I can work on the most complex novel of one of my favorite writers with one of my favorite theater troups. These people are obsessionists. I mean the characters of the novel. Something pushes them towards devastation. Love, sex, repressed desires, the hatred of their profession, the love for their hobby, and to map something, the oppress someone, getting wasted next to someone, airplane models. Just not what we have. Just not the way it should be.

Neither Vian did that nor that way. Freely. With absurd humor. Fondly the grim. Primarily entertains himself while writing. He plays. With words, situations, the form, the structure. Every character is a little bit a parody of itself, the situations are superheated variants of their real relatives. Enlarges, exaggerates, scalds, freezes, shakes, kneads and molds. Don’t take anything seriously from what you’re going to see. We will. It is so stupid to build trains in the middle of a desert. To fall in love with the girlfriend of my best friend. To be a hermit. The work that could be done by a machine. Or the work that couldn’t be done by one. To kill a biker. Not to cure a chair. Am I asking?

Balázs Benő Fehér

We use a stroboscope in the performance.
We use strong sound effects in the performance.