22.03.2026 22:11
The premiere of the play ''The Pit'', based on the eponymous novella by Alexander Kuprin, took place at the K. Stanislavsky State Russian Drama Theatre. Turning to this work today might seem unexpected: the world of Yamskaya Sloboda, where the destinies of women trapped in prostitution unfold, appears historically remote from contemporary reality. It seems we have already left behind that era of social inequality; yet the resonance of this novella and its characters still feels modern and comprehensible. Director Gor Margaryan stages the production in such a way that Kuprin’s text begins to sound like a troubling metaphor for today’s society. I should also note that the stage adaptation was done by Sona Meloyan, who, together with the director, created the tangible world of characters living in this parallel realm—a pit.
Gor Margaryan’s directorial method is built on the principle of two temporal layers existing simultaneously. On stage, the world of Kuprin’s era coexists with modernity: characters appear on motorcycles, there are allusions to corrupt money and mechanisms of power familiar to today’s viewer. Through this device, the historical distance between the eras is erased, and the “pit” ceases to be merely a specific location in Yamskaya Sloboda, transforming into a universal social metaphor—a system from which escape is practically impossible. Throughout the performance, one cannot shake the sense of inevitability, of the characters’ doom; each of them ended up in this reality through different turns of fate. And each girl finds a justification for why she remains in the pit—for she knows no other life beyond this place. Each of the persons in the performance exists within her own tragic trajectory. Their destinies form a collective portrait of a world where the human person is subjected to cruel social circumstances.
The director does not so much narrate individual stories as he demonstrates the mechanism of social hopelessness, in which an individual is stripped of the ability to choose. It is precisely the absence of choice that defines the core idea of the production, where every character, in one way or another, is a prisoner of this reality. Even Anna Markovna, who embodies the philosophy that “everything can be bought and sold,” at one point appears vulnerable when, in her monologue about her child, she tries to justify her actions by claiming she had no other choice—she is doing it all for her child, excusing the horror that unfolds. The staging of Anna Markovna’s character (Elena Vardanyan) relies on a striking visual metaphor: a long red train trailing across the entire stage, like a wave that captures the space and sweeps over all the girls in a crimson tide. This element of costume symbolizes the person’s power, and simultaneously blood, passion, and destruction.
Costume and set designer Nelly Barseghyan creates a cohesive visual concept for the performance. Anna Markovna’s red costume transforms into various scenic elements—a covering that conceals scene changes, or a tablecloth on which the girls perform. Thus, the costume becomes not merely part of a character but an active scenic object participating in the dramaturgy of the play. Nelly Barseghyan has created a highly aesthetic, yet rebellious atmosphere on stage; each character has a semi-classical image, with hints of rock ’n’ roll and an insurgent spirit.
The shifting set, reminiscent of metal bars, reinforces the feeling of a confined space. The “pit” in this context appears less as a specific place than as a symbol of the social cage imprisoning the heroines. The musical score relies on Russian folk songs. Their performance by the actresses sounds unexpectedly organic and creates an emotional contrast between the outer beauty of the music and the tragic content of what is unfolding. Original music by Narek Kosmos evokes a sense of epic scale. The impression is one of Shakespearean tragedy unfolding on stage: the composition is original, distinctive, and gives the action a particular dynamism. Special mention deserves the choreography (Hayarpi Zurnachyan). In Armenian modern theatre, choreographic solutions often prove to be a challenging element of a production, not always achieving the necessary artistic expressiveness. In this performance, however, choreography becomes a fully-fledged expressive language. Erotic dances, solo movement numbers, and ensemble scenes look aesthetically refined and thoughtfully woven into the fabric of the performance.
A central element of the scenography is a massive table, on and around which most of the action takes place. This space serves multiple functions: it becomes a place of feasting, a stage for burlesque dance, and a symbolic “altar” of a system where human bodies are turned into commodities. The dance scenes evoke the atmosphere of Weimar-era German cabaret—a space where the aesthetics of entertainment coexisted with the sense of an approaching catastrophe. This stylistic allusion intensifies the sense of decadence and moral depravity of the milieu. The choreographic concept is built on the principle of individualized movement. Each heroine has her own dance pattern, which becomes an extension of her character. It seems the girls move chaotically, yet each has her own dance story, while also achieving a certain synchrony. Each follows her own dance line, allowing the audience to glimpse the character’s personality, her temperament, and her pain. Through this, movement becomes an important tool of dramaturgy rather than a mere decorative element.
From the opening scenes, the audience is introduced to Platonov (Ervin Amiryan), who, in the company of friends, engages in light social conversation, sings, and spends his time cheerfully. These petty‑bourgeois routines, outwardly filled with carefreeness, in fact conceal a tragic reality—a world where the human body is turned into a commodity. In the first act, Platonov appears as a romantic and somewhat naive observer of what is happening. He seems to accept the existing rules of the game and resigns himself to them, all the while remaining a bystander. Though he does not use the girls’ services, he knows each of them well, making his figure a kind of moral witness to the events. His dialogue with Zhenya (Ripsime Nahapetyan) is highly emotional, resembling a kind of confession. Zhenya’s arrival becomes one of the key dramaturgical moments of the performance. Her image—defiant, independent, and inwardly intense—sharply contrasts with the general atmosphere of feigned merriment. Zhenya demonstratively breaks the rules of conduct, yet it is this that earns her the respect of those around her. In her figure, rebellion against the system is concentrated, though this rebellion is doomed from the start. She seems to have accepted fate’s challenge, knowing she will not win, but prepared to go all the way, even though only death will prevail in this struggle.
The storyline of Likhonin (Manvel Sargsyan) reveals another important theme of the performance—the illusion of salvation. The student sincerely believes he can change the girls’ fates and pull them out of this world. He decides to help Lyubka (Hayarpi Zurnachyan) start a new life by opening a diner. However, it quickly becomes clear that his humanitarian impulse cannot withstand the collision with reality. The director clearly highlights the weak male characters, who do not even try to face the truth. It seems the female characters are so vivid that they overshadow the men with their energy. Lyubka eventually returns to Anna Markovna, and this episode becomes a powerful dramaturgical statement about the impossibility of individual salvation within a destructive social system.
The climax of the first act is Zhenya’s confession to Tamara (Marina Topchyan): the heroine has been infected with syphilis, and instead of seeking treatment, she decides to infect all the men who come to her. Her decision is a kind of literary archetype of the “woman of Maupassant”—she seems not to be living, but rather staging a model of behaviour already described in literature. This monologue becomes one of the most powerful moments of the performance. At that moment, the stage seems to cleanse itself of external movement, and the space fills with tense silence. The audience freezes—attention wholly focused on the heroine. It seems to me that in the context of catharsis, this monologue is highly effective; it contains all the heroine’s pain, suffering as a modern woman from misunderstanding and social injustice. Zhenya transforms into a tragic figure, whose desperate decision—like a tragic sin—becomes not merely an act of revenge but a gesture of destruction aimed at the system that produced her.
The director has worked with interesting solutions, and by the end it becomes clear that history repeats itself: once again a motorcycle appears, carrying time and characters along, and the story begins anew. For there will always be a reality that locks people in a “pit,” refusing them the chance to escape. They are all hostages of Anna Markovna, who hides them under her crimson train.
Тranslated by AI
