From the Life of the Theatertreffen-Jury

I’m still a beginner and think that a two-hour cushion is enough for a journey from Zurich to Hamburg. It’s not. When I reach the theatre, I’m pumped full of adrenaline. The women from the press office kindly store my luggage in the cloakroom and let me into the auditorium. No sooner have I got to my seat, somewhat brazenly almost in the middle, than I hear the actor telling me from on stage: “You’ll need to come back again. You missed my monologue.”

16 January 2025. This was the day that Mabel Preach’s “Opera of Hope” premiered at Kampnagel. But it was also the day when Alice Weidel made her appearance at Hamburg’s City Hall and thousands of people protested against her and the AfD’s policies and for a democratic and tolerant Germany. Which is why early on this winter evening, the streets in the centre were either closed or full to bursting. Passengers waiting at the Gurlittstraße bus stop could watch as the time the next bus was due to arrive was continually pushed back on the display board. When a young woman found out that I needed to get to a premiere at Kampnagel, she told me she lived very close by and was getting a taxi, and asked if I would like to go with her. Of course, I immediately accepted her offer with thanks. And on the way to Kampnagel a lively conversation ensued about art and life plans. When we reached our destination, my rescuer wouldn’t even accept any money for the cost of the taxi. So, for me, 16 January 2025 became a day on which my faith in the solidarity and helpfulness in our society and our time was confirmed in a wonderful way.

Before Shakespeare in the Telux glass factory, there is still time for sightseeing in the ice hockey stronghold of Weißwasser/Oberlausitz, where Lausitzer glass used to be manufactured back in GDR times. Heading south on Bautzener Straße you reach the “Turm am Schweren Berg”. From here there is a view of the Nochten opencast mine and one of Germany’s largest slag heaps, while the smoking chimneys of the Boxberg and Schwarze Pumpe power plants rise into the air on the horizon. A giant excavator moves through the sandpit in the distance while at our feet all sorts of weeds burst forth from the exploited ground. In the east, the “restoration of a prime landscape” has already begun, while to the west mining continues.

Fun facts from the (post-)pandemic: on the way to the Hauptbahnhof in Cologne, where the train is supposed to take me to Hamburg, a colleague is already gossiping about the performance being cancelled, while the press office of the theatre concerned is confident: no, the performance will go ahead. What should I do? The train leaves in quarter of an hour. It’s leaving in ten minutes, eight, seven … any time now! If I wait for the next one, I won’t arrive in time. And Munich, where I live, is unfortunately in completely the opposite direction, I think while I’m still on the edge of the platform. Only a quick crisis contact between the Theatertreffen leadership and the theatre management brings a solution at the final second: Don’t get the train! Go home! Where you can watch what feels like the 123rd performance recording.

Because I had to leave very early in the morning, I had organised a hotel close to the station. It was incredibly cheap. When I got back there after a long night in the theatre, I realised why. Not many people seemed to check in here alone and certainly not to sleep. The latter became evident when I tried to turn off the bright green strip of light that ran horizontally across three walls of the room. I spent easily quarter of an hour pushing all the switches and buttons I could find but it was no use: the light stayed on. Though I could change its colour. To red.

It’s not far from Münster to Havixbeck. But at weekends public transport leaves you stranded. I take a taxi to Hülshoff Castle. This is where Rimini Protokoll are showing “16 Scenes for a Forest”, an installation about “Die Judenbuche”. After a couple of kilometres, the driver asks me if I’m going to a wedding and whether we’ve come to the right place. A lone wind turbine turns on the horizon. At Hülshoff Castle, eight hunting hides can be glimpsed through the forest. I climb up, look at the screen across which lines of Droste-Hülshoff are drifting, and sometimes through a telescope hanging on the balustrade. “Look at that show-off!” booms from a loudspeaker, while a cough echoes from another. “There he is, Friedrich Mergel,” it shouts. From somewhere comes the answer: “That’s me.” An uncanny blend of a radio play and nature-watching. Ideally with other people watching from the other hides. Today there are none. Instead, there is a faded leaf, a fluttering pigeon, birdsong. I look for them among the tall beech trees. Glass shatters and there is a gunshot. The installation finishes and a sense of unease remains. The sun’s last rays break on the milky glass panes of the bus stop. I call a taxi.
 

When I was 17, I took part in a sort of exchange trip to Zürich with a group from my school in Vienna. We stayed in an unforgettable hotel in the city centre, the Zic Zac Rock Hotel: brightly coloured walls, every room was named after a rock star, and everything was decorated with photos and records. 25 years later, as a Theatertreffen-juror, I asked Schauspielhaus Zürich to organise a room for the night. The hotel – elegantly minimalist both inside and out – was located in the city centre. I had some time after checking in and before the performance, so I went and had a look for the cool hotel that we’d had the run of as teenagers. It had to be somewhere nearby. I searched and searched, without success. Finally, I turned to the last resort of the lost: Google Maps led me to the address of the Zic Zac Rock Hotel, while informing me that it was “permanently closed.” I looked up – and was standing in front of my hotel for the night.

In my first year I was responsible for southern Germany as well as Austria, so I quickly racked up a whole load of BahnBonus status points. One of the benefits was a limited number of vouchers for free drinks on board. Travelling on the InterCity from Mainz to Bochum, the Bordbistro barman announces over the tannoy that we need to be quick as he is getting off soon and only has two beers left. Travelling with a friend, I dash along and secure the last two little bottles. When I produce my voucher, the barman shrugs his shoulders and says: “Are you sure you don’t want to keep that? A voucher is worth one drink and the ICEs have gin and tonic.

In Ruben Östlund’s satire on cruises and the wealthy “Triangle of Sadness”, there is a scene in which the young model couple Carl and Yaya have just moved into their luxury cabin and the handsome Carl, played by Harris Dickinson, takes forever pressing every conceivable light switch in an effort to turn the bedside light on or off. I forget which. But I do remember that I laughed a lot at that moment, I was the one laughing loudest and loneliest in the whole cinema. Because what makes it funny is something that only Theatertreffen jurors and other modern business travellers can testify: every place to stay seems to have its own lighting mysteries and switching strategies. Every light source close to the bed hides its button, lever or cord to switch it on or off somewhere different. Ever since I once had to spend an entire night hiding my head under the pillow, I always pack a sleep mask with me.