In search of Mr. Fock

Characters go in search of their creator, a certain Mr. Fock - a sonic interplay of fuck and God , who, at least it seems, runs the show, the president of the company on which everything depends. From then on, no other narrative thread intertwines the one and a quarter hour long piece Eggs on Earth that Nico and the Navigators performed in the small and experimental Hall B of the Teatro Central in Seville on Friday and Saturday. It didn't need more narration, because Nico and the Navigators put more emphasis on reproducing an experience, on exploring the surreal and the hidden, than on creating a meaning. Eggs on Earth, already performed at the Alhambra Hall in Granada, is a series of particularly kinetic and extraordinarily poetic prints and paintings that thrive on grand gestures, on being a new hybrid between theatrical and dance performance, on just the right amount of acrobatics, of plastic architecture and an extremely refined, exquisite and eclectic sound background - with music from Janis Joplin to Rachmaninoff - from which impressions gradually grow and anxiety and laughter are evoked in the context of what forms the Gordian knot of the performance: Insanity, impersonal conditions that reify the worker, and lack of communication within a worker's existence, which the actors express in no uncertain terms. They confront the spectator with impressive gestures and isolation. Such alibis can also be superfluous, as we fortunately experienced at Central in Seville. Eggs on Earth, with its great ups and downs between wonderfulness and failure, can be easily consumed like much of modern theater. Like taking a shot at a wonderful, plastic world exercise model, or like a cultural device on which to experience influences from Breton or Artaud - with doctrinally surrealist texts - to the immeasurable Jacques Tati or Pina Bausch. Everything is very postmodern, aimed at the visualization of a vile and unhinged world. Poetic power Eggs on Earth, a pictorial work, layered one on top of the other like a series of short, spartan and extravagant dialogues, very close to human puppetry, of deep poetic power and absolutely free of apparent narrative and meanings. It is an hour and a half of vivid paintings, built in front of a wall of sound, which lifts the spectator to the level of enjoyable and pleasurable, plastic climaxes. Only the ominous ambush of a Mr. Fock, similarly annoying as God, interrupts this without ever being present, and whom to look for proves absolutely futile, which turns out to be Mc Guffin of the piece. With performances like this, Teatro Central once again dedicates itself to successful and brilliant actuality of the best, intuitive and cosmopolitan European theater of the present.

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