When I first heard about Willem Dafoe’s latest stint as the artistic director of the Venice Theatre Biennale, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Dafoe, a name synonymous with intense, often brooding performances, has always struck me as an actor who thrives in the shadows of complex characters. But curating a theatre festival? That’s a different stage altogether. Yet, what’s emerged this year is not just a program but a profound statement on the power of theatre to amplify voices that often go unheard.
One thing that immediately stands out is the theme of Alter Native, which Dafoe describes as a dialogue between the familiar and the transformative. Personally, I think this is more than just a catchy title—it’s a manifesto. In a world increasingly polarized by cultural divides, the idea of encountering the ‘other’ and finding common ground feels both urgent and radical. What many people don’t realize is that theatre, at its core, is about empathy. It’s about stepping into someone else’s story, even if just for a moment. And Dafoe’s lineup this year seems to double down on that idea.
Take, for instance, Davide Iodice’s Promemoria, a production that takes place inside a care home for the elderly in Venice. Here, the audience isn’t just watching—they’re participating, interacting with residents who are living with cognitive decline or Alzheimer’s. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it challenges our perceptions of fragility and strength. Iodice doesn’t shy away from the pain, but he also doesn’t let it define the narrative. Instead, he highlights the resilience of the human spirit, even in the face of vulnerability. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just theatre—it’s a reminder of our shared humanity.
Then there’s Cries, by Christos Stergioglou and Alex Drakos Ktistakis, a piece that distills the voices of migrants and the displaced across time. The angriest song in the production, a raw, hammering shout about the plight of migrants, is a moment that stays with you long after the curtain falls. What this really suggests is that theatre isn’t just about entertainment—it’s about bearing witness. In my opinion, this is where Dafoe’s curation shines. He’s not just presenting stories; he’s inviting us to confront uncomfortable truths.
Satoshi Miyagi’s Mugen Noh Othello is another standout, reconfiguring Shakespeare’s tragedy to center Desdemona, the murdered wife. What’s especially interesting here is how Miyagi uses the Noh tradition, where the protagonist is always a ghost trapped in a loop, to give Desdemona a voice she never had in the original text. This raises a deeper question: Who gets to tell their story, and how does that shape our understanding of history? From my perspective, Miyagi’s reinterpretation isn’t just a theatrical experiment—it’s a political act.
But it’s not all heavy themes and existential questions. There’s a flamboyant hybridity to this year’s program, a fusion of traditions that feels both daring and necessary. From Indonesian and Indian productions to the immersive, six-hour staging of Samuel Beckett’s How It Is, Dafoe has curated a lineup that defies easy categorization. What this really suggests is that theatre, at its best, is a boundary-pushing art form—one that refuses to be boxed in.
As Dafoe’s tenure as artistic director comes to a close, the question lingers: Will he return for another term? Personally, I hope he does. Because if this year’s Biennale is any indication, he’s just hitting his stride. What many people don’t realize is that curating a festival like this isn’t just about selecting shows—it’s about crafting a narrative, a conversation. And Dafoe’s narrative is one of inclusion, transformation, and the enduring power of storytelling.
In the end, what stays with me is the idea that theatre can be more than just a mirror—it can be a bridge. A bridge between cultures, between generations, between the living and the dead. And in a world that often feels fragmented, that’s not just art—it’s essential.
