Big, white, varnished doors with two wings, empty wooden floor, warming, expensive tiled stove, women dressed in lacy bone white dresses, and men, who are wearing black silk, there is a cross path in the middle of the central room. The viewers are turning their heads, who are sitting on benches and chairs and there is a big beige armchair for the great hiding scene, there are three paths and a well cut story. “Even a flying piece of dust can fly away” (J.A.) Everybody is sad a little bit. Sometimes they are very sad. But they even hope. Above it, they are ready to play. They know that they may be cheated. And they are cheated. Or not. The women know more. The women know everything.

Figaro (Ákos Orosz) stands for the civilian ancient power in dark reddish T-shirt and red trousers, the end of his belt, which is swinging freely in front of his groin suggests the most: he is a lord, who is forced to live as a servant in the castle. The power is with him. Anyway, he can fail it. The others have got the power. Figaro – to mention a classical film – is the man, who “solves problems”.

There are not any unreliable words, there are not any bad movements. The punctuality of an artist can stand in for the missing routine of actors. Zsóter goes until the edge of his actors’ performing skills, and before the moment can break, he gets back from the place, the voice, the movement so that the scale of balance game, which is planned on the air of the four rooms, can show the right rate. The dialogues of flexible text are melodies with beautiful arcs, on the mouth of speakers with newer and newer decorations.

I have never seen so many anxious, frightened people during the performance of this play. I have never realised that this play can be about the hidden, immeasurable orphan-hood, the lack of mental community, but with such power, that when Ákos Orosz’s voice breaks, we almost get fainted. They talk about that state here, when there is not any other person, who can understand what is the hero doing, who has been forced to be active, not even understand that on how high level he does, what he does. There is no one to show the pirouette.

Then the first machinator appears, the main sufferer, the same lonely main witch, Marceline, Figaro’s never imagined mother, Mari Törőcsik. Zsótér does not get anything from Törőcsik, he lets her get freed happily. She seems to be a comet that rushes from door to wall, from stairs to windows. And the actors of Maladype – Erika Tankó, Judit Kovács Ligeti, Kamilla Fátyol, Ádám Tompa, Zsolt Páll, Zoltán Lendváczky and Zénó Faragó – can harmonize to her with lovely devotion. “Be happy!” – Marceline tells it to her found son, and on a voice, with such a stress, that she cannot be imitated. Anyway: it is a high-levelled school, on the Mikszáth Square. The hope leaves me while I get to the tram of the main road.

Beaumarchais is a hard one. But if we need, we can try to get this style too. Maybe the decorations of the porcelain cup get rubbed off, the saucer has lost somewhere, but the content, the salty and bitter one, which is in the cup, it is hot, and can be tasted from time to time by pain.

Katalin Gabnai, Mindenki Színháza, 2011

(translated by: Veronika Fülöp)