Men In Tribulation
Silenced. Interned. Consumed by the fire of theatre and consumed by life itself. His name is Antonin Artaud.
He jeers western civilisation, scoffs its weaknesses and insults its fashionable theories. Eric Sleichim fans the fire of utopia. He lures us inside his mental dimension, decorated by music, architecture, art and theatre. Here is no trace of a scenery or a theatre hall.
Only a pentagonal stage lit by bright white fluorescent lights on which Artaud’s spirit resonates: his letters are sung, his fuming roars are spoken by Jan Fabre and his inner self is put into sound by the Blindman saxophone quartet.