Nevertheless, over the last two seasons, a contemporary writer made his presence felt on the Budapest theatre scene with no less than three new productions of his plays. András Forgách's A kulcs (The Key) opened at Katona József Kamra, Erik (Eric) at Ericsson Studio, and Halni jó! (It's Good to Die!) at Studio K. All three productions continue to run in repertory. These plays show a wide diversity in styles and seem to promise more brilliant theatre writing from this author in the future.

Of the three productions, The Key at the "Kamra" (Chamber), the studio space of the prestigious Katona József Theatre, has received the most critical attention. It is easy to understand why. Director Tamás Ascher has assembled a first-rate cast and staged the drama beautifully. Everything seems tailored to showcase Forgách's work to the best advantage.

Yet, what is the nature of The Key? The first act is an intimate naturalist drama. Two estranged brothers meet over two evenings in an all-night buffet. One (Older, played by Gábor Máté) is a successful, arrogant businessman; the other (Younger, played by Ernő Fekete) is a thirty-something writer whose life seems to have lost all direction. What becomes clear from their dialogue (and their brief interaction with the waiter, played by Vilmos Vajdai) is the large gulf that separates the two, to the point where meaningful conversation is impossible. Older asks Younger for a copy of the key to his flat. At first, Younger declines, only to return the second evening with a full set of keys for his brother. At this point, Older tells him that he does not need the key anymore.

The second half of the play is in another style completely. The curtain rises on Younger's disorderly flat, and we learn why Older was needling Younger for the key in the first place. While his brother is out of town, he uses the flat as a love nest, trysting with none other than Younger's ex-girlfriend, played by Réka Pelsőczy. (He did not need the key, after all, because she found her old copy in the meantime.) As they are getting comfortable on the couch, they hear a key in the lock. They hide. It is Younger, who should be out of town, bringing home a young male prostitute, played by Lehel Kovács. So continues a pattern of sudden arrivals, hiding, unexpected revelations, and bald-faced lying.

Older does not despise his younger brother for his apparent homosexuality. In fact, he seems to like him better as a result. He defends him, does his best to calm the hysterical ex-girlfriend, and proposes settling their differences over a pizza. In the meantime, Older's wife (played by Andrea Fullajtár) arrives. More hiding, more lying. Despite their best efforts, she gains access to the apartment. She found the suspicious key in her husband's clothing and copied it, hoping to track him down and obtain proof of his extramarital affair. Surprise, surprise – she recognizes Robi, the young prostitute. "What could he be doing in the flat?" she wonders. Then Kálmán (played by Zoltán Rajkai), the pizza delivery boy, arrives. It seems he, too, has had dealings with Younger's ex-girlfriend, and he knows Robi…

This is pure farce. Everybody has some secret to hide; each new arrival provides more insight into the other characters. The overwhelming coincidence that all these acquaintances would suddenly converge on one apartment in Budapest is not realistic. In fact, there is a sort of mathematical precision in the whole construction. Almost everyone seems to have intimate knowledge of two other people in the room. Kálmán performs an essential role, a hallmark of the genre. He is impulsive and hotheaded; he does not prevaricate or hide. He is foul-mouthed, angry, aggressive, and he rips everyone else's pretensions and hypocrisies to shreds. The conflict builds, and violent confrontation seems imminent. It is narrowly averted by the sudden and very comic arrival of László Szacsvay and Kati Lázár, as Younger and Older's parents.

The actors at the Katona József Theatre excel at this naturalistic style, and most of the cast seems to rely on their old bag of tricks, so to speak. At first, the role of the ex-girlfriend seemed an exciting change of pace for Réka Pelsőczy, but after Younger entered with the rent boy, she reverted to the screechy type she usually plays. Despite this, everyone (down to the smallest character) does a remarkable job of bringing these somewhat sketchy figures to life. Unlike traditional dramas where the exposition is fully explained, András Forgách chooses to omit these details. After all, the relevant parties know exactly what is at stake, so why would they need to announce this information for the benefit of everyone else? In one respect, this is an effective way of lending a veneer of realism to the implausibly farcical plot. On the other hand, it does interfere with our appreciation of the story. Why, for instance, is Older so hostile towards his senile old father? Evidently, something happened, but we have no way of knowing what it was.

Tamás Ascher's direction is especially effective and goes a long way to resolve the elements that seem patently absurd on paper. Thanks to his blocking, it is no longer incredible for Older's wife to spend fifteen minutes onstage before recognizing Robi. Moreover, the costumes and set design reveal a vast amount of information about the characters. Younger's flat practically makes his life an open book, which is appropriate for a drama that deals with the invasion of privacy, secrets, lies, and ultimately, with identity.

Strangely though, Tamás Ascher decided to tack on a rather depressing ending that was not in the original script. Forgách's drama ends with the two brothers alone onstage. Younger once again offers Older the extra set of keys, and Older accepts them. Dramaturgically speaking, this is a powerful, hopeful gesture. It seems to indicate that the brothers have bridged the communication gap. Despite their differences and their faults, they accept one another. Perhaps this will be the start of a mutually supportive fraternal relationship. Nevertheless, Ascher has actor Gábor Máté disintegrate into a meaningless pattern of noises and gestures, reminiscent of Ionesco's Bald Soprano. This seems to be an illustration of the emptiness and futility of the older brother's life.

From several points of view, Erik, directed by Miklós Benedek at Ericsson Studio, is the weakest of the three current productions. It is an adaptation of Arthur Schnitzler's novel Anatole, about the amorous affairs of a Viennese bachelor at the turn of the century. András Forgách's strategy is quite simple. He has updated the plot, setting it in contemporary Budapest. Each scene features Erik with a different lover, usually at the very end of their mutual relationship.

The portrait of a man's life as seen through the prism of his love affairs is nothing new. What usually distinguishes these narratives from one another is their attitude towards the protagonist. A work can portray a fellow's caddish behavior critically (take, for example, the movie Alfie) or flatteringly (like the exploits of Casanova). Erik seems to take the middle road. It is not critical of the main character in the slightest, nor does it seem to glorify him. This Erik seems to be a rather average, ordinary fellow.

Erik and his confidant Gerzson (Zoltán Rátóti and Zoltán Karacsonyi, respectively), the male members of the cast have far more opportunities to show off their range. Many of the actresses get stuck with unattractive female stereotypes. Réka Juhász (as Laura) is crafty and marriage-minded, Margaréta Szabó (as Lillian) plays a whore, Cecília Nagy (as Lili) behaves hysterically, and Márta Gilicze (as Linda) seems insufferably stupid. (Why is it so, that in plays and movies, women under hypnosis experience an irresistible urge to loosen their clothing and stroke themselves?) The least successful characters betray a bumpy transition from the original Viennese setting. A young actress whose army of admirers shower her with expensive gifts and meals in luxury restaurants, Ludmilla (played by Angela Stefanovics) would be difficult to locate in Budapest today. Anita Fábián (as Leila) fares better, if only because her scene is the best-written encounter in the play. Tünde Murányi (as Lola) manages to wring some pathos from her role as Erik's former Sugar Mama.

It's Good to Die! at Studio K is the most entertaining and definitely the funniest of the three plays. Here, András Forgách based his comedy on a Russian play by Aleksander Suhovo-Kobilin (1817–1903); however, judging by its contents, Forgách's work seems to be a very free adaptation.

Cukor (Mr. Sugar, played by Zoltán Hannus) works as a clerk at the Ministry of Agriculture until he hatches a scheme to steal sensitive documents, fly to a foreign country, and blackmail his high-ranking superior Kálmán Koncz (played by Attila Epres). Luckily for this "paper terrorist", his neighbor Alajos suddenly dies, so Cukor decides to enlist the aid of his landlady Claudia (Zsuzsa Horváth) and swap identities with the deceased tenant. His reasoning? There is no better alibi than his own death. Still, by assuming the identity of Alajos, Cukor has inherited a set of new problems in the form of a ruthless ex-wife (Júlia Nyakó), sadistic gangsters (Imre Baksa and Márton Téglás), as well as a number of police.

The set itself is notable. By constructing a steel skeletal box that frames the entire acting space, designer György Szegő has built a convincing facsimile of a housing complex's inner balcony, complete with lift and doors to various apartments, hovering somewhere floors above the interior courtyard. 

The play, though, is difficult to classify. With a subtitle that means approximately "an evil clown play," perhaps it is best to call it a cops-and-robbers parody. Wordplay is rampant. A police officer named Hello (played by László Nádasi) provides a pretext for several groan-inspiring puns. Also, the hidden references are numerous, a typical example being a throw-away line from an Attila József poem. Still, as the play progresses, the tone takes a perceptible shift. Cukor signals this change at the end of the first act when he slams Claudia's head into the front door of the late Alajos's (now his) flat. "Now, I begin to do this Hungarian style," he says. This joke is not funny; it is shocking, and it is typical of things to come. When Claudia is tortured by gangsters in the elevator shaft while the ineffectual policeman stands by at a loss, this is no longer a comedy, and the grotesquery only builds to a profoundly tragic conclusion.

This tight-wire act of comedy and tragedy is no easy feat. Despite a few false steps in the second half, director Tamás Fodor and his cast do an extraordinarily impressive job. Zoltán Hannus has already proved that he is a versatile and charismatic leading man, but he outdoes himself in this role. Attila Epres nearly steals the show with his creepily good turn as the corrupt politician Kálmán. He exploits the character's facial tic for some fantastic physical comedy. Moreover, it is a pleasure to hear Zsuzsa Horváth and Júlia Nyakó deliver their lines. In their shared scene, the dialogue becomes exquisite music.

Harking back to an older convention, András Forgách has his characters address the audience in frequent asides and even the occasional soliloquy. Tamás Fodor keeps the tempo brisk, having the other characters freeze when someone else addresses the audience, only to swing back into action at a moment's notice. This, coupled with the complicated physical gags, takes exceptional concentration and timing to achieve. It is astounding that the cast manages to keep the stage business sharp while the play is in repertory, sometimes performed only once a month.

Not all of the loose threads are tied up at the end of the play, but it is easy to forgive the odd inconsistency. The play flouts boundaries between comedy and tragedy; it places us in an absurd world that is nevertheless specific and recognizable; and unlike so many contemporary Hungarian plays, it provides the audience a satisfying emotional catharsis. One drawback to the production is that the supporting characters continue to mug in a broadly comic manner, even though it is no longer appropriate at the end. When two Chinese gangsters appear, for instance, they face front and deliver their nonsense dialogue ("Ching, chang, zwong, choy…") directly to the audience. This is not the point, however. If anything, their lines should be barely audible. They should hold a private conversation at the back of the stage while the bound and neutralized Cukor calls to them in a futile appeal for help.

Perhaps, this is precisely why András Forgách's work seems to promise exciting things to come. His versatility, his mastery of dialogue, and his willingness to push the boundaries of conventional dramas are all auspicious signs. In addition, his plays are very audience-friendly. They are effective without resorting to shock tactics, and they do not make excessive demands on the audience's patience or erudition. Whatever the future holds for author András Forgách, let us hope he continues to develop and hone his stagecraft. He has the makings of a very good playwright, indeed.

Patrick Mullowney