BB/10. Losing the "Fiction : Faction Compass"

Yesterday, at the festival, I watched the performance 1973. Initially, I thought this piece would be about it; I had wanted to note down 1973 associations that would cross my mind during the show, but I quickly realized that writing during the performance was too much of a burden this time, so I stopped after 14 words/phrases. One of the things I wrote down was Josipa Lisac. I noted her name during the first intermission because, as I was leaving the auditorium, I caught a fragment of her song O jednoj mladosti. “Jedna mladost, jedan svijet nade…” [One youth, one world of hope...]

Although the performance deserves a comprehensive write-up (more than just one), I will—following my own associations—focus my reflection on fiction and factuality more on the productions Boško and Admira and Anhovo. I am interested in how theater can steer my sense of what is real and what is not, what guides this sense, why I cannot or do not want to follow it, and above all, when I feel that I, as a viewer, am losing my "fiction : faction compass." The word compass comes to mind because of the production Three Times Left is Right, which otherwise deals with a kind of dialogue between (extreme) right-wing and (extreme) left-wing ideologies, with right-wing rhetoric and the reasons for its excessive success, with the line between the extreme and the non-extreme, as well as with triggers and trigger warnings—all of which could also be viewed through the lens of fiction/faction. To return to the title of the aforementioned performance—when we turn left three times, we are actually facing right. Thus, perhaps by emphasizing fiction three times, we can achieve factuality, or vice versa—by repeatedly emphasizing factuality, we achieve fiction. This reflection was certainly also prompted by the general rise in projects, both in Slovenia and abroad, that address this relationship in various ways, be it in the form of autofiction, documentary, research, or in the fields of performance, installation, lecture-performance, and the like. At the end of May, Bunker in Ljubljana also organized a two-day cycle dealing precisely with this relationship. The question I pose in relation to the recently viewed performances at the festival (today's program also features Nafta [Oil], which could likewise be included in the discourse on fiction and reality) is whether, due to the emphasized reality or credibility of what is told, and in light of the "flood" of productions and performative events dealing with the fiction : faction relationship, I might perceive this emphasis more as a strategy used for the illusion of a story's reality, rather than a strategy serving to "prove" the reality of what is being told. In other words: can a story that I perceive as true, which has already been "proven" to me as true, lose its reality because that reality is constantly exposed? Is this strategy a sort of overcompensation of fiction, so that through multiple turnings it might enter the field of the real, the factual? Or, in the case of such real stories, is it even necessary to use mechanisms and strategies that, for the sake of this essay, I would call "proofs of reality"? Let this text therefore serve as an incentive to reflect on this (broad) topic.

The story of Boško and Admira is real. Their death is real. Their fate is real. The context of their death is real. Their names are real. The sensationalization of their story is real. The mythologization, romanticization (etc.) of their story is real. Their relatives are real. The photograph of their death is real. The production Boško and Admira establishes their story right at the very beginning, and perhaps precisely because of its ubiquity, perhaps also because of its popularity, the story somehow bears witness to their reality (meaning Boško's and Admira's, but not necessarily anyone else's). The performance is extremely effective in convincing me, as a viewer, that the creative process was fair to both the story and everyone involved in it; that it approached the material with utmost respect; that it is aware of its limitations and the pitfalls it might fall into; that it likewise questions the boundaries that handling such a story inherently establishes; and, above all, that it approaches the documentary material, the documentary research, and subsequently the exploration of everything that goes beyond the documentary, with confidence. In short: from the very beginning, I "believe" the story. Why the quotation marks? Because the production, of course, also ventures into the realms of fiction (perhaps even more so than reality); it naturally establishes parallel worlds in which Boško and Admira are still alive; it reconstructs the moment of their death multiple times; it exploits the field of imagination when it comes to their final moments; and it also reaches much further than just the concrete story of Boško and Admira.

At one point in the performance, it is presented in a fairly documentary manner exactly where (or at least what the speculations or possibilities are regarding this) Boško and Admira supposedly died. We see a map of Sarajevo from that time, specifically the part of the map around the site of their killing; we see photographs of the building that stands nearby today, a photograph of the building from which the photographer likely took their picture, and so on. When it came to such a precise description of the place of their death, along with a description of how the creators tried to find out what this location looks like today, and a description of the changes in the names of certain streets and areas nearby, that was the moment when I lost my "compass" of reality. I did not begin to doubt the reality of the story, nor the reality of what they were talking about. I just caught myself feeling that there were noticeably too many "proofs" of reality. If the core story were fictional, this assumption might have been confirmed for me at that moment. It would be confirmed the moment I feel that every piece of evidence, every subsequent piece of information, every subsequent material is exposed or stands "in service of" proving reality. If the story were fictional but presented as absolutely real, would these proofs be enough to convince me of its alleged reality? Of course, this scene or these scenes are about much more than whether I, as a viewer, will be convinced of the reality or not. It is also about the absurdity of the situation, about emphasizing the extreme in which Boško and Admira specifically found themselves, perhaps also about collective memory—a memory that accumulates not only in people but also in places, specific points, and the like. But it is also a strategy of documentary fiction that would otherwise be presented as utterly non-fictional.

In Anhovo, the first sentence we hear is (I am probably paraphrasing): “This story is entirely fictional.” It is as if trigger warnings in the context of fiction/faction were replaced here by a statement about the reality or unreality of what follows. For what follows in Anhovo are precise documentary, even archival data, and information about what has been happening in Anhovo and in the Salonit Anhovo factory from 1921 until today, or rather, what is still happening in Anhovo (and most likely will continue to happen). What we learn about the place, its history, and its people is information accessible in archives, newspapers, minutes of sessions and meetings, files, and various news outlets—information obtained through interviews, available on the internet, in various broadcasts, recordings, and the list goes on. The actors and those responsible are exposed by name; the data is precise, backed by dates and photographs. One could say, then, that we are convinced from all sides of the credibility of the narrated story. And if I compare my feeling during Anhovo with my feeling during Boško and Admira: I believe the story from the very beginning. What is interesting, then, is the aforementioned first sentence. Even though the entire story is indeed delivered in the form of a narrative, a story "that could have also begun back then," "that could have begun differently," the first sentence is, in a comical way, the one that confirms the reality of what follows. Of course, this is again a completely subjective experience; of course, I am writing about this at a time when the relationship between fiction and factuality within the performing arts is an almost everyday topic, and yet: the denial of reality, perhaps even the mechanism of denial, guides me through the fields of reality. However, just as the statement “this story is completely true” could, in the manner of the fiction/faction compass, lead me to doubt not only its reality (which is perhaps obvious) but primarily its unreality, the doubt is similarly inverted with the opposite statement: first, I might doubt its unreality, and subsequently, its reality. It is therefore interesting to think about how I would view a similar story, with the same opening sentence and the same precise data following it, if the story were not so close to me, if I did not know the story at all, and if I were not somehow embedded in its context myself.

Boško and Admira and Anhovo are, on the one hand, similar in their persistent citation of facts (in Anhovo, there is of course significantly more of this, and the text relies exclusively on data and information that the creative team was able to acquire) and in the reality of the initial story. However, in the former, the specific citation of facts triggers almost a kind of resistance in me ("resistance" might be too strong a word; I could also say wonder or surprise that such "proving" is used), while in the latter, the first sentence is perhaps the one that, in this sense, protects the citation of facts that follows. The credibility of the documentary strikes me as somewhat paradoxical. The title of this piece could perhaps also be “On the Inherent Nature of Doubt” or “A Subjective Experience of Evidentiary Material,” but to conclude, perhaps just a thought that the "fiction : faction compass" is unstable and perhaps completely uncalibrated—if I turn left three times, it remains a fact that the perspective from which I view reality will be different.

Lana Krmelj

*prevedeno z Gemini AI/translated with Gemini AI. This text was translated from Slovenian using AI tools solely to ensure international accessibility. As a festival that deeply values human creativity and authorship, we thank you for your understanding regarding any linguistic or contextual imperfections.