REVIEW OF PRISHTINA. THE PREMEDITATED KILLING OF A DREAM

Review by Katerina Markoska

PRISHTINA. The Premeditated Killing of a Dream is a story rooted in one city, yet it echoes the collapse of visions in countless others, turning hopes to ashes. Across the region, we all suffer the consequences of the same root cause: careless planning, uncontrolled construction, poor oversight, and the frailty of what is built in imprudence. This production tells a bold story, deeply familiar to us in the Balkans, with clarity and rawness that strikes at everyday life. I attended this production during the Sarajevo Theatre Showcase at the Sarajevo National Theatre.

The play, produced by Qendra Multimedia, is written by Jeton Neziraj and is the updated version of In Five Seasons: An Enemy of the People, originally staged in 2019. In this new form, PRISHTINA. The Premeditated Killing of a Dream, which premiered in 2025, Neziraj revisits and sharpens the story. While the earlier version left certain details unsaid, here architect Rexhep Luci is named directly, one of the changes that give the play greater weight and impact. At its center is Luci himself, head of spatial planning in Prishtina, whose efforts to protect the city’s urban vision brought him into direct conflict with criminal construction networks. His story has tragic weight: he was assassinated on 11 September 2000 in Prishtina, a fact that makes the play feel all the more vital. The text shows bold dramaturgy – direct and incisive, yet layered enough to sustain attention and to make the political resonate through the personal. 

The narrative unfolds through five characters: the architect, his daughter, Pierre (a UN employee), Meti (the owner of the construction company Liberty), and the Trade Union Leader. While the events progress in a linear fashion, they are frequently interrupted by the actors, who step out of character in the spirit of Brecht – breaking the illusion in order to narrate and comment on the events and the wider situation in the city. This structure, both straightforward and fractured, is a deliberate dramaturgical choice, keeping the audience alert while preventing an easy immersion into illusion.

When the audience enters, the actors are already in place – some on stage, others seated in the front row of the auditorium. Throughout the performance, this row functions as both an entrance and an exit, yet the actors never truly leave the stage. At one point, the row itself becomes part of the stage, blurring the line between audience and performance. At the center stands the architect’s worktable, bearing a model of the city shaped by his vision. Above him, screens project images of Prishtina – haunting reminders of the consequences and of what he ultimately failed to prevent. The set, designed by Alice Vanini, frames these elements with precision, shaping a stage world that supports both the play’s realism and its more dreamlike passages.

Two scenes where new elements or shifts in scenography are introduced prove especially captivating. In one, a camera attached to a pair of glasses captures a live interview, performed in the front row and simultaneously streamed onto the screens – like a television broadcast. This moment challenges our ability to process information on multiple levels at once. Towards the end, the daughter’s dream scene creates a magical space where she is able to meet her father once more.

The costumes, realized by Njomza Luci, anchor the play in a sense of everyday truth. They feel authentic to the environment the story depicts, blending with the world on stage. Only Pierre, the UN employee, stands apart in his outfit – a casual robe-like costume that might seem unusual for such a figure. Combined with his performance, it sharpens his portrayal as both an outsider and a hypocrite.

The music by Tomor Kuçi is used only at selected moments, each time with clear effect. It helps shape the atmosphere, hinting at the situation on stage, and in the final song it adds a touch of sadness that stays with the audience as the story closes.

The ensemble of five actors – Armend Smajli, Verona Koxha, Shpëtim Selmani, Kushtrim Qerimi, and Afrim Muçaj – is a strong selection, each well-suited to the part and true to the story. Armend Smajli, as the architect, brings quiet dignity, a figure calm and steady, but firm in his beliefs. Verona Koxha adds lightness to the daughter, while also conveying her underlying worry, becoming a channel through which her father’s inner world is revealed. Shpëtim Selmani sharpens the critique with irony and detachment, capturing Pierre’s hypocrisy as an outsider. Kushtrim Qerimi embodies the construction tycoon with unsettling precision: a figure one cannot trust, blunt and repulsive in his pragmatism. Afrim Muçaj, as the Trade Union Leader, portrays an honest citizen torn by worry for his future, easily persuaded to shift sides, and thus representative of a fragile social conscience. Together, their performances sustain a sense of sincerity, keeping the story grounded in the world we recognize.

The direction by Blerta Neziraj remains close to the text, without imposing additional layers onto the story. This choice gives weight to the subject matter itself, allowing the narrative to speak with clarity and reach a broad audience. The actors’ performances are natural, never overplayed, which reinforces the overall realism of the staging. What may seem at first a straightforward approach gradually builds in intensity, and by the final scene the emotional resonance becomes undeniable. The closing moments touched me deeply and moved me to tears—a proof that Neziraj’s vision, while subtle, was carefully calibrated to let the story grow in force as it unfolded.

Prishtina confronts us with an almost eternal dilemma: is it worth risking everything – even one’s life – for an idea, for defending what is believed to be right? Rexhep Luci emerges as both a voice of warning and a stubborn dreamer, carrying echoes of Ibsen’s Dr. Stockmann, the uncompromising truth-teller who refuses to stay silent, and of Don Quixote, the idealist who fights battles that may already seem lost. History has given us many such figures, men and women who sacrificed themselves in the name of principle. But the weight of the play does not rest only on the individual – it falls on us, the audience, the society. It asks whether we are willing to hear such voices, to let their courage stir us, or whether we will once again allow them to fade into silence. In this way, Prishtina becomes more than a story of one city: it becomes a question directed at all of us.