The Overcoat in the Chalk Circle

No matter how you look at it, We all came out from under Gogol's "The Overcoat," and Ariel Krizopolsky—a born actor—is no exception.

His Akaky Akakievich is far from being the usual Bashmachkin (his surname, Bashmachkin has a meaning that sounds alike "shoe"), as he walks barefoot on the imaginary snow of St. Petersburg. Well, "walks" is a bit of an overstatement since he's trapped in a circle of shredded white paper. This chalk circle, a symbol of the ouroboros eternally devouring its own tail, becomes the stage for his suffering.

Yes, feathers are scattered around the paper circle—after all, Bashmachkin works as a clerk in the department.

Calling him a "hero" is again a stretch, considering how pitiful and miserable he is, yearning for his overcoat. He appears before us in all his touching simplicity, dressed in undergarments resembling a straitjacket, as he reveals the tragedy of his life—a brief romance with a new overcoat that, for a fleeting moment, warmed his soul.

Remember how Nikolai Gogol describes the hero of "The Overcoat"? "A poor civil servant about fifty years old, short, pockmarked, slightly red-haired, nearsighted, with a bald spot on his forehead, wrinkles on his cheeks, and a gray face—timid, quiet, harmless." Young and handsome Krizopolsky can, it turns out, be all that. His Akaky-Ariel is delightfully cute and incredibly decrepit. Through glued-on sideburns and a carefully crafted gait, the actor seems to add a hundred or so years to his age; every gesture of his is like a mosaic, piecing together old age from fragments of youth. His cracked voice and posture are steeped in the years; his movements are similarly appropriate—fidgety and unsteady.

Ariel Krizopolsky’s one-man show, created entirely by him as playwright, director, set designer, lighting technician, sound designer, and of course, actor, has him filling every role. He’s completely alone on stage—even the voices of Akaky’s colleagues, heard from everywhere and nowhere, belong to him.

After the performance, Kryzhopolski admitted that theater is a collective art form and he won’t attempt such a solo endeavor again.

The voices, in this play, are a story unto themselves.

Yes, in this performance, the voices are not just background noise, but the relentless spirits of the streets of St. Petersburg. The voices of Akaky Akakievich’s colleagues, echoing from all sides, seem less like characters and more like ethereal actors, unburdened by physical form. Even the creaking door (which Krizopolsky imitates with his voice, and how!) claims an independent existence, while the sound of bare feet on paper snow becomes the accompaniment to the tragedy of non-Bashmachkin.

Perhaps these voices remind us that, in a way, we are all no more than invisible actors, playing our roles in the endless shadow theater of life. They expose the ironic truth that while these voices create the illusion of multiple entities, Krizopolsky himself, master of all sounds and forms, remains deeply alone. Immersed in a world where every sound is simultaneously life and loss, where every rustle is a step towards realizing one's own mortality.

In the intimate space of the Tel Aviv Alpha Theater, where there’s no stage and no curtain, we suddenly feel like we’re standing on a snowy street in St. Petersburg. The coldness of the Petersburg frost creeps up on us—thanks to the mercilessly blasting air conditioning, adding authenticity, no doubt.

The video art also contributes delicately and skillfully. The wind howls, the snowstorm swirls, women laugh, and the clatter of hooves echoes on the cobblestones.

On deeper reflection, the overcoat isn’t really clothing, but rather a cry over lost identity. Into its fabric, Akaky Akakievich’s dreams of a better life are woven, only to be as fragile and short-lived as the coat itself. When the hero is robbed of this symbol of his aspirations, his very existence begins to unravel, much like the fraying fabric of the coat. In this sense, the overcoat becomes a metaphor for human life: a striving for something greater that can easily be lost at any moment.

What horrified me: instead of unattainable sable fur, the collar of the "little man’s" new overcoat was trimmed with cat fur. Given my love for cats, that’s a crime.

That said, Gogol’s sadism towards cats is well-known. After all, at five years old, little Nikosha drowned a black cat in a pond. And for the rest of his life, he feared cats, seeing them as shapeshifters. Serves him right—it’s well known one mustn’t harm cats, one must worship them.

In the end, Akaky Akakievich will freeze in a snowdrift of shredded paper. However, perhaps death here isn’t the end, but rather a new form of existence—a new introspective universe that endlessly tears itself apart and stitches itself back together.

And then Ariel, now without makeup, will fling the paper into the audience, right at us. Because, in the end, we are all part of one great absurd play.

Photos by © Lina Goncharsky