czech. Hans Böhm’s odyssey — his accidental departure to war and his years-long journey home — unfolds during and after the Second World War across Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Germany.
While watching the performance, I was reminded of an anecdote about Sławomir Mrożek that I once read, although I can no longer remember where, and I am not entirely certain I recall it correctly. The story goes something like this: the Polish playwright and writer, known for his cynicism and analytical sharpness, was once asked why he had actively participated in and passionately supported the protests and student demonstrations in Poland in 1968. Alongside ideological conviction and the desire to resist totalitarian systems, Mrożek explained that no one is immune to the spirit of the times or to the psychology of the masses. He gave the example that he himself could just as easily have become part of the Nazis had he happened to be born in Germany in the 1930s. Mrożek’s fear of himself — of what he might have become under different circumstances — served to illustrate the methods of totalitarian regimes and to emphasize how fragile free will is in the face of collective energy. Often, he suggested, it is merely a matter of geographical and historical luck whether someone ends up a revolutionary, a victim, or an executioner.
Hans Böhm had that geographical and historical luck. Born into a German-Czech-Belgian family, the only passport he would ever possess was a Polish one. Multilingual, without a clear national identity, and known by several versions of his own name, Hans ends up in a Nazi uniform during the war. Through a chain of circumstances, fate, lies, resourcefulness, cunning, and charm, he manages to return to his family several years after the war’s end. He is not especially moral, nor particularly interested in ideology; instead, he is guided by instinct for self-preservation and survival. The only thing he truly knows how to do is make quick decisions and keep moving forward.
From the title’s playful nod to The Good Soldier Švejk, to the classroom scene in the German and Czech schools where the creators toy with stereotypes of stiff, rigid Germans contrasted with unruly Slavs, and all the way to the wit and liveliness of Hans himself, the production overflows with humor and clever invention. The comedy operates both on the level of dialogue — for example, the American border policeman who flirts with two female travelers while checking their documents, unaware that they do not understand English — and on the level of direction and performance through gags and richly imaginative animation.
Particularly fascinating is the relationship between actor and puppet: the ease with which the puppet becomes the carrier of the character, and the moments when the actor’s own body takes over the role or transforms into an entirely new character. Thanks to the exuberance and audacity of the puppetry masters, everything unfolds at an almost vaudevillian pace, making these transitions nearly impossible to catch in the moment, while the brilliance, speed, and precision of the ensemble remain unmistakable.
The Czech production approaches war as an unwanted curse hanging over every ordinary person — something from which only luck and cunning can save you. Both sides kill, the play suggests, and human life is the only thing of true value. That is why the good Hans never kills anyone.