Review – Sa nu ma uiti

SavedPicture-20154614410.jpgSambata, 4 aprilie, am avut program. Cu prietenii de la In Culise, fireste. A avut loc avanpremiera spectacolului Sa nu ma uiti, cu acelasi Florin Fratila de care nu ma pot desparti, se pare.

Daca nu stiti cine e Florin Fratila, va spun sincer ca mai mare pacat artistic n-ati facut in viata voastra! Cum se duce totul dracu’ este spectacolul meu de suflet, iar prestatia lui acolo este absolut magica.

Nu cred ca trebuie sa specific ca aveam aceleasi asteptari inalte si de la Sa nu ma uiti, nu?

Sa nu ma uiti incepe intr-un mod neasteptat – cu violoncelul lui Bach, pe care il iubesc si il ador, si pentru mine e semn de mare iubire artistica. Din fericire, semnul asta nu e pacaleala – iubirea e in fiecare minut pe scena, la loc de cinste, gata sa te mangaie si sa te aline, in timp ce te tortureaza cu gratie divina.

Inceputul pare un pic dificil, Cosmina Soare lasand sa se vada cateva tremururi de emotie care par sa contribuie la autenticitatea povestii, in timp ce se incadreaza perfect in tabloul pe care il (re)prezinta.

Florin Fratila este genul acela de stea pe care nu o banuiesti, dar care arde intens, mocnit, cu ciuda si patima, cu ura si iubire, si omul asta incredibil asta imi transmite de fiecare data.

Cei doi actori par a expune doi poli ai aceluiasi magnet, cu o naturalete incredibila, care a miscat fiecare persoana prezenta in seara de 4 aprilie in Copper’s Pub.

Sa nu ma uiti mi-a dat o replica numai buna de tinut minte pe vecie:

Poate sunt un personaj arhetipal, dar nu sunt arhetipul insusi.

Si o „coloana sonora” la fel de bine aleasa ca si pana acum la spectacolele de la In Culise.

Universalitatea subiectului abordat de Stefan Caraman, la fel de actual astazi, ca si acum o suta de ani, face din Sa nu ma uiti o caricatura generoasa a vietii de cuplu, creionata din momente trase la indigo si reprezentative pentru lipsa de comunicare ce intervine odata ce se instaleaza rutina si obisnuita, odata ce romantismul dispare pe geam si comunicarea fuge grabita pe usa din spate.

La un spectacol cu doar doi protagonisti e mult mai simplu sa observi de pe margine egoismul omului, care cere neincetat dovezi de iubire, fara sa le ofere la randu-i, si e tare usor sa-ti spui ca tu nu vei fi asa niciodata – sa cazi, adica, in capcana pe care Stefan Caraman, fin observator al bubelor cotidiene, ti-o pregateste intre zambete si rasete.

Sa nu ma uiti are un leitmotiv care se contureaza rapid si care devine o mantra, un simbol al pacii intre doua caractere orgolioase, vicioase si, mai presus de orice, iubite, iar rezultatul final este ca dragostea este distrugatoare, puternica si permanenta, indiferent de cum ajungi la el.

Sa nu ma uiti va avea premiera pe 10 aprilie, tot In Culise, la Copper’s Pub, pe Hristo Botev, nr. 25. Va sfatuiesc sa nu-l ratati, pentru ca asemenea introspectii merita atentia voastra.

 

Oscar

Oscar, who’s a good boy?
Who licks my face
and wins the race?
Who eats up all my chocolate
before having the latte,
and who the fuck barks for no reason,
other than it’s the fucking season?

Oh, Oscar, when will you be mine?
It seems like there’s so much time
that has to pass between now and then,
and time and time again
all I can think of is
hairy paws
and smiley jaws,
the crooked teeth of love and
oh, the smell of piss.

Again with Carl

I wanna laugh and just be awesome, but when I forget how to do that, I just stare blankly at the reflection in the mirror and drool.

But why do I drool?

Know won noes, Carl. No one knows.

I wanna drive like a maniac, but I don’t wanna maniac like a drive. I just want to speed up, speed down, and wear the crown of a crazy person in dire need of a life.

Dammit, Carl. Why are you being such a prick?

I guess it’s because you have mommy issues, or maybe it’s because your mom has issues with you. You fucked up, Carl, and you are a fuck up. So who the fuck cares?!

OMG, Carl! Grow up already! And stop sucking your thumbs. And stop chewing your mom!

fucking fire

the fucking fire of the fucking world,
you burn around me,
and i am torn
between your warmth
and your desire,
i wanna swallow you,
you fucking fire!
and when you burn my insides into ashes,
i’ll fucking turn you into flashes,
i’ll use you up and burn you down,
i’ll step on you and wear your crown!
and when you burn my outsides into piles of dust,
i’ll fucking fight you with my rust,
i’ll stop you anyway i can,
and you’ll never say „she’s stupid and she ran”!
and when you’ll die, you fucking fire,
you and your motherfucking choir,
i’ll spit your fucking, stupid face,
and you’ll just say my fucking name „you did it, ace”.

Kings

I keep my kings in little boxes,
the littlest of the littlest,
and strangest of foxes,
and every desire I have I hid it in houses
of unsung mystery and of rockets.

I keep my kings in little boxes,
but do you wonder about the causes?
Cause I never do, and all of my closets
are filled with desire and I’m unconscious.

I keep my kings in little boxes,
the littlest of stories, the strangest of axes,
and after they get out they smell like the chocolates
I always forget to eat when the watches…

Marry

I’ve been asked to marry a guy tons of times. No, literally. It’s been tons of times when guys have considered me marriage material, and all I managed to do was putting off the inevitable.

Guys asked me this on their death bed (sorryimnotsorry), in the park, on the internet, in Stockholm (my favorite city) and at home.

But mostly, they asked me because they didn’t felt that I was theirs, I suppose. I always kept a bit of myself to myself, so this archaic method should’ve ensure the everlasting happiness that they couldn’t provide for themselves.

But it’s the moment I was asked at home, in the sanctity of my soul, that this request felt more normal and more sincere than ever. It was the moment I truly felt the need to accept. And I did.

Carl

„I wonder where this disappearing act is from. It started long time ago, when lights went out, when freezing time was on, when only bad stuff could happen. Under the rocks of incredible cold, there was nothing, and under that big pile of nothing, there was me. And I was young, and scared, and now I’m old and scared, and who the fuck cares, right?!

Right!

All those bitches, all those fuckers, they mean nothing. A little more nothing than me, to be honest, but still nothing. Words fall in and out of me, everything cuts like a knife, and this radio is zooming me out.”

Carl’s book was of great misunderstanding. His 16 years meant nothing for all that hate and bitterness, and he couldn’t understand why he had to read this shitty text for school, when girls were in order. Like, girls with pink panties, and thigh-high boots, even if they weren’t allowed. Girls with ponytails and girls that rocked the goth trend with such an ease.

Mostly, girls with boobs.

Carl wasn’t stupid. He knew that most of the girls had boobs, and even some of the boys. He didn’t have a type yet, he usually liked the perky and alive variety, so anything that walked on their own two feet was deemed to be at least acceptable.

Carl, however, was no prince. He wasn’t even a frog. He was short and stout, with yellow, crooked teeth, and ginger hair. He could’ve been the Ron at his school, but there was no Harry cleaning his glasses. As for Hermione, let’s just say she was busy doing someone else.

But Carl wasn’t phased out by this. No, au contraire, my friend. He was just as obnoxious and boring as before, albeit a little bit more smug and, under that mask, a little more scared. Carl was just asking for it, but he didn’t knew it at the moment. Cue evil laughter.