The play’s director, Ivanka Polchenko, has a background in philology and theater studies, which allows her to handle the complex text by Natalia Lizorkina with care and subtlety, without overemphasizing the horrors of the events. As written in the script, there is only one actor—Nikolay Mulakov—who plays all the characters, and there are many in the play. He wears light jeans, a black hoodie, sneakers, and a light beard. His hair is parted and tied back with an elastic band. There’s something faintly iconic in his appearance.

No, there’s no direct Christian analogy here, but as the play progresses, the connection becomes more apparent. Both the direction and the acting are nuanced and restrained. There are no angry gestures, no screams or sobs. Mulakov plays with restraint, almost detached. Most often, he delivers his lines with his hands down—his large white hands hanging by his sides. Yet, this posture speaks not of confusion or fear but of non-resistance to evil through violence. When playing a policeman who grabs Alya, he makes no sharp movements, merely a half-gesture with his hand, a hint of a strike.

From character to character, Mulakov hardly changes his tone or voice, but within the limits set by the director, any subtle shift feels vivid. Here’s the prison doctor—Mulakov plays him by simply hiding his hands in his pockets (a sort of medical examination, right?). Here’s the shop assistant—her familiar intonations, barely noticeable, evoke memories of childhood: “Move along, lady! There’s a line!”—even though the play is in English.

This external restraint allows Mulakov to use his internal acting skills, which are hard to describe without veering into esotericism or something semi-mystical. His emotional state, inner tension, and despair are conveyed to the audience without any outward display—that’s what acting mastery looks like.

The plot can be summarized briefly: a mother receives news of her son’s death on the front lines, followed by his funeral, and her despair leads her into a terrifying twist of fate. But the text is much more complex, built on ambivalence, metaphors, and contradictory words. At first, there’s discomfort as this young man walks around the stage, awkwardly pacing as if adjusting to the black-box space, familiarizing himself with the roles of an adult woman, a policeman.

At the beginning, he comes out and introduces himself by name, distancing himself from the character of Alevtina, engaging the audience in light conversation. He’s saying to us, “I’m Kolya, not Alya, I’m just going to tell you a story…”

The audience stirs; someone plays along. Of course, “Vanya Is Alive” is not an interactive show, but this is a hook, a way to draw the audience into the narrative. Every performance, this part plays out differently. Without it, the play would lack something, as the audience is a full-fledged partner here.

In the front row sat well-off, intelligent people who were genuinely engaged with the performance. They watched attentively and responded to the actor’s questions. Notably, they weren’t Russian speakers, which is important—they could only grasp the context theoretically. One man even took off his shoe to show the actor his foot, asking if it was flat enough to avoid military service. A half-joke, but it made the situation more terrifying—this man, in his fine shoes and neat socks, didn’t fully understand the true significance of flat feet in the play’s context.

Next to him was a very beautiful young woman who reacted with laughter, as did others. For them, this absurdity was a theoretical, dystopian fiction. This woman—her chestnut hair shining, her bright miniskirt fitting perfectly—suddenly burst into soft contralto laughter, and it was impossible to blame her. For her, this reality wasn’t real. In her world, this was fiction, a mirage, a dream. That’s why she laughed—just as children laugh at the absurdity in Kornei Chukovsky’s verses: “Bunnies in a tram. A frog on a broom. Riding and laughing, chewing gingerbread.” She couldn’t imagine a grimy staircase in a Soviet-era apartment block where Alya clutches a phone with terrible news, asking what she should do next. And this isn’t about “checking privilege.” It’s about checking our vulnerability—because this young woman, who can’t imagine an empty coffin without Vanya inside, or Alya listening to a podcast of silence—that’s normal.

Meanwhile, the rest of the audience listens in eerie (forgive the term in the context of the play) silence to Mulakov and the mother’s mournful lullaby.