Bitef

Brecht- the Hardcore Machine

RESENJE Posle ustanka 17.juno, Sekretor Udruzenjo knjizevnika naredlo je Da se и Staljinovoj aleji dele led U kojlma se moglo procltatl da je narod Proigraopoverenjevlade I da да maze povratiti somo Udvostrucenlm radom. Ne bill Ipak bilo jednostavnlje da vlada Raspusti narod I Izabere drug /7 VELIKOVREME, PROCERDANO Znao sam da su g roden I gradovi, Nisam se do njlh odvezao. To spado и statistiku, pomisllh. Ne и istoriju. Ta sta su gradovi, gradeni Bez mudrosti naroda? B. Breht

THINGS THAT A BODY CAN BE There, the text's now all worry. To light up or just keep up the glow in a dark room, in a space. Or in a darkened room-space. To repeat words, to repeat sentences. And yet, preferably in space, darkness as such befits space more than a room; private extinction of a light suits the room better. Well, yes, what is it really that during the performance ofThe Hardcore Machine so forcefully bursts into the reception space, my small private area; intimacy, personal sphere or a collective, open space, social problems, consequences manifested in an individual's life? Mutual influences. Reciprocal shocks. Every shocking effect of the production, which, if looked at severally, has the ability, so to speak, to scandalise the citizenry, fades out, one by one. But where is Andras Urban's Theatre in terms of this boring cliché? it is light years away. It creates a context and plays with spectators'feelings in a way which makes his feelings, because of their complementariness, provide explanations for the inexplicable. And what are those feelings? Man's degradation, the soul wallowing in a mouldy cellar, the daily mire soaked in a mixture of sperm and filth, bleary pictures, mirages, and when the lights suddenly go up over the contorted soul languishing in the dark (and in this case over a concrete body because if you shackle the soul the body contorts and what we see is not the body but a shackled soul) and is almost blind and every part of the body it dwells in weighs it down. (...) What is a body in fact, when absolutely nothing happens, when it is not exposed to external influences, shocks and internal metamorphoses caused by external influences which, afterwards, all strive for an external space, the desire to be emancipated from the body - in this case the body is but a surface? And what can man do with that surface if the soul is shackled and in contortions. In profound lyrical terms - nothing, in philosophical terms perhaps, there is no solution, but there is theatre and there is receptiveness, there is astonishment, pounding of the heart, emotional shock, irony and so on and so forth. And then musing: there is all that and perhaps that is precisely the solution. (...) We should think up a completely different type of metaphor or allegory, or something we shall call somehow, rather use than the expression shackled soul; something like a weakened lowering of the eyelids when the air around the throat simultaneously condenses and the skin surface becomes more sensitive while the thought begins to flow slowly towards the non-verbal idea about a shackled soul. Atila Sirbik www.symposion-line.eu, 28 July 2007 ANDRASURBAN was born in Senta in 1970. As a seventeen-year-old he opened his one-man theatre and literary workshop in which he wrote texts, directed and acted. He formed AIOWA, the famous theatre company treating theatre as a specific, yet all-artistic and, last but not least, ideological action.

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