WHAT IF A MACHINE BECOMES PART OF THE FAMILY?

Review by Nikola Stanišić

Although the title suggests performance might be about the end of the world or an impending apocalypse brought by the rise of artificial intelligence, it is, in fact, something deeply personal—something that burdens the performer and which she chooses to share with the world through the framework of stage performance. The question arises: is this the right way of addressing a personal problem, or does it belong elsewhere, in another kind of institution, approached through art or perhaps less artistically?

On the second day of the first Sarajevo Theatre Showcase, at the Youth Theatre Sarajevo, Bojana Robinson, in collaboration with dramaturg Dimitrije Kokanov, presented the performance The Machine. In the first third of the piece, performer Robinson enters the stage wearing a skin-colored costume, introduces herself, sits on a chair to the side and begins to read a prose text from her phone. While the desert images flicker on a slideshow behind her, one slide shows a crashed car. When a certain altitude is reached, there is no air and people do not finish their journey. The introduction does not promise a happy ending. Robinson does not attempt to deliver the reading dramatically; rather, she reads without pauses or emphasis. Through this text she symbolically conveys that her child is a flower in the desert. As already indicated, this is a personal story. Later, Robinson shifts from symbolic narration to direct confession: in an open, candid monologue, she tells the audience that her daughter must rely on a machine that concentrates oxygen. What if a machine becomes a family? This condition has changed the life they once had. They cannot go anywhere without the machine; it has become a new member of the family. At one point Robinson reveals that they have never visited England, where her husband is from, because the machine cannot travel by plane.

This theme is staged in the second third of the performance. Robinson crawls toward the machine but cannot reach it. The crawling repeats, the distance between her and the object growing, her movements condensed and repetitive. At first it seems easy, but as time passes, sweat appears on her face, her breathing grows heavier, her tied-up hair comes undone. The emotional intensity rises, and the audience is drawn in. The Machine and Robinson are, at this moment, opposite poles of a magnet. The more they strive to unite, the further they drift apart. In the end, she reaches the machine—worn out, yet her face radiates triumph.

At a certain point, Robinson puts on blue shorts, the same color as the machine. They gradually become one. She demonstrates this on stage. She uncoils the cable—without which the machine cannot operate—and drags it into the depth of the stage. Lying down on the floorboards, she begins to make love to the machine. The impossibility of achieving pleasure is visible, painful. She goes around in circles, yet never reaches satisfaction. She lends the machine the voice of Medea, speaking with it, though here the context feels misplaced. A monologue of another female figure, someone with a different fate than a woman who killed her children after being betrayed by her husband, would perhaps have been more appropriate. What until then seemed like a plastic representation begins to take the shape of torment. She begins to carry the machine like a suitcase, but she stands still—its weight prevents her from moving. She tries again and again. The machine yields. Robinson lifts it above her head. The machine consumes her thoughts. There is not a single moment in her life that does not involve the machine. She cannot make love to her husband, she cannot spend time with her daughter, without carrying the machine with her. Every step is accompanied by the sound of rolling wheels. 

As the author of the piece, Robinson then projects a video on screen—a popular unboxing clip—through which she explains the machine’s components and its use. Now that everything is clear, that we understand what the family and she herself go through, the performance moves into its finale. Robinson merges with the machine, they become one, a new hybrid being. She sits on the machine and slowly fades behind it, using her shorts to simulate a head. The performer shows that she accepts this way of life, not as an obstacle, but as an integral part of it.

Robinson turns off the machine, and the performance is over, while a few machines remain on stage as a reminder that they are her eternal companions. Yet the lingering question is: does such a performance belong in the theatre, or could it be reshaped into something else? Can it truly resonate with groups who do not share a similar experience? This staging obliges the audience to sympathize with the author—but how deeply do they truly understand her?