After the Rehearsal (Efter repetitionen)

After rehearsal I like to linger on the stage...

to reflect on the day's work in solitude.

It's the hours between afternoon and evening,

when the big theater is quiet and deserted.

I must have slept a while. I'm not sure.

As I look around, I don't recognize the room.

Something has changed...

mysteriously and elusively.

What are you looking for?

A bracelet. I'm always losing things.

Distance and weariness.

Distance and anxiety.

Distance and a sharp taste of iron on the tongue.

I want her to leave.

This search for a bracelet is obviously a pretext.

I want you to leave.

Go now.

Never mind. It was nothing special.

I see.

- I'd gladly rehearse day and night. - No need to apologize.

I'm not apologizing.

How old are you, Anna Egerman?

- Guess. - Same age as my youngest daughter.

Your dad and I were filming. We both had daughters within a week.

23 years and three months, right?

You and Dad had fun.

Do I hear a reproach?

Dad was always gone. Mom was always sad.

Wasn't she an especially talented actress?

That she was, Anna dear.

She was one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen.

Charming, talented, passionate.

Then she married and quit the theater. - You were in love with her.

We all were.

Did you have a relationship? Why not?

She and I kept our distance.

Mikael was braver... or more foolhardy.

And look what happened.

Mom had lots of kids she didn't like and died of alcohol poisoning.

I asked her once why she quit the theater.

She replied that she loved my father

and didn't want to squander her life.

She was such a sham.

- It's strange hearing you speak of her. - Am I too harsh?

- You speak with no sympathy. - How can I feign a sympathy I lack?

It was years before I dared to hate her full-out.

Instead I nearly went mad from depression.

Now I hate her, and I feel much better.

I'm sure it doesn't matter to her now!

That's the big question.

I read an interview with you where you declared

that this is our only life,

that "before" and especially "after"

didn't exist...

and that knowing that gave you a deep sense of security.

You have a talent for irony.

It's only confusion!

Let me tell you something, Anna Egerman.

At my age, sometimes when you lean forward,

your head suddenly finds itself in another reality.

The dead are no longer dead.

The living appear like ghosts.

What was obvious a minute earlier...

becomes peculiar and hard to grasp.

Anna...

listen to the silence on this stage.

Imagine all the spiritual energy...

all the emotions, real and make-believe...

all the laughter, rage, passion, and who knows what else.

It's all still here...

enclosed...

living its secret, uninterrupted life.

I hear them sometimes.

Often.

Sometimes I think I can see them:

demons, angels...

ghosts.

Ordinary people...

intently going about their lives.

Closed off.

Secretive.

Sometimes we speak to each other...

but just in passing.

There's that ironic smile again! - Not at all.

I know what you mean, but do you really believe...

Isn't that irrelevant?

Whether they're like in the dreams I create,

entire plays with actors and dialogue,

or whether they really have a life of their own, beyond my senses?

Isn't that irrelevant?

Yet you think my hatred hurts my mother, even though she's dead.

Your hatred scares me. I think it reaches her.

Then I'm glad.

You were about to say something. - Play your part. It's your play.

Why cast me as Indra's Daughter?

- You're very talented. - So you do think so?

I saw you in a drama school performance.

Agnes in Brand. It was awful. - Yes, it was.

You can only be that bad if you're talented.

Then I saw you in a film.

A minor part in a bad film.

I'd just been asked to come back and direct something here.

When I saw that film, I thought...

"I'll do A Dream Play...

with Anna Egerman as Indra's Daughter."

This will be my fifth Dream Play.

There could be a sixth and seventh too.

When I was 12, I was allowed in here

with an organist who played backstage.

Night after night I'd sit

there in the light tower,

watching the marriage scenes between the Lawyer and the Daughter.

It was the first time I experienced the magic of actors.

The Lawyer held a hairpin between his fingers.

"Look at this.

It's two prongs, but one pin.

It's two... but it's one.

If I straighten it out...

it's a single entity.

If I bend it, it's two...

without ceasing to be one.

That means: The two are one.

But if I break it...

Now the two are two!"

There was no pin, but I saw it!

That's how it all started.

There I sat...

crouched between two spotlights and a thunder sheet.

I'm too young for the part.

Indra's Daughter is always too old or too young.

You've always modified the text.

Of course. It makes things easier.

"I don't understand this... cut it."

"This sounds ridiculous... I'll rewrite it."

"This scene is in the wrong place... I'll move it."

I knead the text for a specific purpose.

I use a giant cross in the final scene,

or a hundred extras in rags, their left fists raised.

I violate Strindberg!

It works. It's all the rage.

I get rave reviews.

Why am I saying this? It's nonsense.

Tired clichés.

Why do I suddenly embark on these ridiculous theatrics,

this parody of a conviction that's gone sour and crumbled?

Why justify myself to this young person who doesn't care what I say?

You want me to persuade you you're right for the part.

That's my job, the sweet secret of our relationship.

You assume I believe in you and demand constant confirmation.

If I'm convincing enough verbally, emotionally, and intellectually,

you'll eventually believe me, and confidence will blossom forth.

Meanwhile, I'm inspired by your trust and self-confidence.

The blood pulses.

Tiny veins filled with red life branch out

to the furthest and dullest edges of the ensemble,

lending color to mediocre cheeks and making eyes shine.

That's how it is, Anna Egerman.

That's how it must be.

When you were a wild little troll in your father's lap,

perhaps I thought, "She'll become an actress."

When I saw you in that silly film...

your way of moving, of speaking...

when I saw your eyes...

your eagerness and vulnerability...

it made me happy.

I felt that with you I could set in motion

the wheel that gets heavier every year.

If that's true, why are you so critical?

You find fault in everything I do.

I cry in despair when I get home.

I don't think you believe in me at all. - Really?

You don't think I believe in you?

That's the only silly thing I've heard you say these five weeks.

If I may hazard a guess, I think your tears may be tears of joy.

You know something is happening inside you,

a regrouping and restructuring of your resources.

It can feel relentless and painful...

but it makes you happy all the same.

When we speak outside of work,

you're a worse actress than when we're working.

Get rid of the private-life actress.

She steals energy from the real actress,

thwarting impulses you could use on stage.

- What a lecture! - Yes, it was!

Now I'm off to my hotel for a nap so I can work with you tonight.

See you. - Bye.

Sleep well!

- So you think I act in real life? - As a matter of fact, I do.

People are glad to see the face they're expecting.

Someone expects you to be pleased with a gift, so you are.

Someone wants you to show love, and you get love in return.

You're supposed to be sympathetic, funny, sexy, or sad.

Are you always real?

- Me? I live an isolated life. - What about rehearsals?

Then it's about the actors' emotions, not mine.

I'll do anything to get the best out of you.

It's my job, and my only true joy.

Is it really so important to be precise with my feelings?

How can I protect myself from the world without my little act?

Guess.