“Allow me to present myself: I am a human being with a stolen identity. For me, the only thing which I can affirm with certainty is that I am a woman, that I am on the threshold of maturity and that I live in Europe at the hour of change of the millenium. All that remains is rather vague, undecided and opaque.”

Biljana Srbljanovic, December 1999. Part of an acceptance speech for the Ernst Toller Prize


I am a bit of a Biljana Srbljanovic junkie. Not to her. But to her plays. She is such a damn confident, brazen and broody woman and her plays are painted in the most amazing colours which lift right off the page. If you haven’t heard of her, it’s no wonder. Until this week, she has never been produced in Australia.

I could say to you her plays are so good they have been translated into countless languages and been performed in over 40 countries around the world, but that is no measure of success. The Da Vinci Code can affirm that.

No. Srbljanovic’s plays are uncompromising, violent and beautiful. She writes with an arrogance that both respects and abuses her audiences. And for a director, sets a challenge to create theatre from a buffet of conflicting and imperfect choices.

It was a film maker friend of mine in Serbia who first introduced me to Srbljanovic’s work. I had been living and studying in Slovenia at the time and would often take a train to Sarajevo, Zagreb, Belgrade, Novi Sad or wherever my nose led me in the old republics of Yugoslavia.

Opening up the play as the train pulled out of Novi Sad, Family Stories: Belgrade would consume me for the entire journey as the outskirts of the city gave way to the open plains of Croatia and finally the mountains of Slovenia.

On a stage, or at the back of an apartment block, four adult actors play children who in turn play adults; mums and dads, sons and daughters. Eleven scenes. Eleven stories of brutal domestic life as seen through the honest eyes of children. Childs play. A game of house which becomes a violent slapstick tragedy.

Everything is make-believe. The Play is a game. You have to pretend it's true and it is. It’s almost as if nothing can be taken seriously if it’s seen through kids’ eyes. Until it goes too far. And then everything is too serious. So serious it is painful. So painful one can only laugh.

Mum and Dad (Abi Austin & Alex Lissine) raise a son (Ed Keane) in Belgrade during the years spanning the Yugoslavian civil war. And they have a dog (Megan Drury), a girl with tics who appears to be unable to speak.

The images of the play flickered in my mind and I set out to produce it. The play may have been a Serbian one, but the universal appeal of its theatricality and its themes were too wonderful to ignore. Arriving back in Australia with the play under my arm, I was determined to get the play on somewhere in my home town of Sydney.

Searching for venues, it became apparent that I needed a large playing space for the four actors. Something a bit empty. Something a bit remote. Most of the independent theatre venues in Sydney are relatively small and wouldn’t provide the freedom of movement I was seeking. It was the New Theatre in Sydney’s inner city which, after a long search, could provide the dynamics I was searching for.

At about the same time, I happened to meet Bojana Novakovic. In a casual conversation we suddenly discovered we shared a similar passion – the work of Srbljanovic. Not only that - she had recently translated Family Stories: Belgrade.

Providing me with this new script which was a direct translation from Serbian to English, the play instantly took on a new form in my mind. It was more colourful, more violent and more uncompromising.

Little did I know that I had been reading a translation which had come from Serbian via German to English. And although the translation I had been reading was excellent, to read a new direct Australian translation opened up a whole world of possibilities for a Sydney production.

Bojana and I set about to get the rights, confident in what we were about to create. We firstly approached the theatres in Belgrade and all of our contacts in the Balkan peninsula to get approval from the playwright. No reply. We then consulted an entertainment lawyer in Sydney for an agent or representative that could get us in contact with Srbljanovic. Nothing.

Fortunately, Bojana was due to head to Belgrade to act in a locally made film there. It would be the perfect opportunity to contact the playwright directly and get the relevant permission. In the meantime, I was in Sydney, cautiously attempting to organise the show as well as an Australia Council grant.

At last I got news, a phone call had been arranged for Bojana to speak to the playwright. Things were looking up!

But just as quickly as the good news came in, all hope was lost when we heard the response: “I can not give you the rights. The American translator has universal English rights. You need to speak to her.”

I reeled. What? Does such a thing exist? Universal? What does that mean?

Literature Copyright 101: ‘Universal rights’ means that a person/organisation can have the rights to the translation of a piece of literature as well as any other subsequent translations into that language. And it does exist.

Time was running short. The production was due to go up within a matter of months and we desperately needed to organise the rights. Through the amazing dedication of agents and friends in both Australia and Europe, we appealed to the playwright and translators respective agents.

Most of the time however, there was either no response or replies arbitrary in nature. Our frustration escalated. What could we have done differently? When you set about to do a show, when you organise in your mind that you need to organise the rights, you tend to give yourself about twelve months. Suddenly Bojana and I found ourselves, months later, no closer to securing the deal.

One day we had had enough! Enough of these literary agents. Enough of the to-ing and fro-ing and the double-speak. Bojana and I searched the net for the American translators name and found an email contact for her. Together, we penned a pleading personal letter, from artist to artist, outlining the cultural importance of a local Australian translation. It was an appeal to her good sense and better judgement. After several drafts, rewrites and considerations, Bojana and I hit the send button and hoped for the best.

Here was a show that had been milling around in my mind from the day I caught that rickety old train from Novi Sad four years ago. It had consumed me. My determination and desire to get this production up had only increased and here we were sending one final plea to get permission.

The reply arrived 24 hours later. “Sure! No problem.”

Until our letter, the American translator had no idea about all of the correspondence that had been flying between Sydney, Belgrade, Paris, Berlin and New York. Bojana and I had removed the money people. We had removed the power brokers. We were suddenly like the characters in the Family Stories: Belgrade, children trying to throw off the burden and control of ridiculous parents.

All that angst. All that frustration. All that disillusionment. And all it took was a personal letter to turn things around.

At the end of it all, the play is in rehearsal and it will open on Thursday. And am I delighted. I now hope that a few more people in this country will sit and enjoy a good strong hit of Srbljanovic just like me.


Bojana Novakovic - An acting graduate of NIDA and winner of the AFI Award for best leading actress in a TV drama or comedy. Born in Serbia and migrating to Australia, she was an active member of the fundraising committee for anti-government demonstrations in Belgrade during 1996/7. Fluent in both Serbian and English, she has translated the feature film Summer Star directed by Milan Spasic and Overbearing Inheritance by Vladimir Paskaljevic. She is presently in the production of 'The Female of the Species' opening at the MTC this week.