Der Autor Szczepan Twardoch über die Premiere in der Gaußstraße
Well, after two weeks on the hippy beach on Gavdos, when in my veins instead of blood there is probably only salt water, vile wine, crayfish and ouzo, I am going to Hamburg for the premiere of "Der Boxer", which Ewelina Marciniak staged on the small stage at Thalia Theater. I had nothing to do with the adaptation or the staging, so I don't know what to expect. Maybe that's why I'm nervous? Because I am. Let's say I shouldn't be - if it's a fuck up, is not my fault; if success, it is a bit like mine, so there is nothing to be nervous about, but still.
Two hours of the performance did not feel long, which I noted with relief. Beautiful choreography, ballet of a boxing fight without trying to pretend that someone is boxing on the stage, cabaret and expressive actors dance and clap themselves on the butts, acrobatic dance and strength performances in erotic scenes, and really great actors, especially energetic Sebastian Zimmler. His Szapiro seems much younger than the thirty-eight-year-old actor himself. An extraordinary actor, which I have known since I saw "Dogs of Berlin", where he created the character of the best neo-fascist since the time of Edward Norton from "American History X". Returning to the theater: there is energy, there is no exaggeration, there is not much from the book, as if someone told it on the stage who, of course, liked the book, but had read it a long time ago. And who has just picked out the better pieces, and very well. Finally the novel is just an excuse here, the text itself is also more contemporary, but that's also good. There are figures, emotions, pace, despair, fascism and socialism, Poland, Jews, bodies, nature, culture, culture, nature, rechts, links, und Deckung.
The next day I have adventures in Hamburg - which I will tell about at a different time - this morning after some adventures I read by the breakfast an enthusiastic review in Hamburger Abendblatt, just like in the twentieth century: I was in the theater, now a cafe, breakfast, a piece of newspaper big as tablecloth, review for three quarters of the column, nice picture - in Germany it still looks like this - tempts me to send a telegram somewhere, but I write about it on Facebook. Then I come back home all day and when I come back I open a riesling from Płochocki and after two weeks in Greece, a homeland of vines full of nasty, sour long booze, I think to myself: how good is finally to drink a good Polish wine.