This is something new on Granada's stages. Something different from the usual plays and the mediocrity so often repeated ad nauseam. Even if this icicle is turquoise play with icebergs, humming glacial cold of aimless people. Perfect actors in the service of thoughtfulness and absurdity. Bare ugliness on the faces in the abstract environment of an office or a street or a place where there is neither a keypad a typewriter nor understanding. Everything is calculatedly cold, drawn with purifying straight lines, as if it were a foursome of chairs or meaningless objects. At most, curves are found in the corners of a box or in a seductive gaze. It is theater in which one can drift because of its surprisingly successive scenes, only to acknowledge desolation as the companion of our uncertainty. In it there is implied dance and a touch of old-fashioned mime. Within him pulsate thoughts of all the worn things that populate our world. These are books that serve as shelters and idioms that our language chokes on. Such theater is beyond good and evil, and in this particularity lies its value.... To the theatrical characters is added a seeming emptiness of content, the omission of a red thread, and cold interpersonal relationships that freeze everything. But they come alive through Nico's actors to tell us that there is another kind of theater, one that comes from the North, that shakes us awake from our lazy siesta that we suffer from here in the South.

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