Review: Aina
When the child’s crying is left behind by the mother
There is always a gentle play about grief and survival
The age group of third-graders and slightly older in comprehensive school is not too spoiled with theatre intended specifically for them.
Helsinki City Theatre has delightfully filled the gap, first with Sami Keski-Vähälä’s play Raimo Reiska Raksa from last autumn and now with Aina written by Kati Kaartinen.
Both fly the flag for the rights of the child: parents are more or less absent for various reasons, the world is full of demands, and adolescents are forced to cope with too many things too early. The same theme has emerged at the Hurraa! children’s and youth theatre festival, which ends today – and no wonder. It’s true.
While Raimo Reiska Raksa splashed loud rock’n’roll, brisk humour and almost surreal imagination, Always deals more with the themes of longing and loneliness in a more mundane setting and with a warm, empathetic touch.
Aina’s fun – there is a lot of that too – is largely created by the characters in the performance: the four-year-old’s little brother who ponders life with openness, the classmates who seem monstrous but turn out to be real friends, and the two slightly strange adults who nevertheless have the time and ability to listen.
A listener is needed, because Aina’s father has died, and her mother is grieving so much that she is unable to take care of her children. In addition to school, 11-year-old Aina takes care of the home and her little brother and tries to comfort her mother as well.
“My crying is behind my mother,” Aina tells her father who has gone to heaven in the evening when the others are sleeping. “I can’t get it out of there.”
The central theme of the play is grief, but it is touched on quite carefully. In the same way that responsibility for everyday life prevents Aina from grieving, the distancing elements of the performance that speak directly to the audience, the dramaturgy rushing from one short scene to the next, and other boundaries chosen by the creators cut off the most painful longing and anger completely. Things seem to be resolved very easily in the end.
I’m not sure if it’s a good choice.
Personally, I think that the target group would endure more and might empathize more strongly if the play went more directly towards its subject, without reveling in it. That a bolder, slightly less gentle approach would bring up in child viewers the questions that the creators urge them to ask adults. Even those that we would not be able to answer.
In any case, Aina, directed by Olka Horila, is a pleasure to watch.
Vuokko Hovatta plays the title role beautifully, with subtle sensitivity and sincerity. Hannes Suominen’s four-year-old “Aalle” seems to be a favourite of many child viewers, and even though I have seen small children played more skilfully, Aarre’s lines echo the original thinking of real preschoolers.
Vappu Nalbantoglu’s cheeky Jenni and Jouko Klemettilä’s Kalle, who seeks credibility with his black flada and studded belts, get to loosen up in their classmate roles with great devotion, as well as the substitute teacher and the new neighbor, both played by Rauno Ahonen.
I don’t know how far Ahonen’s characters and lines are pre-written, but every time he enters the stage, the viewer is alerted to the feeling that anything can happen.
The long-haired, strangely reflecting Uncle Neighbour, who drags a large suitcase, is a rather peculiar character who moves on the border between reality and fairy tale. Would he be an angel? On the other hand, isn’t he a bit threatening, is it worth trusting such a neighbor after all?
Aino Seppo plays the roles as a mummified grieving mother, a tired teacher and Jenni’s mother, who only gets a grip on her sniffing daughter when the Neighbour’s Uncle intervenes quite firmly.
Annukka Pykäläinen’s simultaneously realistic and imaginative set design, which successfully delimits the awkwardly designed stage and builds different spaces into it, brings Aina close enough to the audience. The figures painted in the backdrops and the clouds on the back and side walls are beautiful, and they don’t seem to have much other function.
Jiri Kuronen’s music is mainly moderately left in the background, with the exception of the song that reminds us of the rest of the confirmation camp.
Religion is discussed quite a lot in the play, which lasts a little over an hour, and considering the proximity of death, there must be some logic to it. Still, I don’t understand what memorizing the Lutheran creed, for example – which is then found to be useless in the play – has to do with the subject itself.
On the other hand, it leads to love and purity and the only sexual line in the performance that made the audience giggle.
Oh for what? I won’t tell you!