the chickens
went to theatre last night, saw the chicken (hænuungarnir) by bragi ólafsson, of former sugarcubes bass-plucking fame, of current poet, novelist & playwright fame
sigurhans delicately handling one of his precious jazz vinyls (monk in europe, volume 2?), sporting the hat he puts on when he 'goes to the jazz'
sigurhans, a big jazz aficionado calls an extra meeting with the residents of his building, with the aim of outing his next-door neighbours as the perpetrators of the monstrous theft of his 8 frozen chicken — sorely missed, even though they were 40% off
carl and anastasia(s) enjoying their spanking new flat screen tv (one payment down, 35 to go)
try as they might, the characters are incapable of communicating with each other in any meaningful way, especially the old widow from upstairs, who is losing her hearing & manages to turn everything to the russian chicken-eating jazzband playing in karhula for her & jorma
trying to have a conversation with elín from upstairs
in a word hilarious, with some exquisite comic acting, and a brilliant set
a large part of the fourth wall remains
What a delightful review. And here I was going to make a Gary Larson joke, since “The Chickens …. are restless!” is the name of one of the best Far Side collection books.