The Identity Crisis in Society and Theatre Is More Complex Than These Words
Ali Rahimi
Your play approaches a specific social issue. For some people observing our country from afar, it may seem almost humorous, but for us it is undeniably a bitter joke. How did this idea come to you, and how did you prepare to bring it to the stage?
Almost twenty years ago, inspired by my interest in Friedrich Dürrenmatt, I began writing this play with the opening dialogue from Night Talk by Dürrenmatt—the exchange that begins, “There is no choice!… Come on!…”.
It goes without saying that lived experience has the deepest influence on any creative work. For nearly ten years, I closely witnessed the collapse of culture through the decline of industry and the economy. I didn’t merely observe it—I lived it. I experienced firsthand the gradual transformation of factories into commercial buildings and trading houses. Years later, many of the factories around Tehran were converted into wedding halls. It is both absurd and, as you put it, bitter and biting. I now realize that this detail is missing from the play. Imagine a scene in which the factory owner proudly announces that countless couples first met in this factory and later held their wedding receptions there, contributing to the country’s bright future simply by producing more children!
“Who am I?” is a remarkably creative and thought-provoking phrase that seems to open the door to everything that follows. Could you tell us about your interpretation of this motif in the performance? Identity crisis is one of the defining problems of our time.
Identity means being oneself. It means not being anyone else.
For centuries, our society has defined its identity through its past, honoring history and the dead. In South Korea, however, children are taught that national identity belongs to the future. A simple comparison between the automobile industries of Iran and South Korea demonstrates the consequences of these two different approaches to identity.
What has intensified today’s identity crisis is the overwhelming dominance of amateur culture. This becomes especially troubling when amateur audiences begin determining the future of professional theatre.
As minorities are gradually excluded from cultural influence, theatre professionals increasingly find themselves sharing the same tastes and preferences as the broader public. Innovation has given way to uniformity. Under such circumstances, it becomes difficult for anyone to know who they really are. Or perhaps they do know—but choose to hide it.
Who openly announces that they have changed their beliefs? Who admits they are no longer an amateur?
Yet the identity crisis in both society and theatre is far more complicated than that.
Theatre is ultimately about confronting the human condition and our place in existence. Throughout life we struggle, strive, succeed, fail, and at decisive moments ask ourselves:
Who am I? Am I making progress? Am I thinking critically? Is this achievement worthy of being included on my résumé? If the answer is yes, then another question follows: Am I merely the sum of what I have done? Or am I defined by what I have yet to become? Who truly knows the answer?
Those who believe they do—or those who simply wish to ask the question—are invited onto the stage of Two and a Half Clowns. There, before a room full of strangers, they have the opportunity to reveal who they really are.
Each evening, three volunteers come onto the stage to share their thoughts. For me, one of the most fascinating aspects of the performance is the presence of these guests, each of whom deepens the central question. We also notice the recurring image of a fence in your work. It seems to represent something that exists both in individual lives and in society. How do you interpret this symbol?
In this play, the characters never truly have solid ground beneath their feet. Even under the safest conditions, an underlying anxiety remains just beneath the surface.
The fences are more than physical barriers. Rather than providing protection, they intensify that anxiety. One could even argue that excessive security itself becomes a prison, restricting the very people it is meant to protect.
Two major forces seem to shape the world of your play: love and power. Contrary to what many might expect, power appears to dominate love. How do you see the relationship between these two forces?
It is not my role to tell people what to think. I have no interest in doing that.
If I were to declare that either love or power should take precedence, the play would become nothing more than a slogan.
In this work, the immature Zito swings constantly between these two powerful motivations and ultimately fails to succeed with either of them.
Could you explain the significance of the red line forming the letter “Z”?
The mark emerged almost accidentally during the construction of the set. It was not part of the original design.
Yet once it appeared, it became impossible to ignore.
In this tragicomedy, Zito is the victim. At times he even resembles Zorro. By coincidence, these visual associations emerged on their own and deserved to be explored.
The red line only revealed itself to me during the final stages of the set design. When I saw it, I imagined it as the trail left by a sword cutting across the entire stage, intensifying the emotional atmosphere of the performance. Perhaps it is Zito’s final mark upon the stage. Or perhaps it is an irreversible scar engraved upon our collective memory. That is often how victims remain present in every tragedy. So what is this line? Perhaps it is something that will remain in the audience’s memory long after the performance ends.
You have extensive experience as a theatre artist, and your work often leaves audiences with something to reflect upon. What message, if any, does this play seek to convey?
If this play carries a message, it is simply this: Respect the artist—and respect the work. I still refuse to diminish the value of my work, myself, or my audience.
To what extent was this bitter comedy carefully constructed, and to what extent did it emerge organically during the creative process?
Even a poet who knows nothing about engineering cannot create a successful work through instinct alone. Every artistic achievement requires structure. The first stage is direction. The second is construction. Only then do taste, emotion, and visual design find their proper place.
Finally, why the clown?
Perhaps the real question is not the clown, but the mask. The mask is inseparable from identity. The first mask we receive is given to us during childhood. From then on, we continue collecting masks throughout our lives. Every morning we wake up, put on the mask waiting beside the bed, remove it later, replace it with another, and carry countless others with us wherever we go. That collection of masks is what we call experience. In one way or another, everyone is a clown. That is the question this production asks. It was a question that the previous production did not explore. Now, however, it has become central to my work.