September 13, 2010
The first few minutes of the play stirred a resistance in me—a rebellion against the rustic atmosphere and the melodious tone of 19th-century language drawn from Turgenev. Yet, as my perception gradually adjusted to this manner of communication—so unpopular among young theatre creators—I became enchanted by the purity of the actresses’ voices and the beauty of the performance, and began to see the value of The Swallow.
With sparse words, the play strikes straight at the heart, allowing the audience to participate in the mystery unfolding on stage. A mystery of beauty and ugliness, the lightness of dance and the heaviness of paralysed limbs, the scent of nature and the mustiness of an old cottage, the melodiousness of song and the hoarseness of a weary voice, waking life and dream. All of it is bound by a single motif: the swallow that visits Lukeria.
In Turgenev’s short story Living Relics, the swallow appears only briefly. In this adaptation, it visits Lukeria multiple times, and we cannot say for certain whether these visits occur in reality or only in the protagonist’s imagination. This ambiguity arises because the poetic nature of the performance blurs the boundaries between these two realities. By titling her production The Swallow, Żanna Gierasimova elevates the bird to a symbolic level. The symbolism of the swallow is expressive, as dichotomous as the performance itself—familial happiness and romantic disappointment, freedom, and submission to God’s will, playful freedom mixed with anxiety. Lukeria contains all of this within herself. The swallow also becomes a symbol of hope, for even Shakespeare wrote in Richard III: “True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings. Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.” Lukeria, through her hope and strength of character, reveals her greatness.
A greatness that is deeply human and touching, where joy mingles with sorrow, and pain and sleeplessness paradoxically allow the protagonist to become fully human. At one point in the performance, Lukeria addresses the audience and asks whether they feel fully human… The question remains unanswered. It is cast out, as if casually, without expecting a reply—but it compels the audience to reflect. Perhaps not immediately, not here and now, but later—it lingers in the memory. Lukeria knows the fullness of humanity, having spent many long years alone with herself. She cannot do anything—being paralysed—so she lives for life itself, and thus experiences it in its most complete form. She provokes the audience to reflect on their own lives in the modern world, filled with goods and distractions that often serve merely as escapes from real life. This question, like many others that arise from observing the protagonist’s drama, echoes in the mind long after the play ends.
It is impossible to remain indifferent to the protagonist’s drama, so precisely portrayed by the two actresses—Brygida Turowska-Szymczak and Roksana Vikaluk (the joyful, dancing alter ego of Lukeria). Turowska-Szymczak masterfully shifts from sorrow to unrestrained joy, painting the character of Lukeria—imprisoned by illness—with gestures and vocal intonation. She shapes the character of a disabled woman, capturing the viewer’s heart and provoking deeper reflection on humanity. Her clear and powerful voice, used to sing Old Slavic songs, transports the audience to the village and its old cottage. Supported by Vikaluk, with an equally enchanting voice and lightness in dance, the two conjure the atmosphere of a village over a hundred years ago. Both actresses use gesture, movement, and tone to build their characters precisely as they need to be to win over the audience.
There is one more "actor" in this play that captivates us: light. Andrzej Kulesza conjured something rarely seen in contemporary theatre. Sophisticated, gentle lighting that sometimes highlights a single element of the set—just to emphasize its meaning and convey what hasn’t been said aloud. It adds poetic refinement to the performance, taking us on a journey not only to the Russian countryside but also into the depths of the human psyche. It underscores metaphors and magically wraps around each scene, so that the minimalist set can truly become a space for this mystery to unfold.
Gierasimova’s adaptation is as minimalist as the set. There are no unnecessary words or gestures; every element of the performance is precisely cut and woven into its fabric. The light, music, acting, and set design are exactly as they need to be in order to connect with the audience—to provoke deeper reflection. This assured direction, free from self-indulgence, allowed Gierasimova to create a one-of-a-kind production that captivates both older and younger viewers with its wisdom.
Anna Kędziorek
The Swallow: “But at least I feel I am human… and you? I’m glad you came.”