Translated material
About the present
About the present
Writing about the performances of the nyakoshus is best with verses.
Because it is impossible to tell them in ordinary words - it's like disassembleing a dance or laying out a melody on notes
The nycroshus is so complicated as the simplest and most important things in our lives can be complicated.
The scene turns into rolled ice tracks only because they begin to ride it: and I find out the smell of melting snow, I hear round drops of roofs, I feel like colitis of cheeks, how woolen hairs from icy mittens sticking out on the lips, pulling their teeth, like a loud voice. Spring. "The joy of spring."
The nyakroshus generally has a lot of joy. His gaze is attentive to everything that is around. Hence so much air, so much freedom. His world is full of life, full of colors and sounds. There are copper candles-ballets in the Song of the Songs, wooden boats in Othello sound, as if someone allowed them to finally speak, remind themselves of themselves. Sound as the soul of an object, as its embodiment.
Even the water in Gamlet acquires a voice. She beats deafly into the floor, hissing fires the womb of Ophelia, crunches, split into sharp pieces, silently corrodes Hamlet's shirt. The deadly Mirra, oozing from heaven, penetrates into every corner of the Danish kingdom, freezes with an ice in the chandelier, flows rivers of tears, and in pairs are dissolved in the air.
Everything is subject to the nurse: he can lower the sky to the earth, can cause any element, can visibly show what is invisible by definition.
And I see where the love of Hamlet and Ophelia is hidden. She is behind their cheeks, she inflates them from the inside. Here Hamlet leans over his girl: inhale-output. How cleverly they turn over: exhale-person. They ride on the floor. Such fools. That's what a funny game was conceived. You can only breathe into each other. And this is the best game: to inhale yourself in your beloved. Say artificial respiration? - Nope, it is the most inaccessible.
This director has everything real. Because people in his performances are real. And if Hamlet doubts, he doubts like anyone doubts, he simply loses his balance, loses the point of support. Be or not to be? Prince, are you falling? Prince? Just the axis shifted. There is one. On the edge. This edge is only invisible. The edge inside. As if hanging over the abyss. He stretched out, hung. Hold on, prince.
Nyakroshus is one of those artists whose works contain a countless interpretation. And, therefore, interest does not subside in him, disputes do not stop. Books are written about him, determine the place in the history of the theater. I don’t know whether he speaks with metaphors or not, I don’t know whether it is necessary to apply the decoding of images to his performances, but I know one thing for sure: Nyakroshus is the same as in life. And if there is a man and a woman, then they will exist in a state of irresistible attraction and inexplicable repulsion. They will exhaust, moan, suffocate and die of love. And death will be burning icy and black.
