“From theater of kings to show in the marketplace”
Many tell Bohdan Stupka he should quit the theater and cinema, and concentrate on his current status as Minister of Culture (the press debate is still underway, for example in Kievskie Vedomosti). Indeed, Mr. Stupka’s current political status may be the actor’s most difficult and thankless role to date. Much to the delight of his devotees, Bohdan Stupka remains true to his real calling. At present, he is at the peak of epic roles (e.g., Bohdan Khmelnytsky in Jerzy Hoffman’s With Fire and Sword, Hetman Ivan Briukhovetsky in Mykola Zaseyev-Rudenko’s Chorna Rada [Wildcat Council, a meeting of all the Zaporozhzhian Cossacks, convened in an emergency, such as suspected foul play by the brass — Ed.] based on Panteleimon Kulish’s novel of that name and emerging as an invigorating touch to the rather monotonous hetman saga. Another epic, Mazepa, is underway (dramatically interrupted at the moment, due to photography director Vadym Ilyenko’s heart attack and hospitalization). In this Yuri Ilyenko production, Bohdan Stupka again emerges as the key figure. Minister of Culture or not, he remains a brilliant actor.
The following are his monologues dealing with the actor’s profession.
I STUDY MY HEROES IN THE STREETS
I hard work on every role. I may have grasped it and identified with it in the first reading or rehearsal only a couple of times in my whole career. In fact, complete dramatic identification comes only when you find that plastique which is absolutely different from your own and which you consider the only right one for your dramatic character. A very long time ago, working on Ivan Franko’s Stolen Happiness, I noted Valery Lobanovsky, the Kyiv Dynamo coach, sitting on the bench, watching the game and leaning from side to side. I borrowed that habit for my stage hero, Mykola Zadorozhny, in his final scene with Mykhailo Hurman.
As I walk the streets, I try to take a close look at people and then transform some of this onstage. Sometimes it is difficult to explain theoretically what gesture or facial expression makes the whole performance click. I remember studying photographs of the noted Jewish actor Solomon Mikhoels. His naturally prominent jaw helped me with my Tevye. Even Moscow critics were quick to appreciate the impersonation. They wrote after our tour of the Russian capital: “Watching his jaw, one feels that Solomon Mikhoels is back onstage.”
Meeting painters and sculptors always leaves me with many impressions. My professional memory keeps their voices and gestures, and helps me with my roles. I have never kept track of my theatrical or movie roles. The number doesn’t matter, the road paved to a new portrayal is what does.
EVERY SCENE LIKE SEEMS THE LAST
Once film director Yuri Ilyenko (I made my debut in his White Bird with a Black Spot ) asked me who I thought a movie actor was after all. I told him one had to feel toward the camera the way a man does toward his own true love. Yuri thought this over and added that every scene had to be acted out as though it were the actor’s last and most dramatic of his life. Of course, this is usually easier said than done. An actor often has to play a love scene, confessing his love to a woman then absent on the set. Personally, I like face-to-face contact, so one can react and help one’s partner in front of the camera. On the other hand, the cast often involves actors and actresses representing different schools. This is mutually enriching and gratifying. The cinema offers vast opportunities for creative improvisation. In Mykola Vavilov, I gave vent to my emotions so much the director, Oleksandr Proshkin, asked to please take it easy for my own sake. He was afraid I would burn out before they could turn off the cameras. He also said that shooting scenes with Lysenko was a holiday and with Vavilov penal servitude.
I regard every film director as a co-author. Each has his own style and approach. With Sergei Bondarchuk and his Red Bells, I had to play Aleksandr Kerensky. We were shooting on location at the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, where the Duma held sessions before the Russian Revolution. There was a huge mob scene, 200-250 extras. I was at the podium, delivering my speech. Then we had a smoke break, and Bondarchuk and I stepped outside. He wanted me to concentrate not on all that which was logical and traditional, but on the subconscious. Back on the lot, with all the extras summoned with shooting begun, all was quiet except the humming cameras. I started on my temperamental monologue (a long one) and then I felt a drop of perspiration roll down my nose. Damn, another retake, I thought, but at the very last moment I took that drop off my nose with my finger, while going on with the lines, “Those petty groups, those political parties...” and so on. Then I heard Bondarchuk’s CUT! And I saw him wink and give me an approving signal. In fact, he said we would not have to work on the scene at the audio studio. It had been recorded live and well. Now that was what he must have meant by the subconscious.
THE BIRD OF INSPIRATION
Director Yulian Karasyk, of course, had his own approach. He idolized rehearsals. I was invited to try Luka in his screen version of Maksim Gorky’s The Lower Depths. The cast was very good, including Rolan Bykov and Mikhail Gluzsky. And then the Chornobyl station blew up. There were lines in the script, causing ominous associations:
“Where are you headed for this time, Luka?”
“Ukraine, I am starting a new business there.”
I am sorry I never acted in that film, although the screen tests were good.
I have worked with Serhiy Danchenko, Artistic Director of the Ivan Franko Ukrainian Drama Theater for over thirty years. I am used to his tactful ways, slowly but surely guiding me along the right path, waiting for me to be ignited by that single spark of true inspiration. We each follow our separate way to success. Take King Lear. I have acted it twice. First, at the Zankovetska Theater in Lviv, 1969, acting as Edmund (staged by Mykhailo Hiliarovsky). I saw my character as an antipode to King Lear, whose sole purpose was power. I could not foresee that I would once appear on stage as King Lear himself. I am grateful to Serhiy Danchenko for taking an interest in this play and inviting me to play the title role. King Lear is over 80, according to the plot, but it would be hard to find an actor that age, because I personally consider it quite tiring physically. As rehearsals began, I often found myself wondering whether I should quit now or later. There were a lot of most unpleasant undercurrents, you see. But finally I thought I understood Danchenko’s idea: from the theater of kings to a show in the marketplace. It was good that we could take our time preparing for the premiere, so we could work out everything carefully. Slowly, we gained momentum: script, music, costumes; everything could now be harmonized. Perhaps the first part of the play turned out somewhat drawn-out, but ending it with the tempest, then ringing down the curtain, letting the audience leave and order refreshments in the lobby, seemed very improper. And so the action lasted almost uninterrupted. And King Lear’s “Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all!” I wanted to convey that pain in the man’s heart without actually touching the place with my hand. It was a long search and then it dawned on me: the left hand in a fist, with gnarled fingers pressed white- tight. This was my portrayal of the King’s throbbing heart.
Working on King Lear, I studied and actually read most of the data I could find on Solomon Mikhoels who is still considered our best interpreter of this character. And there was Zuskin with his absolutely overwhelming Fool. Danchenko’s father watched them and said he had never seen anything more impressive on stage.
“FOR US LAW IS A SWORD, CONSCIENCE A FIST”
A funny thing happened to me. We were premiering, Richard III in Lviv. My parents were in the third row and there was Fedortseva, the famous actress with Kurbas’s Berezil Theater, in the fourth. The house was packed and then I had to say my line, “Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law.” And then I reached for the sword and drew it from the sheath, very emotionally, and then, to my horror and in full limelight, I saw I had just the handle in my hand. And then I raised my eyes in time to see the blade fly across the audience, aimed at none other but Fedortseva. The people around her bent their heads, as one would during a game of tennis, watching a stray ball flying at him. And everybody thought it was a tragedy played out amongst the audience. The blade hit the woman (thank God, it was stage prop, not real steel) and she calmly picked it and pushed it under the seat. People around her stared at her and at each other, expecting blood and death. Nothing. The show went on and when I rushed out onstage in the end, ax in hand, shouting, “A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!” everyone in the audience took a typical crash-landing posture, expecting the ax to fly off the handle too.
The theater is where the actor can produce the right kind of response from the audience. You can make people laugh or cry, but to make a modern audience cry one has to exert a great deal of effort. Every performance takes a tremendous amount of energy. The main thing for me is complete dramatic identification. Each time I change my ego, way of thinking, everything. I become a different person. This is an act of violence on oneself, and I do it every time before stepping out onstage. And then the play is over, and I’m happy. Everybody in audience thinks that I am so tired I go right to bed. But I wash off the makeup, change, and then I want let my hair down. Sometimes I drink champagne, just to restore my system’s liquid balance. Going to sleep after a play is very difficult, sometimes I stay up until three in the morning, smoking or drinking a bottle of beer to relax.
FAMILY DYNASTY: A SEQUEL?
My wife Larysa (graduate of the Baku School of Choreography and a former soloist with Lviv and Kyiv ballet companies) has dedicated practically all her life to our son, shunning her career, although Yuri Grigorovich wanted her in his group. At home, I am no dictator and do what my wife says. We met when I was in the army. Then I got into the hospital and was pleasantly surprised to discover that she still remembered me. We got married March 25, 1967, and we have been together ever since. Our greatest joint assets are our son Ostap and grandchildren, Dmytro and Uliana. Ostap is also an actor with the Ivan Franko Theater, and with what I dare say is an established reputation. I am his tough critic. Dmytro is still in his teens, but also shows a great deal of performing enthusiasm; he has actually appeared onstage a couple of times. He is doing fine, but I would not make any predictions like a dynasty being continued. It’s too early. Let him finish grade school first. Then maybe he will know what he will want to do next.
Acting is a very difficult profession; here you can never be sure you have grabbed the bull by the horns. You must always remain a student, always prepared for changes.
