Dreams are like birds – they are free. They are nobody’ s but they are for everyone. They haven’ t got nor home nor dwelling place – they live everywhere. It is impossible to catch them but once by the power of some phantasmagoric and miraculous grace they visit each one of us. Dreams are like swiftly running clouds change each moment and their flight like a breath of a wind or run of waves is unpredictable. One cannot hold them in none of realities of our consciousness like one cannot hold water in a palm. They are whimsical and willful but that only makes stronger the power of transformation hidden in them that only makes more stunning that passage – jump over? flight over? – into another being, not less or, perhaps, even more “ real” that makes tremble the soul of a charmed wanderer on lost roads. Love and death, pain and happiness, dreams and mysterious call of infinity, endless number of lives that are waiting for us and labyrinths of roads, ways involving into unseen worlds, incomprehensible facets of us, our own images covered by mysteries meet in dreams, on these crossroads of Eternity. Life is weaved from dreams, from that parti-colored and light, finest and weightless material not subject to logic or time, all changeable and all changing. Gay home fuss, mystic strictness of pictures of all kinds of styles created with the help of paintings, art objects, photos, actor’ s play, masks and decorations as well as with a help of video and laser visual effects including 3D, bitter severity of husbands leaving for a war and immeasurable loneliness of their staying wives, bewitching unruliness of dancing couples as if locked forever in their own world and doomed for a one endless waltz, solemnly lofty vocalizes of DakhaBrakha – ironic and at the same time carrying a suggestion of something infernal, rushing up into that Height that hasn’ t got an earthly name – pacifying and touching lullabies as if overheard in some fairy-tale where time stands still when it seems that Silence itself calms all the perturbed souls, flying Gogol’s crosses and appearance of himself in suddenly transforming actors taking not only an outward image of the great mystic but also his spirit – this show is itself one incredibly beautiful and unforgettable dream.
A fine minimalism which Igor Stravinsky was dreaming about in ‘Svadebka’ (‘The Wedding’) and ‘Tsar Edip’ (‘Oedipus Rex’) has been dubbed in Ukrainian folklore mixed with world-music, and the senses, form of representation, accents, climaxes and breakdowns have been measured to such an extent that it’s impossible to tear away your eyes and ears from this mystery. There is too little of this: on two screens on the sides of the stage, and sometimes on the actors and musicians themselves video-art was broadcast – restrained, accurate, pouring water on the same synthetic theatre mill. By the end, when everybody ‘had already been dead’, and the actors in Gogol’s death masks performed desperately lonely folklore funeral with crosses in parti-coloured flowers, the video was accompanied by a laser show (…)
Technologism plus medieval theatre plus live and quality music plus plain symbolism of the performance – is a rare quartet in our area. (…) in this performance theatre and ‘ethno-chaos’ ensemble have reached that brilliant quality when world-music becomes more that ‘music’, and relative theatre is more than a theatre. When, finally, Wagner with his dreams of ‘synthetic works of art’ can sleep soundly.