THE ONE: I don't know
THE OTHER: You don't know? What is this?
THE ONE: A review
THE OTHER: A review? A theatre review?
THE ONE: Yes. A theatre review
THE OTHER: About a play?
THE ONE: About a play.
THE OTHER: Where two men talk like this all the way through? Who are they? What do they want? Is it all question and answer like this? It can't be.
THE ONE: No. Yes. It's exactly like this. Well, some questions get answered. Most of the time, I've got no idea what's going on.
THE OTHER: Right.
THE OTHER: Is it any good?
THE ONE: What?
THE OTHER: The play?
THE ONE: I don't know.
It seems to be about two men going out to sea.
There's a good bit where the set, which is just a pool of water, suddenly reveals a simple, twisting, dripping platform, that becomes their boat
and the two men go out to sea
but then I suppose it's about more than that really.
It's about depression, and life, and death.
That feeling you get when you stand on the edge of a cliff and think, "I could jump."
The ever-present possibility of death, versus man's instinct for life.
THE OTHER: Wow. Not a barrel of laughs, then?
THE ONE: Not a barrel of laughs, no.
THE ONE looks around the sparse set. He spots some discarded boots
THE ONE: It's a bit post-Beckettian.
THE OTHER: What is?
THE ONE: The play.
THE OTHER: It could get a bit annoying, this repetition, this question-and-answer thing? Does it? Get, you know, annoying?
THE ONE: Well. Well. It's so hard to know what's
THE OTHER: What's... going on?
THE ONE: Yes, what's... going on. Are we brothers? Father and son? Strangers? Two parts of the same consciousness? Maybe the questions help.
THE OTHER: Yes. They're not all that used to modern European drama round here, are they.
THE ONE: No.
THE ONE: It's strangely moving.
THE OTHER: What? The play?
THE ONE: Yes. The play. The two men are great; me with my dark, grey depression, staring gloomily, slightly threatening, constantly confusing, sometimes infuriating. And you, you're positive, sweet, loving, nervous.
THE OTHER: I am?
THE ONE: Yes. You are. We draw the audience in, so over the 70 minutes, they get quite involved in our mysterious, near-incomprehensible story.
THE OTHER scratches his chin. THE ONE walks off to the other side of the space.
THE OTHER: 70 minutes? No interval? Good job I've got this beard. I can stroke it meaningfully in the Young Vic bar after the show.
THE ONE: Yes, you'll do that
I'll be gone.
THE OTHER: Gone? No! Where?
THE ONE: I don't know
THE OTHER: Don't go, please!
THE ONE: I've got to.
THE OTHER: Why?
THE ONE: Because. Because I am the wind.
THE OTHER: Eh?
I Am The Wind is written by Norweigan literary genius Jon Fosse. The English language version is by Simon Stephens, the man responsible for Pornography and Punk Rock. It's directed by theatre prodigy Patrice Chéreau, and the brilliant set design is by Patrice's usual collaborator Richard Peduzzi. There's also great lighting by Dominique Bruguière and lovely music from Eric Neveux.
It's something of an international theatre "event". It won't be to everyone's taste, but we rather liked it. See www.youngvic.org for more info.