In I, Feuerbach (by Tankred Dorst), an experienced actor has turned
up for an audition. The auditor, the director, hasn't arrived, but his assistant
is there (sitting in the audience, actually). Our actor is alone on stage, with
only a chair to give him an environment - but after all, that's all we get at
an audition, isn't it? "I am just sitting and waiting," he tells us.
Of course, this is a volatile situation to any dramatic character with needs, and Feuerbach soon begins to expose himself psychologically. He projects like Don Quixote addressing the windmill, trapping the assistant into a relationship so that the latter finally appears on stage. A woman shows up to deliver a dog, and the whole thing has a powerful and mysterious subtext. The playwright never puts his theme into words, and so the script has a genuinely dramatic truth.
We're involved largely due to the subtle and intense performance of the leading man (Valentinas Masalskis, who also directed). It's minutely analyzed and executed with surety and reserve. The play ends with our man alone, as he began, mounted on a huge skeletal wire dog. He seems to have achieved a sort of sad fulfillment.
- Steve Capra