Die Ungarische Medea

What if your husband were about to leave you for a young blonde? What if your son turned against you? What if a few moments later he died in a car crash? Like her mythological antecedent, this "Hungarian Medea" picks an extreme solution. Playwright Arpad Goncz (former President of Hungary) sees Medea's predicament as a spiritual quest: when Mada concludes life has no more meaning, her decisive nature allows only suicide as a response. Goncz's reference to the Medea is ironic, because modern times don't permit triumphant revenge. As in last year's Fringe monologue Juliet (from Poland), the updated heroine takes what seems to be her only option. Goncz has called this his favorite work, but it is not for the faint of heart.

Mada, admirably played by statuesque Sabine Giesse, repeatedly consults her pocket mirror to see if she is still beautiful. Between swigs of vodka, she plays out various scenarios of meeting her soon-to-be ex-husband. After he calls to demand custody of their son, she begins to assemble a collection of his love letters to her. These will become her wedding present to the new bride. Cocteau's shadow now looms over a succession of telephone calls. Fearing retribution, she ingratiatingly agrees to all her husband's wishes. A fight with her son is counterbalanced by a call from an old flame. As if this weren't enough excitement, a police officer unceremoniously announces that her son has just died in a traffic accident. Downing a massive, final dose of sleeping pills with a full glass of straight vodka for good measure, she remarks, "I should have done this yesterday."

Giesse hits the full spectrum of emotions. Under Dentler's direction, she shows Mada as vulnerable yet defiant, but this tigress has a weak point: her vanity. Abrupt mood changes and frequent movement about the Armando Perez playing area hold the audience's attention. Throughout all, Giesse projects an elegance that is enhanced by costume, a multilayered long brown dress with a hint of ancient Greek attire.

Coming from the Bavarian town of Ulm, Theater in der westentasche has a long history of presenting chamber theater such as this monologue plus large spectacles and unique outdoor events. Now in the third generation of Dentler artistic administration, the company is affectionately known as Germany's "smallest theater."