Ilinca Radulian ’11’s passion lies behind the scenes of Harvard’s stages, where she can develop her vision as a director. Last December, she directed “Inland Empire,” an adaptation of the novel by James Buchanan, in Adams Pool Theatre.

The Harvard Crimson: How old were you when you became involved in theater?

Ilinca Radulian: About five, I’d say. I’ve been doing it all of my life, but I prefer directing. I started as a stage manager because I wanted to learn about the underbelly. Then I moved to producing and being an assistant.

THC: When has theater been most challenging for you—the most problematic production or the most difficult incident?

IR: Every production is problematic. There’s not really a project that doesn’t have problems, but those problems get smoothed out. The last week is when it really all happens. That’s when all the elements get juxtaposed, finally, and you are able to see if it all works together. The most problematic production was “Inland Empire,” inspired by the David Lynch movie of the same name. It didn’t go wrong, but was hard to deal with on many levels. Logistically, the production took place throughout Adams House. Scenes took place en route to somewhere else, and there were three different intersecting threads of narrative. I was the only director. It was an enormous amount of information to hold in your head.

THC: What was “Inland Empire: about?

IR: It’s about a woman with a fragmented identity. She starts being an actress, then she begins to take on the persona of her role, then she becomes the archetype behind that persona. It’s like a series of successive rabbit holes with nothing at the end. It was a very emotionally difficult piece to direct, because the problem of identification became something I had to handle every day. There were so many valences of identity, and I felt like I was losing some of my own, as well.

THC: Did you use any visual symbols in your construction of the piece?

IR: Well, that’s the thing about theater. Everything you put on stage immediately becomes a symbol. I had a cake and a hollow womanly figure shaped from six wedding dresses within one another on the table. Then six actresses each ate cake, took a white dress, and put it on. There ended up being 12 actors at that table—sort of like the Last Supper—with the 13th figure being the one shaped from the dresses.

THC: How do you think the audience felt about the production?

IR: I can never really know. How the audience felt about it is sort of the ultimate test of a performance. Since I’m not the audience, my test is to ask myself whether or not I’m bored on the 100th iteration of a play I’ve directed.

THC: What is it like to interact with the actors as a director?

IR: It all depends on how you treat them. Your aim is to cast something well. It’s challenging because there are all kinds of actors. Last spring I directed “The Pillowman” in the Loeb Black Box Theater. I had this set idea of how it’s supposed to end, but one of my actors said “I don’t think that’s what that scene is all about.” It was scary. I said, “Two things. Can we talk about how you think it should end, and, are you still willing to go with the way we have it?” He agreed, reluctantly, and I ended up talking to him and deciding that his ending was far better than the previous one. Actors can have fantastic ideas—it was scary, though, as a director, to have someone say that to you.

THC: Theatrically, who are some of your influences?

IR: I basically get influenced by everything I see. Theater is all about stealing. It’s dangerous to have favorite directors. You end up becoming them, and then you are nothing more than a copy.

THC: When have you felt most yourself as a director?

IR: Probably during “Inland Empire.” In theater, you want to tell the truth—and the scary thing is that telling the truth can be like pulling this heavy, horrible, convoluted thing out of the ground. It’s difficult, too, because if you want to tell the truth about yourself, you have to be comfortable with yourself. This was a time in my life when I wasn’t comfortable with me. My personal life was very difficult. And it became scary, because for a while I was afraid that I’d stopped loving theater, that my love for it had dried up. It’s terrifying when you think it’s going to get up and walk out the door on you. What else do you have? But it didn’t slam the door.