’It might have been the atmosphere of a conversation, the company, or I
don’t know what, that made me accept my own challenge and, despite
everything, try to perform a classic play. I like to work against my
own aesthetics and principles. This is one of my energy sources. And
Gogol’s work is really that of a genius, thanks to the last sentence of
the diary. Suffering illuminates P.’s mind and makes him cry out loud.
He calls his mother to shed a tear for her suffering son and embrace
him. It’s not about the Spanish king any more. We might think this is
the end of madness, but no. At the end of the diary Gogol dashes off an
embarrassingly inappropriate sentence: ’And do you know that the bey of
Algiers has a big wart right under his nose?’ Cruel. Really humorous.
Back inside the impassable walls of mental disorder. Gogol shows no
mercy to P. Cruel black humour…
…What should my madman be like? What should he do on the stage? Should he do anything at all?
I met Géza in 1964 in a mental institute. Stretched out rigid. In
almost complete catatonia. In this sense, it was not a meeting at all.
There I saw, and from the recounting of the professor I learned, what
the problem was. Géza had become conscious of elementary movement, that
is, he had to plan each of his movements and carry them out
accordingly. If he didn’t succeed, he had to do it again. It was the
same with speaking. What a deranged condition, what a modern disease!
No, he wasn’t a modern patient, he was a villager, and didn’t have the
slightest idea about how modern his disease would be thirty-five years
later. Not as a disease, but as the discomfort of normality. The
discomfort of everyday existence. (Not to mention my own compulsions.)
So, let this be P.’s character.’
Péter Halász
’Who is he? A deranged bomber of our age, who started making bombs in
his early childhood. He wanted to become a doctor and was forced to
become a fireman. His physician becomes caught up in his tragic fate.
She is unable to resist this perverted fate. The madman touches himself
under his blanket. She spreads her thighs. But the much desired union
does not take place. ’Margó, restrain yourself,’ go the directions.
With the detached mind of a medical student, we follow a life thrown
together in a kaleidoscope of the madness of a derailed life. Is it
that of Péter Halász? His family? His generation? Let the audience
decide for themselves.’
Attila Ditzendy
|