Conversation with playwright Reto Finger

Karin Rosnizeck: Having read many of your works, I would describe Cold Country as your most “Swiss” text. As a child of the Bernese Oberland, you seem to have drawn on many personal experiences and observations. How autobiographical is Cold Country, and what kind of (social) criticism is reflected in Hanna’s story? What parallels are there between the isolated mountain world and life in a rigid, conservative village community in the play and your own home?

Reto: I believe that all the plays I have ever written have something to do with my biography. “Kaltes Land” is inspired by experiences from my childhood, without necessarily being my own story. I grew up in the Emmental region in a small village with 80 inhabitants. That naturally shaped me. On nice days, you can see the Alps from the hill above the village, whose highest peaks are covered with snow all year round. These images correspond to a part of Switzerland that is known through advertising and tourism. In that sense, yes, it is perhaps the most “Swiss” text I have ever written. But my urban texts such as “Schwimmen wie Hunde” and “Fernwärme“ also deal with observations and experiences in Switzerland.

At some point, my parents decided to move with us children to the Emmental. They weren’t farmers. They did it more out of political conviction. Freely adapted from Rousseau: “Back to nature.” That’s why, in a way, we always felt like strangers in this small village. Which is why I naturally took on the role of observer as a child. I was always impressed by how little people talked to each other. How much remained unsaid. There are even jokes about the secretive nature of the Emmentalers.

K: What was the main motivation for the play? Were there any particular personal experiences, struggles, or insights that led you to write this Alpine tragedy?

R: “Kaltes Land” was one of my first plays. It had a lot to do with “writing myself free.” Assuring myself where I come from. Much of it has become very dear to me. I like the archaic language, for example. It has a lot to do with what people don’t say. It’s a very scarce, reduced language with many omissions. Only when it comes to describing nature and its forces does the language suddenly become extravagant. Then, of course, there’s the world of local sagas and folktales. The Emmental is full of beliefs and superstitions. The line between the secular and spiritual worlds is blurred. People go to church on Sundays and, during the week, change the side of the street when a black cat crosses from left to right. The village where I grew up was full of stories about forest spirits, goblins, and witches who were said to live in the surrounding woods.

K:  For many of us – and this maybe especially true for big city audience in the US like ours – the world of Cold Country might seem strange at first due to its remoteness, folklore, and seemingly “backward” attitudes. But as you delve deeper into the text, the themes you address—xenophobia, patriarchy, and tribalism—feel remarkably relevant today. Did you intend to comment on or criticize these social tendencies when you wrote the play 15 years ago? Would you approach these themes differently today? Is there a particular “message” or food for thought that you would like to leave the audience in Washington with?

R:  No, I didn’t set out to comment or criticize when I started working on the play. It was more about observation and fascination. I agree that the play depicts a society that is critical of outsiders, partly to maintain its own power structures, which have long since become unjustifiable. Whether there are parallels to current social developments in America is something the audience may be better able to judge than me.

K: The villagers’ mistrust of outsiders and strangers is very present, especially in the characters of the father and the pastor. Tobias, the tourist from the city, represents a threat to them for many reasons. One of these is his influence on Hanna, who, as the play progresses, begins to doubt the family story about her brother’s death and becomes increasingly defiant toward her father. Can you elaborate on your views on xenophobia and its causes—today and 15 years ago—in Switzerland and elsewhere?

R: Looking back over the last two or three decades, xenophobia has always been a consequence of political manipulation rather than a result of real problems. It is our duty as a free and democratic society to expose these attempts at manipulation and to ask what their real motives are. 

K: Is this attitude toward foreigners still as strong in the small Alpine villages today? Have you seen a decline in patriarchal structures? Is there a comparable response such as recent revival of traditional masculinity in Western societies?

R: Of course, time does not stand still in the Swiss Alps either. The internet and social media are also present there. This is changing everyday life. We are clearly in a period of unrest and upheaval. The decline of patriarchal structures and the resistance to it are expressions of this time. But they are by no means the only ones. Society is also very polarized on many other issues. I am very curious to see how we will look back on this period in a few years or decades. I fear that one reason for this increasing polarization is that we, as a society have moved away from a shared reality. Instead, everyone lives in their own “reality” which gets re-confirmed in the echo chambers of social media.

K: One scene in the play is about the violent birth of a calf. It is not shown on stage, but is recounted very impressively by Hanna and her parents. What does this scene convey, or what is the function of this moment? Can it be seen as a commentary on the clash between the harsh reality of life on a mountain farm and the more comfortable but less natural existence in the city? What we city dwellers find brutal or shocking is part of the villagers’ daily coexistence with nature? Does this expose the hypocrisy or naivety of city dwellers who see progress and civilization as being on their side?

R: Yes, I think it’s also about a different way of dealing with nature and the forces of nature. Nature is part of everyday life and much more present in the Emmental. It’s about living with it, not against it. Things happen, and that’s part of life and can’t be prevented. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Especially in connection with death, I always found that somewhat comforting. And even today, nature is still my source of strength. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to drive to Hasliberg and hike over three peaks to Melsee-Fruth. I’ll spend the night at a mountain lake. That gives me strength in a way that very few other things do.

K: Do you think the two worlds have drifted too far apart? Is there hope for mutual understanding?

R: Unfortunately, we are currently living in times in which polarization is being driven forward at all levels. There are many reasons for this. For me, a key element of this polarization is that we, as a society have abandoned the distinction between reality and fiction.

However, I don’t have a short-term perspective on how to improve our mutual understanding. But overall, I am confident. Every movement always triggers a countermovement. As much as global divisions deepen, so too does the desire for reconciliation among many people.

And at some point, these people will fortunately be in the majority again and oust the divisive forces from the centers of power. 

K:  The majestically beautiful, yet dangerous force of the Alps is very palpable in the play. Hanna has an intuitive respect for its power, (her knowledge of the winds, of the dangers and moods of nature etc.) and predicts weather events that are not taken seriously at first, while Tobias and Jasmin rely on scientific resources like the weather forecast. Do you see a similar discrepancy in contemporary Alpine tourism? In light of recent natural events such as the catastrophic glacier collapse in the village of Blatten, have climate change and profit-driven tourism already shown their impact? Do you see possible solutions for a more mindful approach of dealing with this fragile environment?

R: Climate change is obvious in Switzerland. The ski lifts in the Jura, where I used to ski every Wednesday afternoon from November to April as a child, have all gone bankrupt. There is no more snow there. And if there is, it’s only for a few days a year. Summers have become hotter. The glaciers are melting by several meters every year. But Blatten was a once-in-a-century event, a disaster that may stand alone and not be solely related to climate change. Of course, the fact that the Alps are becoming more densely populated is also relevant.

K: The ending of Cold Country hits with an incredible force. Personally, I see this uncompromising climax of events as a strength. But I can also imagine that people might be irritated, questioning the brutality of fit, looking for some kind of plausibility of Hanna’s final decision.

R:  I believe that the question of plausibility is less relevant in theater than in everyday life. For me, the ending is a synthesis between mythology and the village community. But the ending is difficult. I underestimated that. I experienced this firsthand at the premiere at the National Theater in Mannheim. Successful performances often stem from a certain restraint and deliberate reduction, rather than emotional escalation creating a powerful counterpoint to the text.

K:  What made you decide on this explosive ending? Did you play with different endings during the writing process?

R: Yes, of course. I also experimented with an implosive ending. But I always felt that it didn’t do justice to the character of Hanna.

K: I deeply admire what I would describe as the “poetry of pain”: the scarcity of language, the power of silence, the intense atmospheric quality, the palpable anger and suffering conveyed between the lines. The play’s mythological elements create a tragic, heightened style reminiscent of Greek tragedies while also providing a parallel narrative. Were you inspired by specific texts?

R: Important textual inspirations were “Quatemberkinder” by Tim Krohn, “Die schwarze Spinne” by Jeremias Gotthelf, the poems of C.A. Loosli, the songs of Mani Matter. But also the play “Knives in Hens” by David Horrower. And the plays by Lars Norén. Because in these plays there is more silence than speech. And, of course, these works all drew from sagas and mythical tales adding a dimension that we can also find in a Greek tragedy.

K: Are there any authors or films that have inspired you?

R: Images are an important source of inspiration for me. Works by Felix Vallotton, for example. They have nothing to do with the Emmental. They show people who have a lot to say without saying anything. Perhaps images inspire me more than films when it comes to my own writing.