Staging the Surreal: Directors and Writers on Adapting 1Q84

Introduction by Tony Kushner 

(Lights low. Kushner steps forward, a script in hand, but he doesn’t read from it. He speaks as though to the actors and directors present, and to the audience beyond them.)

When we gather around 1Q84, we aren’t only talking about staging a novel. We are opening a door into a world already leaning at an angle. Haruki has given us characters who live inside silences, who wait across decades for a single touch. That, to me, is already theater.

So tonight, let us not ask, “How do we show the two moons?” Let us ask instead, “How do we show loneliness? How do we show patience?” Our stage is a thin membrane between ordinary and surreal. What matters is not spectacle, but the intimacy we preserve inside the surreal.

This conversation is our rehearsal hall. Here, every silence is a rehearsal, every fragment of dialogue a test of whether we can turn the breath of Murakami’s words into a living stage.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event)

Topic 1: Visualizing Dual Realities on Stage

Moderator (imaginary facilitator): We’re tackling one of the biggest challenges: how to make audiences see and feel the split between 1984 and 1Q84. Let’s begin—what’s the most important theatrical device or technique you would use to show dual realities?

Julie Taymor: I’d start with starkly different symbolic elements. For example, in 1984 the world could be bathed in realistic whites and blues, while in 1Q84, richer, stranger hues—greens and violets—dominate. And the two moons must be recurring motifs, perhaps as puppetry or hanging orbs shifting in subtle ways as the story unfolds.

Robert Lepage: For me, projection mapping and moving sets can bend the stage itself. One moment the city is concrete Tokyo; with a single transformation, it slips into something uncanny. Stairways that lead nowhere, shadows moving on their own—audiences should feel that something has tilted.

David Mitchell: I’d lean into narrative layering. Each world has a rhythm: clipped and grounded for 1984, drifting and elliptical for 1Q84. The way the characters speak, pause, and even the music underneath can signal which world we are in before the set changes.

Ivo van Hove: I’d go the opposite direction—minimalist. A table, a light, silence. The worlds should be suggested more than literal. A single visual cue—a second moon projected—can destabilize without overwhelming. We shouldn’t drown the intimacy of Aomame and Tengo’s story.

Enda Walsh: I’d create rhythm through repetition. Characters might replay the same gestures or words, but altered slightly when in 1Q84. The audience senses déjà vu, which makes them question reality itself. That’s theater’s strength—we make you doubt your own memory.

Moderator: Now, how would you represent the Little People on stage without them looking ridiculous?

Robert Lepage: Shadows, always shadows. Their presence should distort the environment rather than appear as tiny figures. A ripple in fabric, or an empty chair creaking on its own, suggests them more effectively than literal puppets.

Enda Walsh: Or voices. They speak in strange, sing-song cadences. Imagine five actors murmuring from different corners of the theater, unseen, unsettling the audience. Their dialogue becomes texture.

Julie Taymor: Still, I’d risk physicality—but abstract. Maybe they’re represented by dancers in neutral masks, moving in eerie unison. Not “little” in size, but “small” in personality, like extensions of one sinister will.

Ivo van Hove: They should remain elusive. The less seen, the more terrifying. A single flicker of light, a chair shifting slightly—it’s enough. Too much visibility breaks the spell.

David Mitchell: I’d suggest weaving them into the narration. They might appear in Tengo’s rewriting of Air Chrysalis first as text, then slowly spill into physical space. The transition itself becomes the performance.

Moderator: Finally, how do we keep the audience emotionally grounded while so much strangeness is happening?

Ivo van Hove: By always returning to Tengo and Aomame. Their longing, their solitude—these are universal. No matter how strange the stage gets, we need to see their eyes searching for each other.

David Mitchell: Yes, and their voices. A line repeated across worlds, like “I’m waiting for you,” can echo through chaos, reminding us that love is the compass.

Julie Taymor: I’d use visual anchors—maybe the motif of holding hands. Whenever reality slips, a small gesture between them recalls the audience to humanity.

Robert Lepage: And light. When everything is fractured, a single warm spotlight on one character can bring the heart back into focus. It’s simple, but powerful.

Enda Walsh: For me, it’s silence. After chaos, leave us with a pause, the sound of breath. That’s when the audience feels the weight of love most.

Topic 2: Balancing Surrealism and Intimacy

Moderator: One of the greatest challenges in 1Q84 is holding together its surreal elements—the Little People, dual moons, cult conspiracies—without losing the beating heart of Tengo and Aomame’s love story. Let’s start: how would you make sure the intimacy between them doesn’t get lost in spectacle?

Ivo van Hove: Strip everything down to essentials. No clutter. Aomame and Tengo must always have space on stage, even in chaos. The audience’s eyes should return to them, through light, silence, or proximity. Intimacy isn’t about words—it’s about breath and stillness.

Julie Taymor: I agree with focus, but I believe spectacle can heighten intimacy if used sparingly. Imagine the two moons glowing above while Tengo whispers Aomame’s name—suddenly their private moment feels cosmic. It’s about aligning the surreal to amplify, not compete with, their bond.

Enda Walsh: I’d use rhythm and echo. The surreal elements should almost “sing” around them, but their exchanges remain raw, broken, human. When Tengo says something awkwardly ordinary, it cracks the strangeness like a stone hitting glass—that’s intimacy in contrast.

Tom Stoppard: For me, wit and absurdity are tools. In surreal settings, a sharp human observation or playful aside reminds us of their humanity. If they can joke, or stumble, or argue like real people amid the surreal, we believe in their love all the more.

Moderator: How do we prevent the surrealism from becoming too heavy, too oppressive for the audience?

Tom Stoppard: Humor. Even the bleakest worlds benefit from absurd laughter. A line of wit can pierce through density and invite the audience closer. Without moments of levity, surrealism risks collapsing under its own weight.

Enda Walsh: I’d add unpredictability. Let the strangeness breathe—sometimes beautiful, sometimes eerie, sometimes absurd. If the surreal is only grim, the stage suffocates. But if it shifts like weather, it feels alive.

Julie Taymor: Visual poetry is my answer. Surrealism should be wondrous as much as it is unsettling. The moons, the shadows, the dreamlike colors—they must mesmerize. The audience should feel awe, not just dread.

Ivo van Hove: I’d counter with restraint. Less is more. A chair out of place, a silence too long, a light falling wrongly—that is more disorienting than an explosion of imagery. Surrealism should unsettle quietly, without drowning the senses.

Moderator: Finally, how do we merge surrealism and intimacy so that they feed each other instead of pulling apart?

Julie Taymor: By symbolism. Their love must be visually tied to surreal motifs—the holding of hands beneath two moons, the light that follows only them in darkness. The surreal becomes an extension of intimacy.

Ivo van Hove: By contrast. Their quiet closeness is the one reality that makes sense. The surreal surrounds them, but intimacy becomes the anchor. Without the surreal, intimacy has no weight; without intimacy, the surreal has no heart.

Enda Walsh: Through repetition and fragility. Their love is small, almost fragile, but it persists like a refrain. Each time the world bends, their connection hums beneath it, stubborn and tender.

Tom Stoppard: By allowing philosophy to bow to love. Yes, surrealism raises questions about reality and fate—but in the end, love answers with something simpler: “I choose you.” That’s where the two currents merge.

Topic 3: Adapting the Scope of the Novel

Moderator: 1Q84 is nearly a thousand pages long. Its labyrinth of cult politics, love story, magical beings, and alternate worlds is daunting. To adapt it for the stage, what would you keep, and what would you cut?

Tony Kushner: I would keep the spine of the love story—Tengo and Aomame—because everything else radiates from their connection. The cult, the Little People, Fuka-Eri—all of these should remain, but only insofar as they illuminate that thread. Subplots that wander too far? Those must go.

David Mitchell: I’d agree, but I’d also preserve Murakami’s doubling. The novel thrives on parallel tracks—Tengo’s rewriting and Aomame’s assassination, for instance. I’d keep those two arcs but weave them tightly. Side wanderings into Tengo’s father’s past or peripheral characters could be trimmed.

Robert Lepage: My instinct is to let structure breathe visually. Even if we cut whole sections, we can suggest them on stage through projected fragments, voices, or tableaux. We don’t need every word to give the audience a sense of vastness. Hints can stand in for whole chapters.

Park Chan-wook: I’d approach it like a thriller. The cult, the murder of the Leader, the pursuit of Aomame—these give momentum. Without that dramatic tension, audiences might drift. But the thriller skeleton should never overpower the love story at its heart.

Tom Stoppard: I’d cut very little, but compress through wit and pace. Dialogue can condense exposition that takes pages in prose. In a play, ten words, smartly placed, can replace a chapter. It’s about agility, not just deletion.

Moderator: How would you structure it—linear, nonlinear, episodic?

David Mitchell: Nonlinear, of course. 1Q84 thrives on parallel tracks and echoes. Intercutting Tengo and Aomame’s worlds, like two mirrors facing each other, would allow audiences to feel their distance and inevitability.

Tony Kushner: I’d push toward a three-act arc within the five-act tradition: Act I sets the world, Act II fractures it with the surreal, Act III delivers reunion. The nonlinear interweaving can exist within that, but audiences need a frame to hold on to.

Robert Lepage: Episodic, with transitions as part of the spectacle. Moving staircases, projected typewriter text, shadows of two moons—each transition becomes part of the storytelling, reminding the audience that we’re in a shifting novel-world.

Tom Stoppard: I’d relish nonlinear leaps. A scene could fold into itself—Tengo’s rewriting becomes narration that suddenly becomes reality. The form should reflect the strangeness of content.

Park Chan-wook: For me, the thriller requires clarity. Too much nonlinearity risks confusion. If audiences lose track of who’s hunting whom, or why, the stakes vanish. So I’d temper structure with sharp edges of suspense.

Moderator: Finally, how do we preserve the scale of Murakami’s world without overwhelming a theater production?

Robert Lepage: Suggestion is everything. Use light, shadow, minimal props, and clever perspective tricks. A staircase can be Tokyo one moment, a cult compound the next. Scale is felt, not shown.

Park Chan-wook: Atmosphere is scale. Music, sound, the weight of silence—these can make a small stage feel infinite. The audience’s imagination does the rest.

David Mitchell: Language itself carries scale. Echoes, refrains, motifs—these give a sense of endlessness even in compressed form. The audience feels the bigness through the texture of words.

Tom Stoppard: And wit. Scale is not just size, but scope of thought. Philosophical banter, playful questions about time and reality—these open the stage beyond walls.

Tony Kushner: Ultimately, it’s about faith in the audience. If we show them intimacy and hint at vastness, they will build the epic in their own minds. A play doesn’t need to be large—it needs to be resonant.

Topic 4: Symbolism and Atmosphere

Moderator: 1Q84 is saturated with symbols — the two moons, the Little People, staircases, silence. How would you prioritize these symbols for the stage, so they resonate without overwhelming the audience?

Julie Taymor: The two moons are central. They should be ever-present, shifting subtly from scene to scene—sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden. They remind the audience constantly that this is not the world they know. Other symbols, like staircases or shadows, can orbit that anchor.

Robert Lepage: I’d treat symbols as recurring stage motifs. A single staircase that appears again and again—sometimes leading somewhere, sometimes nowhere—becomes a character itself. Lighting and projection can shift its meaning, just as Murakami shifts reality.

Tom Stoppard: For me, the real symbol is language itself. Repetition of phrases—“I’m waiting for you,” “two moons”—can become incantations. Words on stage can be symbols just as much as objects or lights.

Enda Walsh: I’d make atmosphere the symbol. Sounds of silence, the faint hum of wind, or voices murmuring from corners. The audience shouldn’t just see the symbol—they should feel it pressing in, almost suffocating, yet tender.

Moderator: How do we create an atmosphere that is strange but not alienating?

Tom Stoppard: With humor. A sudden quip, a wry line of logic in a nonsensical world—these keep the audience close. If everything is eerie, they withdraw. But if you give them wit, they lean in again.

Enda Walsh: With rhythm. Atmosphere should ebb and flow. A heavy silence, then a burst of sound. A claustrophobic scene, then a tender pause. It’s like breathing—if it doesn’t shift, the audience suffocates.

Julie Taymor: Through beauty. The strangeness should be alluring—colors that mesmerize, shadows that dance. If the audience is seduced visually, they’ll accept the surreal more willingly.

Robert Lepage: I’d layer realities with technology. A projection here, a moving set piece there—always subtle, always suggestive. The audience should feel unsettled, but never pushed away. It’s a balance between mystery and clarity.

Moderator: Finally, how can symbolism and atmosphere serve the emotional story of Tengo and Aomame, rather than distract from it?

Enda Walsh: By echoing their inner states. When Aomame feels trapped, the stage can close in with shadows. When Tengo remembers love, silence expands. Symbols breathe with them.

Julie Taymor: Their love can activate symbols. When they reach for each other, the moons glow stronger, the colors shift warmer. The surreal world responds to their intimacy.

Robert Lepage: Yes—the environment itself can become a third character. The set bends to their emotions. Love reshapes the atmosphere, making the surreal feel like destiny rather than chaos.

Tom Stoppard: And in dialogue, their words can puncture symbols. A simple “Do you remember me?” under two moons carries more weight than any spectacle. The atmosphere frames it, but love delivers the meaning.

Topic 5: Cultural and Emotional Authenticity

Moderator: Murakami’s 1Q84 is deeply rooted in Japanese culture, yet it’s also a universal love story. How do we adapt it for a global stage without losing authenticity?

Park Chan-wook: I think the danger is smoothing out its strangeness. The cult, the formality, the small gestures—these are Japanese textures. We must keep them intact. Instead of explaining them away, we let audiences feel the unfamiliar, like a visitor in a new land.

Tony Kushner: And yet, we need to balance accessibility. The love story is universal—longing, fate, the desire for reunion. If we preserve the Japanese context while lifting these themes, audiences everywhere will see themselves reflected.

David Mitchell: Language is key. Murakami’s prose is sparse, elliptical, with a Japanese cadence. In English adaptation, we can echo that rhythm—short, clipped lines, sudden silences. That way the “Japanese-ness” isn’t just in the setting, but in the music of speech.

Ivo van Hove: I agree with Mitchell. We shouldn’t exoticize, nor flatten. Keep the silences, the stillness, the indirectness—that is authentic. In theater, restraint often speaks louder than spectacle.

Moderator: How do we portray the cult and the abuse elements with cultural sensitivity, without sensationalism?

Tony Kushner: Honesty is crucial. These aren’t just plot devices—they’re lived traumas. We must treat them with respect, not as sensational spectacle. The Leader’s presence should be chilling, but the focus must remain on Aomame’s moral courage.

Park Chan-wook: I would show the cult through atmosphere, not gore. The unease of chanting, the pressure of silence, the weight of authority. The audience should feel the grip of control, not see tabloid imagery.

David Mitchell: And Fuka-Eri’s silence is central. Her quiet testimony is more powerful than any dramatization. Respect the pauses, the emptiness of her words—that speaks volumes.

Ivo van Hove: Keep the staging minimal in those moments. A chair, a voice, silence. Too much movement distracts. Let the horror live in what is unsaid.

Moderator: Finally, how do we ensure the adaptation remains emotionally authentic—anchored in Tengo and Aomame’s love—while still honoring Murakami’s cultural roots?

David Mitchell: By weaving in memory. Tengo and Aomame’s childhood hand-holding is not just personal—it reflects Japanese notions of fate, of connections carried across lifetimes. If we honor that small gesture, the entire story resonates authentically.

Tony Kushner: And by universalizing without diluting. Loneliness, oppression, longing—these are global human conditions. We show them in a Japanese frame, but we trust the audience to meet us there.

Ivo van Hove: The stage must constantly return to intimacy. No matter the culture, when two people search for each other, audiences lean in. That is where truth resides.

Park Chan-wook: And we end not with spectacle, but with simplicity: two people walking into an uncertain world, hand in hand. That image, Japanese in restraint yet universal in meaning, is the most authentic ending possible.

Final Thoughts Ivo van Hove 

(At the end of the session, van Hove remains alone under a cold wash of light. He speaks quietly, with intensity, the way he stages silence.)

I do not believe the task is to capture everything in Murakami’s novel. That would be impossible, and unfaithful. The task is to reduce until only the essence remains. Two figures on a stage. A staircase leading nowhere. A page drifting down. A silence you can hear.

If the audience leaves remembering the pause more than the line, if they carry with them the echo of stillness, then we will have succeeded.

Theater vanishes the moment it is seen. What endures is the echo it leaves in you. And I believe that is what 1Q84 was always meant to be: an echo that follows you into your own silence.

Short Bios:

Tony Kushner

Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright (Angels in America). Known for blending politics, morality, and intimacy into epic, dialogue-rich drama.

Tom Stoppard

Celebrated British playwright (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead). Famous for intellectual wit, layered structure, and theatrical playfulness.

Enda Walsh

Irish playwright (Once, Disco Pigs). Combines lyrical dialogue with raw emotional intensity, often exploring love and identity in fractured worlds.

Robert Lepage

Canadian director/playwright. Master of multimedia and stage innovation, integrating projection, light, and physical space into surreal, dreamlike productions.

Julie Taymor

American director (The Lion King). Known for bold visual storytelling, masks, and theatrical spectacle rooted in myth and ritual.

Ivo van Hove

Belgian director (A View from the Bridge). Minimalist staging, stark lighting, and silence used as dramatic weight. Renowned for emotional intensity.

Park Chan-wook

South Korean filmmaker (Oldboy, The Handmaiden). Stylistically bold, balancing violence, surreal beauty, and psychological intimacy—crossing seamlessly into theater.

Katie Mitchell

British director noted for precision and experimental theater. Often merges live video and stagecraft to explore fractured realities and inner life.