The creators of this play fascinatingly evoke the figure of Konrad Swinarski, who apparently once existed, wore a black turtleneck, lived at house number 44, and had special way of rolling his “R’s”; his chuckle once echoed through the theater halls. He passed away, and no one has filled his shoes. Thus they have created an anti-biography, cobbled from scraps of information. In order to check how one can strike up a dialogue with the legend of a director.

The inevitable moments of pathos are broken by the absurd humor. Instead of someone famous we might expect (such as Jerzy Trela), what we have on stage is an apparition of film radical Jean-Luc Godard, whom Swinarski probably never met. And the famous ‘I want, on a summer’s day, a boiling day…’ monolog emerges like a spell, a mantra, or a stubborn nursery rhyme which can amount to nothing. (…) This performance feels a bit like a childish revolt or a naive, inappropriate gesture. It would not surprise me if you come away disappointed or irritated. But you will not remain indifferent, judged Justyna Nowicka, reviewer for Radio Krakow.