Willem Dafoe’s tenure as the artistic director of the Venice Theatre Biennale has been nothing short of a rollercoaster, and this year’s edition feels like the moment he’s truly hit his stride. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Dafoe has shifted from a somewhat nostalgic, inward-looking program last year to a bold, culturally expansive lineup this time around. It’s as if he’s finally embraced the role not just as a curator but as a provocateur, pushing the boundaries of what theatre can be and who it can speak for.
One thing that immediately stands out is the theme of Alter Native, which Dafoe describes as a dialogue between the familiar and the transformative. From my perspective, this isn’t just a catchy title—it’s a manifesto. The program is a testament to the power of theatre to bridge cultures, amplify marginalized voices, and challenge our perceptions of tradition. Take, for instance, Satoshi Miyagi’s Mugen Noh Othello, a fusion of Japanese Noh theatre and Shakespeare’s tragedy. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just a clever mashup; it’s a radical re-centering of Desdemona, a character often relegated to the sidelines in Shakespeare’s original. Miyagi’s use of the Noh tradition, where the protagonist is a ghost trapped in a loop, gives Desdemona a voice and a purpose—to resolve her anguish through storytelling. This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to reclaim a story, and whose narratives are we still overlooking in our own cultural canon?
Another piece that embodies this theme is Davide Iodice’s Promemoria, set in a care home for the elderly in Venice. A detail that I find especially interesting is how Iodice transforms the care home itself into a stage, inviting audiences to interact with residents and actors alike. It’s immersive theatre at its most humane, forcing us to confront fragility, memory, and the beauty of resilience. What this really suggests is that theatre doesn’t always need grand sets or famous actors to move us—sometimes, the most profound art is born from simply listening to those we often ignore.
Then there’s Cries, by Christos Stergioglou and Alex Drakos Ktistakis, which distills the voices of migrants and the displaced across time. Personally, I think this is one of the most urgent works of the festival. The angriest song in the production—a hammering shout about the desperation of fleeing one’s home—is a gut punch. It’s a reminder that theatre isn’t just entertainment; it’s a mirror held up to society. If you take a step back and think about it, the fact that this piece is performed in an open-air amphitheatre on an island off the mainland adds another layer of symbolism—a physical separation that echoes the isolation of those it portrays.
What’s striking about this year’s Biennale is how it doesn’t shy away from discomfort. Dorcy Rugamba’s Letter to the Absent, for example, is a deeply personal adaptation of his book about the Rwandan genocide. What makes this particularly fascinating is Rugamba’s insistence on reclaiming the narratives of victims, not their murderers. He’s not just memorializing the dead; he’s resurrecting them as full, complex characters. This raises a deeper question: How do we tell stories of trauma without reducing victims to their suffering?
Even the smaller-scale works, like Mario Banushi’s Ragada, pack an emotional punch. One thing that immediately stands out is the intimacy of the setting—audience members sit on the floor, enveloped by the drama of family bereavement and memory. It’s a reminder that theatre doesn’t need to be grand to be impactful; sometimes, the smallest spaces can hold the biggest truths.
Beyond the official lineup, the six-hour durational production of Samuel Beckett’s How It Is feels like a natural extension of Dafoe’s vision. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just a test of endurance; it’s an invitation to immerse oneself in Beckett’s enigmatic world. The fact that it’s staged in the top floor of Palazzo Diedo adds a layer of claustrophobia that mirrors the text’s themes of isolation and existential dread.
As Dafoe’s tenure comes to a close, the question lingers: Will he stay on for another term? In my opinion, if this year’s Biennale is any indication, he’s only just begun to scratch the surface of what’s possible. What this really suggests is that theatre, at its best, is a conversation—between cultures, between the living and the dead, between the familiar and the transformative. And Dafoe, it seems, is the perfect person to keep that conversation going.
Conclusion: This Biennale isn’t just a collection of plays; it’s a manifesto for what theatre can and should be. From my perspective, Dafoe has reminded us that art isn’t just about beauty—it’s about truth, about giving voice to the voiceless, and about challenging us to see the world differently. If this is what he’s achieved in just two years, imagine what he could do with more time. What makes this particularly fascinating is that it’s not just about the shows themselves but about the questions they leave us with. And in a world that often feels fragmented, those questions might just be the most important thing of all.
