“Have the gates of death been shown to you?
Have you seen the gates of the deepest darkness?” (Job 38:17)
The play No Power for the Electric Chair by the Jordan H. K. Dzinot Theatre from Veles (Macedonia) presents a mosaic picture of desolation and apocalypse, a prison cell, and the human bloodstream—life and death, morality and destiny. It feels as though the entire world has fit into the execution chamber, and the only survivors stand at the gates of death—whether by a condemning verdict or the natural course of life reaching its end. Suddenly, the electricity goes out. Absolute darkness descends. Directed by Dejan Projkovski.
Dejan Projkovski’s plays are always lavish and spectacular, often featuring large ensembles on stage with strong dynamics, acts, and scenes that leave a grandiose impression. The music is specifically composed to support intense and massive scenes, and the stage movements are carefully crafted and precisely synchronised, contributing to the expressiveness and power of his work. However, the play No Power for the Electric Chair reveals an entirely different approach from director Projkovski. In this piece, he turns to an utterly raw and stripped-down method based on minimalism, which gradually develops into a more complex and layered form. It is in this transgression—where simple elements evolve into deeply thought-out ideas—that Projkovski reveals himself as a master of artistic thought.
The play is based on a drama by Bulgarian author Alexander Sekulov, pessimistic and dystopian in its nature. It unfolds a duodrama between the executioner and the victim, the guilty and the innocent, the condemned and the enforcer, the criminal and the electrician, death and the “knight” of life—roles that can also be reversed. They are black-and-white figures, symbols of opposing forces, and a dualistic view of the world. They are on a chessboard, playing with living pieces, evoking Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. The central scenic motif is the electric chair, made of hardwood and bound with metal cuffs—a symbol of human existence’s harsh finality and absurdity.
In Dejan Projkovski’s directorial approach, an existential drama unfolds before the audience, infused with philosophical and psychological dimensions, mystery, symbolism, and a strictly and precisely developed system—all of which are embodied through the performances of two actors: Vasil Zafirchev and Isidor Jovanoski. Every segment of the play radiates with layered meaning, as the director skillfully explores different artistic forms. The play begins with sound: a spiritual song followed by a devastating wail. Multi-instrumentalist Sashko Kostov enriches the auditory dimension of the performance, blending unusual combinations and transitions. He uses a technique reminiscent of early film soundtracks, combining it with contemporary and even futuristic sounds and rhythms. His presence on stage, with his instrumental and vocal activity resonating through speakers directed at the audience, creates a unique and distinctive atmosphere.
A cinematic noir style further colours the play, which is essentially a dialogue with death. Sharp “close-ups,” ethical dilemmas stripped bare in the face of finality or eternity, and a live video broadcast of the actors’ performances—in the style of the black wave from film history—captivate and showcase innovative solutions. Fatalism and determinism collide in a universal duality that, by the end of the play, appears indivisible and unified.
The colour palette is reduced to shades of grey, with the stage remaining dark, contrasting with the bare body of the sinner seated on the electric chair, crucified in thought as he awaits his final moment. From the theatrical “heavens,” rain falls as white feathers from “free” birds descend, creating a powerful symbolic effect. On a film screen set behind the actors, their emotions and movements are displayed, with every detail emphasized. Scattered visuals break through illusory clouds of smoke, blood-stained walls, and symbolic figures of God’s sons.
The play’s key lines are: “There is no one here” and “That’s the law.” These lines portray the conflict between the system and the individual, God and humanity, similarities and opposites. They symbolize the proportion between universal principles and their diametric opposites, essential differences, highlighting the symbiosis of good and evil. They are both cries and whispers. Is this divine punishment or mortal justice?
No Power for the Electric Chair directed by Dejan Projkovski, foto: Ivan Kamchev
This post was written by the author in their personal capacity.The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of The Theatre Times, their staff or collaborators.
This post was written by Emilija Kvočka.
The views expressed here belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect our views and opinions.
