A flickering jester scampers on stage, fading
away before the music starts; a spectral symphony of tiny footsteps and
rustling, worn-out dresses, followed by pantomime clapping and distant cheers.
The flesh puppet’s writhing dance is the main attraction. Shrill voices fill the air. Dance, they
scream. Slave to its strings – invisible intruders inexorably enforcing their
will – the puppet snaps awake. It moves in jerks and jolts and clumsy
pirouettes. Falling to its knees, it claws at the space where its eyes should
be. The audience’s reaction is deafening; a delirious laugh track. The faceless
plaything curls up into a foetal position as smoky tendrils wisp across the
ceiling and tongues of flame lick the walls casting a violent shadow-play on the
falling curtains and the crumbling pillars and the roof caving in on the crowd
that roars with laughter to the end.
Tomorrow, a new wave of curious patrons will face
the restored stage, lured by promises of transgression and eager to experience
all the notorious play has to offer. They will not be disappointed.
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