On the way to Halle. On the highway, because the train doesn’t drive properly again. But everything is here too. Traffic jam. Removal of the route. Serious accident. At first he must have occurred, the car length is not yet long. An old Mercedes has strayed from the route, is popped against the guardrails and has rolled over. Another car drove on the back, with its bonnet, milled into the fragmented rear, metal in metal within seconds. From a distance you can see the wrecks in the blue lights. A rescue helicopter lands, the volunteer fire brigade provides the scene of the accident. The people get out of their cars, tidy up with a holiday, with a relaxed saying on the tongue, which they then suppress. Dogs are carried out, toddlers lifted over the guardrail for peeing, biscuits are shared – from the motor vehicle drivers that are still anonymously, a fate community has suddenly become temporary fate. You come close, stand next to each other, smoke, stretch, reject in foreign passenger windows. And then a shrill tone like a cheeking scream. A flex that cuts through the compressed metal to pave a way to the seriously injured. People fall silent. For a few minutes there is ghostly silence in the congestion community, you can only hear the screeching of the tool and the roar of the firefighters who call down commands on the roofs of their vehicles. No thought that does not go towards fate now towards the idea of what if I had been. A few cars before, a wrong view of the wrong time, the famous second that decides on a whole life, life, a big word is a big word: life. Sometimes we use it too lightly, sometimes it serves pathetic advertising purposes or pseudo -existential gesture. But sometimes it also applies, as is the case here in Easter sunshine on the A 14. How does this so -called life depend? What are his brackets, his security? The digital technologies determine our ideas of it, they suggest overview and effectiveness, stop in the substantial – our form of the superstructure, which constantly deceives us with certainty, there is more than just you and me, more than just one and the other. The fake collective as a delusion of late capitalist modernism. As an abyss, one could also say as a deep deception from which no way attributes. Because: We are not another. In the end, it is the individual again that helps that is on site in an emergency, the decisions that decide on a life. Should we really want a world that no more I and no you know, but only from one we will go out? Colossal grandedavon dreams in any case the French scene writer Mardi, born in 1980. In Lyon she learned “the interdisciplinary discussion on the topics of gender and society as well as gender studies”, as the program says, and in 2020 under the title “Penthesile: A: S” a text area that is now coming to the new theater Halle. Staged by none other than the now world-famous actress Sandra Hüller, who played the “Penthesilea” fabric after Kleist in Bochum together with Jens Harzer in one of the most sensitive Johan-Simons staging in Bochum. So they know how much this substance lives from the other person, from the opponents between man and woman, the Greek military leader Achilles and the proud Amazon Penthesilea, in their bond, in their gender struggle, the colossal size of an excessive ratio breaks, which is only so great because it goes from one I and one. A compulsory community we: scene from “Penthesile: A: S” Falk Wenzel/Bühnen Hallemardi, however, rejects these categories as reactionary combat terms of a patriarchal attitude – if they do not speak of Penthesile: A: does not mean one, but all women, if they insulted “Achill: E: S”, all men are meant. The pale punch line of your text lies in the expansion of the fighting zone, away from the old -fashioned duality to a global same. The world would be the most beautiful if there were no roles and no more genders, but only a single, heroless we. With the heroes, the gender texter is particularly important: her dream company would be postheroic and posterotic. Then there are no wars, then there would be no abuse of power. What do this game instructions do? Sandra Hüller, who apparently wants to make a moral-political point against male-dominated operation with her directorial debut, stages the whole thing somewhat helplessly as a stubborn collage. Her gender -friendly ensemble only sits in front of microphones and then moves alternately to a status -symbolizing medium -sized kitchen in which the hands are washed and soup is cooked. A real event cannot be reported, instead theoretical sentences are mixed up and tire the meaning. Imagine that a “vulving army” moves into war and nobody looks at the end of the topic, only two things help to survive this evening: on the one hand the view of the fragrant soup, which is finally spooned out by the forced community – whoever feels genderless in the audience can sit down at the table. On the other hand, the tempting amazing face and the respectfully upright walk from Tristan Becker – both together form a performative contra to the dramaturgical claim of the staging. Because the more often the gender guillotine falls (“We are there. Neither man, neither woman, neither people … a necessary transformation”), the more attractive is the physique of this young man. He runs concentrated from left to right, listens, washes his hands powerfully, gently strokes a table. In his expression, the serenity of a ego comes to light, which is concerned about the other that can miss him terribly, to admire it without limitations. A I, yes, which also imagines to own the other person, to give him feelings that no one else can give him. And then completely desperate when he learns that one next can do the same. But also a me that consoles, that longs, saves. In the end, this evening provides the counter -evidence to his own view: life does not hang on the us, it hangs on you.
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