Ten Legends, One Exile: My All-new Encounter with Kirill Serebrennikov in LEGEND

A brief period of openness in Moscow

I first heard the name Kirill Serebrennikov in 2012, when I was studying at the Moscow Art Theatre (MXAT). At that time, there was a brief period when Moscow was more open, and the creative atmosphere was freer and more unrestrained than in the past. Many of my friends who are involved in Russia’s theater scene look back on this period with fondness. I saw several of Serebrennikov’s works at Winzavod, an art space transformed from industrial ruins in Moscow. They were bold, provactive, and intense. It was also at that time that Serebrennikov was known in Moscow as one the “three great theater directors.”

A professional hazard of working in theater is that it becomes increasingly difficulty to “feel” anything about a work. A few years ago, A Little Life by famed Belgian director Ivo van Hove moved me to tears. More than a decade later, I once again saw a work by Serebrennikov, LEGEND, which was a long-awaited and emotionally stirring experience. Serebrennikov’s poetic, sensual, cruel, deeply dramatic, and vibrant esthetics were particularly evident in the first act of LEGEND, “legend of the ancestors.”

Legend of the ancestors: The beginning of memory

This prologue provided the audience with an easy glimpse into Serebrennikov’s style. On the stage, there was what appeared to be a dilapidated wood structure and the narrator slowly walked up, as if initiating an ancient rite. 

“One day, our government, which considers itself clever, visionary, and wise, decided to abolish all cemeteries and turn them into recreational areas. When they sent people to implement this plan, the spirits of my ancestors came to me because they suddenly became homeless…My ancestors could speak all the languages of the world, but I always understood what they were really trying to express – the deceased hope that the living remember their stories and do not forget about them.”
 

The actors were dressed in black and white androgynous clothing. With only simple props and make-up, they switched identities, from mourners, mothers, fathers, and ancestors to nameless spirits. It was as if the memories of an entire family emerged from the dust and crawled onto the stage. 

The narrator then began to talk about superstitions, symbols, and omens, the beliefs instilled in us from childhood. 

“We all believe in omens. A cockscomb flower falling foretells death. White blossoms on a cherry tree in winter foretell death. A giant pine tree falling foretells death.”

These languages, passed down through the generations, possess a melancholy poetic quality that is unique to Eastern Europe. 

Next, the cast banged on objects to awaken the dead. But what they truly awakened were the memories of the narrator’s parents. 

The first thing the narrator’s mother said after awakening from the valley of death was, “You are not dressed warmly enough. You will catch a cold! And where is my mink coat? Wasn’t it supposed to be buried with me?”

As he penned it, death does not seem cold. Rather, it is as trivial, absurd, and full of love as life itself. 

Nostalgia begins with childhood memories. He remembered his father’s antique shop, the embroidered patterns that haunted his dreams. He remembered his mother leaving freshly washed shirts outside the window to dry in winter, only to have them freeze. He remembered his father’s loud snoring when his parents went to the cinema to watch an opera. He remembered many moments of loss and shame, some unspeakable. 

All these memories were woven into one scene, as if it was a grand private funeral. 
 

Crip time

The pace of LEGEND reminded me of the concept of “crip time” proposed by disability researcher Alison Kafer. The flow defied efficiency and the normal time sequence. This does not mean there was chaos. Rather, there was a sense of time that originated from the body, wounds, memories, and disorder. Time suddenly stopped, accelerated, or doubled back. It became stuck on a seemingly insignificant fragment, only to shatter in a new direction in another instant, resulting in “imperfect flow.” The language of the spirits of the dead, a mother’s murmurs, childhood memories, the echoes of shame; none of these were arranged linearly. Rather, they seemed to advance according to the rhythms of emotions, wounds, and physical memories. This fragmented, disordered sense of time created a psychedelic, profound, and highly personal viewing experience, like a dream but also like the echoes of pain. 

At the climax of the play, a character shouted, “Everything that brings people happiness, eventually becomes their source of suffering!” 

This line was explosive. It was not just a curse of the dead, but also the confession of self-exiled artist Serebrennikov. 

The origin of legends: An exile’s tribute to Sergei Parajanov

To a certain extent, LEGEND is a tribute to Sergei Parajanov, who although suffered a lifetime of oppression under the Soviet regime became a global cinema legend due to his vivid and unconstrained visual language. 

Parajanov consistently employed a “legendary” narrative in his films. He pieced together fragments, stories, symbols, myths, folk songs, rites, customs, and personal memories into “surreal” poetic images. His works inspired Michelangelo Antonioni, Federico Fellini, Akira Kurosawa, and Yves Saint Laurent. In his creative notes, Serebrennikov wrote that after watching the music video for Lady Gaga’s “911,” he realized that Parajanov’s images still resonate in this era. 

Both men hail from the multicultural Caucasas region and possess a strong queer spirit and an unyielding character. During the Soviet era, Parajanov was banned from making films and imprisoned. After 2017, charges were inexplicably brought against Serebrennikov, and he was placed under house arrest for years. He ultimately chose self-exile in Berlin following the Russian invasion of Ukraine. 

These experiences of being held captive, censored, and expelled by the system are evident in Serebrennikov’s later works. Topics such as identity, shame, freedom, homeland, trauma, desire, and death seem to be existential questions he has been forced to answer. 

In LEGEND, in Parajanov’s name, he told his own stories. Ten legends constitute a grand story. How can an artist live in a violent world? How can one stand up after losing one’s home? How can beauty resist death?

He used images, vocals, objects, dance, and ritual to fold these questions up into a magnificent yet fragmented poem. 

More than 10 years later, I feel that Serebrennikov has changed. His life experiences have imbued his works with a beautiful yet cruel absurdity, as if poetry is found in despair and wounds are hidden in humor. LEGEND does not offer any answers. Rather, it creates a kind of magic, summoning audiences to look at themselves, at the world, and at certain things that seem to have long been in a deep sleep.