You are afraid.
You would like to be secured.
You would like to raise protective spaces around you and to take a shower in the hottest possible insurances- for the house, for life and for death. You would like to circumvent the quotidian panic, to smile and to sleep happily.
And for a while you can do it. You have time for these, for a period.
In Shoot / Get Treasure / Repeat, Mark Ravenhill deposits a humanity that lives its nightmare of physical and psychical bombing with a shivering intensity. The vulnerabilitys extrication is done at the price of subjecting the epidermis to continuous shocks as if each body is connected to the anti-protection shield or to cable of an uninterrupted electrocution of the mind. The fear generates communities of paranoiacs and centre for victims and torturers that transform the womens mourning into games of sex.
The Polish director, Jan Klata smashes intimacy and it places it in the centre of a chaotic world that endlessly re-commences (as a human mechanism that makes common cause with global terrorism and is cracked into particles of panic) the curfew. There is no barrier left between the intimate and collective siege, because the private space is lost into the collective one, in the same manner as the scenes with two or three actors are melted into the rhetorical questions of a contemporary choir: Why do you beset us? Ravenhill creates for Klata the dramaturgical- narrative context needed for the deflagration of intimacy.
The airport becomes the location where the bodies that are supervised by purling video cameras, mingle among themselves, as if it were an immense stomach that self-digests in the open. The airport is the place that engulfs the collective stories and regurgitates individual dreams and failures. The airport generates spontaneous intimacies and casual collisions.
The actors pass through the halls that take them towards the check in point, sit on the chairs and without losing for a second the unity of space and the common identity they publicly recreate the private space. A couple is obsessed with the safety of their childe and they observe him every second. The child and the solider that haunts them in their sleep become part of the same nightmarish system. A solider tortures a woman after he records her with a voice-recorder. Each second of existence is provisional and marked by panic.
Klata conceives a frontally corporeal production. The bodies seem electrocuted, thrown into the abyss without a safety net, dismembered into scores of bolts and reconnected into the global blander. There are bodies that fall from their carcases and that neurotically and asthmatically drain. Kalata finds a structurally spatial coherence for a humanity of emotional transition, which lives and passes over its fears off- centred and noctambulist- like.
