Out of the darkness rises a shadowy figure. The strobe lights uncover a plethora of shadows in the darkness, and after a moment, illuminates many faces. Three micro-dramas: Katastrofa, Impromptu Ohio and The Last Tape. All that's left in them is the bare minimum necessary to remain theatrical. There are no people. Hard breathing, words, looks.
It is Beckett the writer, the poet who again does not write, but rather electrifies us with phrases that touch us, although sometimes it is hard to hear them. All of these are intermingled into the silence, into the sound of the wind blowing. "Zapasiewicz as Becket" - a title so simple that it cannot be any more simple. Divided between two worlds. The world of theater and the world of literature, which consumes everything. It becomes the entire world; the entirety of pain. First, we have a grey character on a low pedestal, almost as though it were made of ashes. A coat, a hat with a fairly wide rim, hands buried deep in pockets, as if we were seeing some kind of statue and not a living person. The director (Sławomir Pacek) calls out in the tone of a dry, artificial and horrible command. He forms his actor; he takes away the life that remains in him. And then: "Fire" - an order that echoes throughout, as though acknowledging that there is no escape from this kind of theater; from this