In the renegotiations of borders and cultures currently underway in former Soviet Europe, the situation in Slovakia stands out as one in which uncertainty itself is perhaps the primary obstacle to renewal and growth. The Slovaks were occupied by Hungarian forces for a millennium, emerging as a modern nation first under the shadow of the Czechs in the first republic, then clouded by a Nazi-style clerico-fascist state which discredited the moral impulses of much Slovak nationalism, and finally dominated by a colonial Comecon culture in which the interests of an integral, cohesive Slovak state were always compromised by its role in a larger international Soviet politics. By virtue of the remarkable Velvet Revolution, the Slovaks have been able to claim unique nationhood for the first time since the Great Moravian Empire in the 9th century. Yet the thousand years between has created a culture which lacks the foundations for the kind of quick, assured policy-making that will succeed financially, and in the international culture market, for the new countries of Europe. Separated from the Czechs, the Slovaks now face a slower pace of industrial conversion, slower ecological recovery, a fading currency, and the legacy of violet nationalism-personified in Mečiar’s leadership-that has not made the transition from government by executive fiat to reasoned debate and majority politics.
  Theatre artists in Slovakia, then, face a difficult future, in which many of the institutions of the old party system continue to operate and struggle to grow, while efforts to take initiative toward some new structure for theatrical performance and production suffer from the same absence of foundations as the general culture. While work on the Slovak National Theater’s three stages continues more or less unchanged from the Velvet Revolution (new productions of plays by older writers like Peter Karvaš, and new productions of favorite imports like Tom Stoppard), the momentum of the national theatre has faded as the construction of its planned fourth stage, with a commanding view of the Danube near Comenius University, has stalled due to lack of funds (and dampening interest in state art). Other organizations, like the Národné Divadelné Centrum Bratislava (the local theatre institute), the Kabinet Divadla a Filmu at the Slovak Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the national conservatory continue to undergo challenges and reorganizations as the struggle for government funds is worked out in the legislature, and the various political recriminations and high moral stances work themselves out in public forums. Slovenské Divadlo, for example, under the bold editorship of Miloš Mistrík, went to the unprecedented length of publishing, as a post-revolutionary appendix, the political review to which the journal was subjected by the ministry of culture when it was considered for cancellation in the fall-out from the Prague Spring; many of the people embarrassed by the revelation were highly regarded official drama critics, but thanks to Mistrík’s maneuver the journal has emerged with a new credibility and sense of purpose (though this is not to say that its funding will necessarily continue).
  Similarly among theatre artists, Blaho Uhlár has emerged as the most vital, exemplary figure on the contemporary scene, searching for a new theatre that will address the country’s difficult transition to independence and controlled capitalism through the creation of an entirely new Slovak style of composition and dramatization. Uhlár has recently established a resident company in Bratislava with important implications for Slovak national culture (and which may serve as a model for similar kinds of experiments in the development of post-nationalist forms in former Soviet or Yugoslav republics). His work involves a unique, distinctive style of formal dramaturgy, innovative uses of theatrical space, and a style of phenomenological acting that is extremely well-suited to its time and place. I propose here to offer a short history of Uhlár’s work, to describe the structure and methods of his company. Stoka (which means “Sewer”), and to focus the significance of that information in an analysis of his performance, Vres (optimisticka) [Heath (optimistically)]. I will argue that all of these - company style and play - have important analogs with cultural situations in contemporary Slovakia, a case in which a set of artistic strategies seems able to combine with social anxieties in order to create very important, dynamic, and affecting new work.
 Uhlár’s directing career began, as most did in the old planned economy, at the State Academy of Musical Arts, with its Drama section and theatre Reduta, where his first production was staged in 1973. Contrary to some accounts (e.g. Cook), Uhlár’s teachers at the school were generally excellent, despite the political vagaries of the retrenchments after Prague Spring. Peter Karvaš, the great Slovak playwright, novelist and theatre theorist, was still teaching there until 1974 (and even then he continued to write theoretical books for an Institute of Culture) [Quinn]. Literature classes by scholars with Western contact or with strong literary backgrounds in the civilized culture of Bratislava’s first republic (such as Soňa Šimková and Zuzana Bakošová-Hlavenková) kept the standard of instruction high - for example Karvaš books continued to be used as course texts, only with his name removed. Uhlár, like many students of such academies, has often taken issue with the structure of the program, and particularly the politics of the drama school, but this was part of a general attitude in which he merely takes his part. At the present moment he is important enough to be on the new board of the school, so his reform ideas now have some effects. The early works that Uhlár produced at Reduta, like Puskin’s Stone Guest, Chekhov’s Wedding, Gorky’s Children, and an original play, The War Theatre, co-written with Ondrej Šulaj, demonstrate something like the arc that his later career occupies, so it seems hasty to suppose that the academy was less than a good, if ordinary, training ground. Certainly participation in such events as the 30th Anniversary celebration of the anti-Nazi Slovak National Uprising, which Uhlár co-directed in 1974, must have given him some fairly cynical insights into the politics of performance.
 Uhlár worked at Reduta with fellow-student Ján Zavarský, now perhaps the most well-known of the generation of Slovak designers since Ladislav Vychodil, and the two were able to stay together for some time afterward. Consequently spatial approaches to dramatization have been important to his work from the beginning. Graduates of Eastern European state conservatories in The Soviet years routinely received appointments to national companies, but Uhlár’s class was different because several members were assigned to found a new company, the Youth Theatre of Trnava (a small town about 50 km north of Bratislava). While Uhlár began to develop non-language oriented performance techniques for the purposes of his youth theatre, in productions like Beauty and the Beast, he also began exploring texts that would align him with different patterns of artistic experiment and political dissent.
 Some of Uhlár’s work focused on the texts or stories of literary heroes. The War Theatre was based on texts by Alexander Blok, and Uhlár similarly worked with texts by dissident poets like Mayakovsky and native poets like national hero Laco Novomeský. These models deeply implicated Uhlár in the Slavic tradition of alternative and reform theatre, a tradition which he emulated openly in productions like his version of Gogol’s Inspector General. Slovak drama is not rich with great works, but it has certain specialties like intellectual satire, in which the writing is very good. The tradition of Slovak satire, then, was also tapped by the new company, performing what is perhaps the most infamous play in Slovak dramaturgy, Ivan Stodola’s Jožko Púčik and His Career, a play from the 1930s in which a despondent Slovak clerk loses his government job, only to find when he is declared an official charity case that his standard of living rises immeasurably. There are other strands of protest theatre, different from Uhlár’s, that began to emerge in Slovakia at about this time, too, such as the Svejk-style Radošina Naive Theatre, in which politics is sometimes indistinguishable form drunken pub revelry. Uhlár’s “breakthrough” production, Stejn’s Verzia [Version] (1977) was a final integration of poetic text (again from Blok and his life), experimental performance techniques, and a new aesthetic of collaborative creation. The Youth Theatre was a wonderful experimental proving ground because it allowed for continuing close collaboration, but was far from the main focus of official censorship.
 Uhlár’s work in Slovakia during the final decade of Soviet domination typically sought some way to dramatize the degradation of daily life, a kind of “aesthetic of the worst” that sought to undo standards through exaggerated negative examples. Sometimes Uhlár worked with pre-scripted plays like Suchovo-Kobylin’s version of the Trial, Moliere’s Tartuffe, or Pirandello’s Six Characters in Search of an Author (his premier at Bratislava’s Nová Scéna Theater). In these cases, as Miloš Mistrík observes, the performances show more and more Uhlár’s grotesque vision of the world, his ability to portray the tragic absurdity of the time he lived in. With satire and an ironic grin he shaped, through the actors, mostly clerks, high society types, and the ruling class, whose alienated manner indicated their superiority over others. He and Ján Zavarský, the scene designer, were searching for a graphic form to symbolize the conceit and internal decay of power. This is well expressed, for example, in Zavarský’s set for Gogol’s Wedding (1980), which is surrounded by slanting intercommunicating walls [Mistrík 1991, 38]. Ordinary scripted undoings of authority, like Moliere’s Scapin, provided an outlet for a time, but even seedy stories that imply critical attitudes, like Ann Jellicoe’s The Knack, eventually proved too confining for Uhlár, for this always left him in the position of commenting more or less indirectly, through a play that was written with many themes that were not necessarily relevant to Slovakia. With the experience of the Youth Theatre improvisations behind him Uhlár moved almost exclusively into new work. In the following period most of Uhlár’s work was collectively scripted, edited by Uhlár but oriented around an important contemporary theme that the entire company explored. Both these activities were grouped under a style that came to be called the “non-conformist mise-en-scene,” a practical approach that was supported by a pair of widely - published manifestoes. This is how the first treatise begins:

 Modern drama, in its causal consequences and plot dependencies, cannot reflect the complicated interpersonal relations and permanent variability of reality, cannot express the metaverbal, the undetermined in contemporary social interactions.
 The new aesthetics of dramatic creation is being formed by decompositions, by motivational diffusion, and polythematization.
 Motivational diffusion is symptomatic, not only a theatrical aspect of reality.
 Decomposition of an artifact results logically in its polythematization.
 In the developmental stage of dramatic creation the characters are closed in a shell which has to be broken by the actor in order to present his own viewpoint. Decomposition of theatrical characters is qualitatively new phase of creation.
 The mission of an artist is not the confirmation of expedient values, but permanent verification. (Blaho Uhlár, revised trans.)

 The crucial term that requires some theoretical gloss is probably “decomposition,” which sounds like a reference to Derrida but was first used in Czechoslovak dramatic theory when Jan Mukařovský wrote on “The Current State of Czech Theatre,” just after the end of the Nazi occupation in 1945. Mukařovský maintained that the occupation had caused a profound disruption of the institutional structure of the theatre, and paralyzed its artistic communities, a kind of stultifying “deconstruction” had occurred that created death rather than dynamism. This inert condition was so apparent because the pre-war tradition of formal experiment in Czechoslovak theater had “decomposed” the traditional elements of the theatre - i.e. technically “broken down” aspects of acting and scenic work like vocal components, movement possibilities, lighting techniques, etc. - and then been left politically disabled, with no chance to recover their “composability”.
 Uhlár’s artistic strategy, in a Soviet context, appears to be one that advocated a further state of breaking down both the technical elements and the audience sociability incoherent, and creates a state of delirious ambiguity, a multi-semiotic “polythematization”, as Uhlár calls it. In a case in which a culture is rigorously repressive, this kind of negative artistic strategy, can, apparently, restore a certain force of dynamic dissent through the very act of undoing - a pragmatic attitude toward strategic post-modernism that has been more likely to serve feminist or racist critiques in the West. In another manifesto Uhlár explains that

 Decomposition means:
 negation of the traditional structure of the plot and
 additive dramatic structure in which occasionally chosen and
 organized events
 emphasize their discontinuity, individual independence, and their
 absolute equality as events
 the depiction of the world by non-narrative form,
 which negates the beginning and end of the work
 and permanently proves the non-dramatic. (Blaho Uhlár)

 In the manifestoes Uhlár seems eager to reduce his world of ideological false consciousness to a simpler level of cosmologically neutral physical events - much in keeping with the influence of Vienna School philosophy on Slovak thought (Michalovič). So there is an undoing here which clears the ground, but does not quite address Mukařovský’s old concern about recovering “composability”.
 In Uhlár’s earliest assemblages the ineffable seems to outweigh the political, though the importance of the spiritual in daily life - a constant source of despair in Czechoslovakia after 1968 - does seem to integrate the two basic themes into a collage of inexpressible ideological misunderstanding. One of Uhlár’s more widely - circulated scripts, Quintet (Kvinteto) from 1984, deals with this integration through the use of chamber music. Here is how the script has been summarized:

 Four musicians find themselves in a confined place. The conductor compels them to remain, because their performance falls short of his ideal music. Relations between the musicians are perfunctory. They do not take interest in one another, and know very little about each other. In the confined space they grow dependent on one another, gradually becoming close. They overcome selfishness, fright and discourtesy, gradually they unify their opinions about music and its purpose. Meanwhile, though, they have grown older, the singer’s beauty fades, as does the strength of the players. When all seems to have come to nothing, they give another concert, and receive the highest tribute, their listeners understand their music and acclaim it. (Slovak Drama)

 Language is replaced by other acoustical elements, breaking down the sound-structure of the play, and time is also inchoate. But the simple outline that emerges is one of dedication and spiritual triumph political and artistic community - clearly a theme that anticipated the revolution that came five years after the play was produced.
 Sometimes Uhlár’s new material used the familiar post-modern technique of dramaturgical quotation, of borrowed writing repeated under a new aspect or affect. In a play that was performed for the minority Ukrainian National Theater in Prešov, Slovakia (one of Uhlár’s most frequent venues), he used material from Waiting for Godot for his play Heartburn (Záha). Dana Sliuková explains the effect this way:

 One of the main subjects of Heartburn is the cleansing of individuals and the whole of society form deposits of moral dirt form the past. At the beginning of the play wounded and disabled people come on stage - one without a leg, another blind, a third with a body cast, a fourth with bandaged head. Shouts of “We’ve won,” and “Three cheers,” range form obvious enthusiasm to considerable skepticism. In the next scene these people change from being physically disabled into being spiritual cripples. They put away their crutches, bandages and casts - everything seems to be all right. And now different forms of cleansing take place - from the ostentatious turning of coats to declarations of having a clean record, with individuals accusing society and vice versa, the search for people to blame, finding scapegoats and victims. Pillorying the morals of society means pillorying individuals, looking for those responsible for both past and future. The play is finally about the morals of a country waiting for Godot. And however surprising it may be, the wait is rewarded. At the end of Uhlár’s play Godot rally comes, pushed on stage in a wheelchair by his nurse. He is shouting in English that he will buy everything with his American dollars. The nurse whispers something in Russian in his ear. Godot, still calling out the prices he offers, disappears behind the backeloth and a shot is heard. Did he commit suicide or was he murdered? Anyway he won’t be back.

 Written in 1990, Uhlár’s Heartburn is already on the cusp of a critical dramaturgy for post-Velvet revolution Czechoslovakia’s intense occupation by foreign capital.
 But not all of Uhlár’s negative post-modern quotations are directed toward outside force, one of the scenes in Nono (Don’t Do That) is called “Yes, Mr. President.” As Cook describes it.

 The cast lined up in front of a flagpole or political icon, constantly repeating, “Yes, Mr. President. No, Mr. President. What do you say about it, Mr. President?” The Czech president and playwright Václav Havel of course sprang to mind: why did Uhlár feel the need to make such a comment? “Before the revolution,” replied Blaho, “nobody knew who Havel was. After the revolution, everyone knows Havel, and now its always Havel, Havel, Havel.” (Cook, 184)

 With his non-conformist mise-en-scene Uhlár had devised a subversive theatre form that was hard to censor, viscerally effective, and was clearly capable of the transition from Soviet to majority Czech power; he finally founded his own company in 1990. Regular contributors include designer Miloš Karásek (who replaced Zavarský in the 1980s, but then left in 1992), composer/musician Ľubomír Burgr, and costume designer Zuzana Piussi. But with the change to native Slovak government the direction of the political critique seems to have changed, to have become more self-regarding than other-directed.
 Consequently Uhlár, like his young country, must face the prospect of conducting a critical theatre which is about fears and wishes that are immanent, that come not from external oppression but form internal conflict, and from the challenges of freedom in a culture of doubt. Since the separation of Czech and Slovaks in 1993, Uhlár’s company, Stoka, continues - with some new actors - his long process of company collaboration. The group works in a converted transit barn, with a large open space, small cafe and modest offices, all located in a ramshackle building on a pothole filled riverside street near the university and the dormant building site for the National Theater. As a new company, with some non-academically trained performers, Stoka is not part of the regular theatre budget of the state, and is supported instead by the new Pro-Slovakia fund, a year-to-year legislative program for cultural initiatives. The company has seven touring productions in repertory, and recently won an award at an avant-garde festival in Perigueux.
 One of the characteristics of the new company is a stronger focus on the collective modeling of space. This makes sense in a country with new borders and history of unstable frontiers. But here the use of space is fundamental to the dramaturgy. Karásek noted in an older manifesto how the conventions of the proscenium auditorium in Slovakia are steeped in the Austro-Hungarian values of the 19th century, and argued: “I really cannot see the reason why we - at the end of the 20th century - still pull the decomposed dead body of theatre conventions of the last centuries.” In Stoka the space is re-arranged by the collective for each performance, and the audience is reassigned and scaled for the themes of the particular production. Moreover, since Karásek’s departure the designer, too, has been eliminated. Instead of an architectural specialist who organizes the space from a single point of view, the company members develop spatial metaphors together, as part of the dramaturgical process. Usually this means remodeling the transit barn, but in some cases, such as the “happening” Like My Self (Aká si mi...), the actors were lowered into a public square by helicopter, and departed the same way after a twelve-minute performance.
 The titles of the recent productions are typically deconstructive concepts, English-oriented puns describing the plays’ implosive conceptual thematics: Impasse, Kolaps, or Dyp inaf (Heavy mental). But the productions that seems most relevant to the cultural uncertainties of contemporary Slovakia is based on an intense spatial dynamic. Vres (optimistická), i.e. Heath (optimistically), graphs the first letter of the title putting the audience in a “V” arrangement that opens from the narrow door at the entrance from the lobby to an open end that verges into a blackout suggesting infinite expanse. The audience is also raised about three feet above the ground, with the curtained platforms that support the chairs creating a kind of sub-theatrical crawl-space for the actors; most of the quick exits and entrances came from this space directly under the spectators, and when the actors stood quickly or appeared directly below a bank of chairs, the arrangement created a novel effect of intimacy. This space, then, served to “decompose” ordinary expectations of the theatre, restructuring the context of perception without really embracing the participatory conventions of environmental theatre.
 The space under the audience, extended outward into the room by acting events that often took place with the actors lying on the floor, or stooped low to remain undercover, created the impression of a kind of burrow, or what Deleuze and Guattari call a “rhizome”, a root-structure of intense, vital subterranean connections that then supports an artistic form. This kind of structure of intense, vital subterranean connections that then supports an artistic form. This kind of structure constitutes a “spiritual re-territorialization”, in terms drawn from Kafka’s transformational compositions:

 The castle has multiple entrances whose rules of usage and whose locations aren’t very well known. The hotel in Amerika has innumerable main doors and side doors that innumerable guards watch over, it even has entrances and exits without doors. Yet it might seem that the burrow in the story of that name has only one entrance; the most the animal can do is dream of a second entrance that would serve only for surveillance. But this is a trap arranged by the animal and by Kafka himself; the whole description of the burrow functions to trick the enemy. We will enter, then, by any point whatsoever; none matters more than another, and no entrance is more privileged even if it seems an impasse, a tight passage, a siphon. We will be trying only to discover what other points our entrance connects to, what crossroads and galleries one passes through to link two points, what the map of the rhizome is and how the map is modified if one enters by another point. Only the principle of multiple entrances prevents the introduction of the enemy, the Signifier and those attempts to interpret a work that is actually open only to experimentation. (Deleuze and Guattari, 3)

 Uhlár’s company imitates these thematics, yet introduces them with a sense of driving energy and forceful play that is not in keeping with the doomed lassitude of Kafka - as if the visionary Oklahoma Nature Theater had been realized at last.
 The action proceeds from an opening sequence in which the thick undergrowth of the heathrow is dramatized with a series of rope tricks. The actors shake the ropes along the floor, creating waves, impulses and shudders that overlap unpredictably. Then the action shifts too furtive meetings between characters, sometimes violent, sometimes sexual, always in a shifting low chiaroscuro that makes the identity of the actor hard to determine. And then the ropes begin to appear in contradictory images. An actor is dragged headfirst along the floor from the small end of the V all the way to the dark opening at the other end; all we see is the taut rope and the actor, strangely calm, who removes and cleans his glasses as he is dragged into a kind of black hole. Scenes begin to recur; the shape of the whole event is elliptical, when the rope thicket is recreated in both the middle and the end.
 And images of the thicket begin to merge also with images of mortality. The same actor who is dragged across the stage later emerges, and as he walks happily he is struck by a gunshot: falling in spasm he is shot again, and then dozens of times, not falling into a kind of continuous seizure of spasms. Three women appear, first dancing like naiads and falling into a dead heap, then later as ducks in a shooting gallery, in which there is no spasm but only a ring and turn as the gunfire continues. Violence is thus turned from mortal drama into banality, in a way that comments on the Slovaks’ strange past of failed insurrections and fascist collaboration; the images also resonate with Bosnia, as if to remind us that in the thicket of post-1989 Europe such a conflict might as easily have appeared in Bratislava - might still appear. And there is an attempt in the play to reclaim death from banality; a long tortured scene near the end when Laco Kerata, one of the company’s most mature actors, tries to play an existential suicide drama - to hang himself with one of the ever-present ropes - but lapses instead into shudders of grotesque laughter.
 Language is used in the play, but only desultory terms, which often transform themselves into sound without meaning. Or the use of a few words defines a power relation; a cocktail party in which a man seems to control four young women changes radically as his linguistic advantage disappears and they physically overpower him. What matters is not the word so much as gesture of speech, which integrates language with the sound score and with the extreme physical demands of the stage arrangement. Speech itself is spatialized, and stripped of meaning. Characters beg for love, or plead to die, but the gesture is internalized and then physicalized to such an extent that the request turns into a visceral muscular contraction - a movement of the abdomen and the tongue.
 This physicality of performance, forced through the ambiguities of the space onto the bodies of actors, is also what ultimately redeems the performance. The crucial factor in this aesthetic redemption is phenomenological; as the parts, and short thematic actions, are doubled and layered on to one another in the progress of Uhlár’s dramatic collage, the audience becomes increasingly aware of the force of the actors and - even more importantly - their youth. Uhlár is in his late forties, but most of the company members are in their twenties. When Uhlár helps late-arriving audience members onto the platform with a bentwood chair, the gesture is humble and self-effacing; something similar happens with the collaborative technique of the company because of the age difference. Uhlár is clearly the composer, but in this situation he is even more than an enabling “actors’ director”; his presence is almost avuncular. Though Stoka is Uhlár’s theatre, the implication of the acting structure suggests that the future of Slovakia belongs to the young acting company. The audience can see through the performance in the way that parents see through the roles their children take in a school play; what shines through is a kind of radiant physicality which is incontrovertibly hopeful, even as it is engaged in Uhlár’s theatre by acts of complicated, negative intensity. This effect of healthy, youthful performance is how Vres earns its subtitle “optimistická”, which refers not only to the artistic images but to the country they seem to represent.
 What confronts the post-modern artist in contemporary Eastern Europe? Rather than the end of history, the prospect seems much more like beginning. There is a philosophical background for the spatial dynamics of Vres in the work of the philosopher from Königsberg (now home to millions of displaced Russian soldiers, with nowhere to go no matter how they cross the bridges); Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason begins with a look at the history of metaphysics, and states his intention “to clear and level a ground that is completely overgrown”. John Sallis provides an important spatial gloss:

 For it is not only, not even primarily, a matter of something that has grown out of and over the ground. For the word verwachsene, which Kant uses to describe the condition of the ground prior to critique, can mean not only overgrown but also deformed, misshapen, distorted. How might the ground have been deformed? What deformity might natural metaphysics, the history of metaphysics, have produced in it? Kant’s answer shifts the focus of the underground: metaphysics has dug mole-tunnels... the search is futile; rather than turning up the treasures sought the tunneling only deforms the ground, tunnels it out, rendering it unfit to serve as a site on which secure moral edifices could be erected. Critique is, then, to compensate for the mole-tunneling, to repair the deformed ground, to make it again firm. It is to level the ground-that is, to make the tunnels of reason cave in on themselves. (Sallis, 5-6)

 The political decomposition of the ground in Vres achieve something like the same force of critique for the Slovak theatre. In the playing out of undoing there is also the young player, whose sensuous body is not so much an instrument as an immanent creative force. Uhlár’s Vres measures the uncertain state of the new Slovakia, but the measuring tool is a group of actors who cannot help but carry out their job optimistically.
 

WORKS CITED
Bakošová-Hlavenková, Zuzana: Čas činohry. Bratislava: Ústav umeleckej kritiky a divadelnej dokumentácie, 1990.
Cook, Joe: “Blaho Uhlár and Slovak Theatre of Crisis,” New Theatre Quarterly, VIII, 30 (May 92): 178-186.
Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari: Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature. Trans. Dana Polan. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986.
“Ideologický rozbor časopisu Slovenské divadlo z roku 1978,” (ed. Miloš Mistrík), Slovenské divadlo, XXXIX, 2 (1991): 169-192.
Michalovič, Peter et al. eds.: Československý štrukturalizmus a Viedenský scientizmus. Bratislava: Stimul, 1992.
Mistrík, Miloš ed.: Blaho Uhlár. Bratislava: Ústav umeleckej kritiky a divadelnej dokumentácie, 1990.
Mistrík, Miloš: “Uhlár’s Non-Conformist Productions,” Theatre Czech and Slovak, 1, (1991): 38-40.
Mistrík, Miloš: “De la désillusion vers un avenir sans project?” Théatre/Public, 106 (July-Aug 92): 79-82.
Mukařovský, Jan: “On the Current State of Czech Theater,” see this issue.
Quinn, Michael L.: “Satellite Drama: Imperialism, Slovakia and the Case of Peter Karvaš,” in Drama and Imperialism, ed. Ellen Gainor. London: Routledge, forthcoming.
Sallis, John: Spacings - of Reason and Imagination, in Texts of Kant, Fichte and Hegel. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1987.
Sliuková, Dana: untitled commentary on Heartburn. Theatre Czech and Slovak, 1, (1991): 40.
Slovak Drama. Bratislava: Národné divadelné centrum, n.d. (1989?)
Stoka. Publicity brochure, Bratislava, 1993.