A conversation between Radu Afrim and Oana Cristea Grigorescu
In Radu Afrim’s theatrical universe, loneliness, marginalization, failure, and betrayal are not just aspects of the human condition, but also the consequences of the socio-political flaws of today’s world (be it the Romanian society or beyond). His characters absorb these blows with innocence and bewilderment, and they go through life with a constant sense of missed happiness. Because politics determines the course of anonymous lives, the characters watch the grotesque comedy of the world with disarmed resignation, as if it were an insurmountable fate, from which not even death can set them free.
At FITS 2025, Radu Afrim presents a production that encapsulates his dramaturgical choices of recent years: The Trilogy of Memories by Arne Lygre. Concise and at times elliptical, Afrim’s current answers bear the stylistic mark of his scripts: short sentences made up of simple words, laced with poetic subtext, which spark vivid images in the reader’s mind.
His most recent premiere at “Marin Sorescu” National Theatre in Craiova will be performed on June 27 at Fabrica de Cultură – Sala Faust (Faust Hall). (Oana Cristea Grigorescu)
Oana Cristea Grigorescu: Dealing with past traumas is one of the recurring themes in your productions, whether you are engaging with contemporary literature, drama, or you write your original scripts. Now, with The Trilogy of Memories by Arne Lygre—three one-act plays—we’re confronted with the processing of grief and the inner void that follows the loss of a loved one.
In interviews, you’ve said about this multi-award-winning Norwegian playwright—staged now for the first time in Romania—that you value his work even more than Jon Fosse’s. What draws you to his plays, and why did you choose The Trilogy of Memories, which tackles a subject (death) that we often avoid discussing publicly?
Radu Afrim: The theater world panics at the thought that audiences will flee the halls when they hear the word “death.” That death is not a theme that sells. It is not trendy. And that’s true. But it all depends on how you present it to the world. People go to great lengths to avoid sharing any borders with death. At the theater, most of the audience come to forget about death. And to witness worlds they’ll never otherwise access. Death, on the other hand, is something we will all have access to. But none of us will ever be neighbors with Richard III.
So the theater allows you to peek over the fence into his yard. No one really knows what it’s like to live next door to Richard III—and perhaps that’s exactly why we’re so drawn to understanding the rise and fall of power. Many don’t even know what power tastes like. Nor what power feeds on. We are fragile. We’ve adapted to living on shifting sands. And besides, a director’s CV filled with plays about death isn’t exactly appealing. But one that includes Richard III… that’s another story. And yet, the mystery in which death flickers—most often in the light of a candle—contains the seed of fascination. Especially in times like these.
OCG: European critics say that Arne Lygre “reinvents dramatic writing to question the discomfort and difficulty of individuals to live within society’s normative framework and alienating circumstances”. His characters’ double-layered language simultaneously addresses memories of the past and the facts of the present. Where does Lygre’s dramaturgy intersect with your own way of approaching time in your productions?
RA: What first drew me in was the clarity of the writing. Poetic things expressed efficiently. Emotion used sparingly. I had seen that before in Fosse, and in all the minimalists who have refined this style over the past decades. And then, there’s that foggy North that resembles the mental space we, too, retreat into when we want to truly encounter ourselves. In the first part of The Trilogy of Memories, a family that has lost a child tries to reconstruct the past through small gestures, through objects scattered across the sands of memory. But once restored, the past reveals itself as a monster that devours every trace of tenderness. The same happens in the third story—perhaps the one that gave us the most trouble to understand. So we spoke with the playwright. And he gave us the green light to interpret it freely. I’ve never been interested in separating the time of experience from the time of confession. And the older I get, the clearer that becomes.
OCG: If we extend the discussion to your body of work as a whole—even though your characters’ lives are always portrayed from an individual, human perspective—their destinies are deeply marked by the broader social and political context. What role does the political play in your productions, and how is it reflected or commented upon in your work?
RA: It’s always been there. Sometimes it’s directly commented on, other times it speaks for itself. I’ve avoided didacticism, and I’ve moved past the “in your face” trend—which is already singing its swan song anyway. On one channel flows the poetic, on another the political. And humor is a must. At the same time, most of my productions contain a political component, even if critics have often been more interested in other aspects of my work. I’m not sure why critics felt politics didn’t suit me. Some couldn’t get past the form. But audiences had no trouble picking up on the political dimension. It’s absolutely necessary in these times and in the times to come. Especially if we remain aware of what we’ve lived through—and how close we came to disaster. Lucidity and presence. Those are the key words. Ah, but when you wander through the Elysian Fields—that’s something else entirely. Those are journeys you take on your own.
OCG: A recurring category of characters in your stage work—whether through dramaturgical choices or directorial liberties—are the marginalized: people in fragile positions, minorities, the excluded, etc. What kind of society do these characters speak about?
RA: There are no other kinds of characters in the more than one hundred productions I’ve done. Or however many there are—I’ve lost count, I don’t keep a CV. I’ve never been drawn to those on the opposite shore. The ones who inhabit the realms of power, self-assurance, or a secure tomorrow. The accepted and the applauded. The role models imposed by a so-called perfect – and obviously Utopian – society. I didn’t plan it that way—this is just how it turned out.
Of course, it has become something of a trend. You see interviews with young directors titled “I’m interested in the marginalized,” especially those in the phase of radical leftist fervor. But the details make all the difference. Audiences can tell when a cry is false. When it’s just following a trend. Discerning spectators resonate to honesty. But that takes practice. And the rehearsal room for that is the stage itself. I’ve even heard a few lost voices say: “I’m tired of Afrim’s dysfunctional families. I don’t go to the theater to see my own family on stage!” To be honest, I don’t think there’s ever been a good play about the ideal family.
OCG: FITS is something of a theatrical mall in Romania. What role does the festival play in educating audiences about diversity and in shifting the conservative, narrow-minded mentalities that persist in our society?
RA: Over all these years, FITS has undoubtedly been the most open-minded festival in our country. During the festival days, Sibiu feels like a Western European capital, free of problems. In terms of vibe, it can even rival Barcelona. But the question I’ve been asking myself these past six months, when we’ve been faced with the aggression of fascism head-on, still stands: do you think the people who attend the theater have voted for extremism? Not many of them, really. There’s a lot of work to be done among those who remain outside the theater halls. Theater has a big role to play there.
Translation: Maria Dan; Credit photo: Albert Dobrin
