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 handling one of his precious jazz vinyls
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) watching the spanking new flat screen tv (one payment down, 35 to go)
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
trying to have a conversation with elín from upstairs

in a word hilarious, with some exquisite comic acting, and a brilliant set

we're sitting outside, watching in
a large part of the fourth wall remains

images shamelessly purloined from theatre web


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One response to “the chickens”

  1. 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.

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