Tímarit Máls & Menningar (The Journal of Culture and Literature). Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir 14.Februar 2026

The Chamber Opera premiered last night at Tjarnarbíó with Bizet’s Carmen, reimagined in a chamber arrangement by Tscho Theissing. Director and translator Adolf Smári Unnarsson led the creative team in reinterpreting Mérimée’s original story. Andri Unnarson’s inventive set design and ornate costumes, Fjölnir Gíslason’s expressive lighting, particularly in the second half, and effective video projections contributed to the production’s distinctive atmosphere. Anna Kjeldahl served as assistant director.

The Chamber Opera’s production distils the story to its core, omitting the tobacco factory workers, smugglers, and other elements from the original opera. The focus is solely on Carmen, portrayed by Kristín Sveinsdóttir, who refuses to be owned by any man and seeks independence, dancing and singing about love. Although her gestures are often misunderstood, such as when she throws a rose to Don José (Eggert Reginn Kjartansson), they have profound consequences. Don José becomes infatuated, abandons his fiancée, Michaela (Jóna G. Kolbrúnardóttir), and mistreats his rival, Officer Zuniga (Fjölnir Gíslason), leading them both to flee. When the bullfighter Escamillo (Unnsteinn Árnason) finds them and invites Carmen to his show, she chooses him over Don José. Having foreseen her fate in the cards, Carmen accepts her destiny, believing that death is inevitable.

While the Chamber Opera presents the story in a condensed format, the music remains central. Theissing’s arrangement for three instrumentalists—Una Sveinbjarnardóttir (violin), Jacek Karwan (double bass), and Flemming Viðar Valmundsson (accordion)—captured the richness of a full orchestra with remarkable skill. The evening opened with their gypsy-style rendition of Sigfús Halldórsson’s "Dagný," which was a memorable highlight alongside Bizet’s classic score.

The vocal performances were impressive, and the acting was strong, which is not always typical in opera. Kristín Sveinsdóttir delivered a compelling portrayal of Carmen, combining vocal brilliance with stage presence and expressive gestures. Her rendition of the “habanera” was particularly captivating. Eggert Reginn Kjartansson brought sincerity and vulnerability to Don José, and his aria about the flower and his love for Carmen was a standout moment. Unnsteinn Árnason was a convincing Escamillo, performing his aria with confidence. Jóna G. Kolbrúnardóttir provided a gentle contrast as Michaela, singing with clarity and grace. Although Fjölnir Gíslason did not sing, he portrayed Zuniga with energy and humour.

Although I initially questioned whether a suitable staging for Carmen could be achieved at Tjarnarbíó, the set designers’ creativity quickly became evident. The red curtains before intermission created a striking and evocative atmosphere, while the circular shadow curtain after intermission was an inspired choice. While Adolf Unnarsson’s text was more bold than lyrical, its presentation in Icelandic is a significant factor in opera’s growing popularity in Iceland.

This new production of Carmen received an enthusiastic and joyful response from a full house, which was well deserved.

VÍSIR, Símon Birgisson 17.february 2026

Carmen faces a cruel fate in the opera of the same name by Bizet, which premiered in 1875 in Paris. This opera has always challenged audiences, as the main character is a woman who wants to decide for herself and love whom she wants. This has not been taken for granted throughout the years. Carmen has been sung by divas such as Maria Callas, but in the Kammeropera's production, Kristín Sveinsdóttir plays the title role. I thought Kristín handled this demanding role well and has both the looks and the voice for it.

Turning to the characters, the two men in Carmen's life, the soldier Don José (Eggert Reginn) and the bullfighter Escamillo (Unnsteinn Árnason), don't just want to love Carmen - they are in love with the idea of ​​Carmen and want not only to love her but also to own her. Eggert Regin had some golden moments in his singing, especially in the famous rose aria in the second act. There, he captured the audience. Unfortunately, he was a little unsure of the high notes in one of his arias after the interval. Unnsteinn Árnason was suitably languid in the role of the bullfighter – had a great moment of singing and a memorable shadow dance.

The primary flaw in Carmen was the instrumentation and sound balance, which often detracted from the performance. The orchestra's composition was unusual, with the accordion dominating to the point that it made it difficult to achieve the necessary musical nuance. Its placement at the front of the stage caused the accompaniment to overpower the singers, distracting from the vocal performances and undermining the drama.

The soundstage at Tjarnarbíó was challenging, particularly before the intermission when red draperies muffled the singing. After the break, the more open stage slightly improved the balance between orchestra and singers, but the vocals never reached their full potential. Moving beyond the musical and acoustic elements, it must also be said that the translation and script were a little unclear in Carmen, and it was harder to follow the story, both in the singing numbers and the spoken parts. Maybe it matters less to those who know the works like the back of their hand, but I found the Carmen experience a little fragmented, and the story was perhaps covered a little too quickly in this arrangement. Despite these concerns, the show's strength lay in its excellent direction and elegant setting. The costumes were really cool, the set was stylish and well done with lighting and video. Adolf Smári is clearly a director who knows his craft. There was a certain purity and magic about the staging that I associate with German theatre. It will be exciting to see more operas under the direction of Adolf Smári, who clearly dares to put his own spin on his works.

Finally, it is wonderful that theatre lovers can choose between two operas performed in Icelandic. Opera is a form of popular entertainment, and this chamber style brings it closer to the audience, making it more accessible. Hopefully, more operas will be translated and performed in the mother tongue in the future.

Conclusion:
This performance earns 4 stars. It is encouraging to see talented young artists, and there is hope that some will have future opportunities on the main stage at Opera under the auspices of the National Theatre.

Lestrarklefinn, Díana Sjöfn. 16. february 2026

The Chamber Opera is staging the opera Carmen by French composer Georges Bizet at Tjarnarbíó. Adolf Smári Unnarsson is directing and translating the work into Icelandic, and Tscho Theissing is arranging the music.

Carmen is a dramatic opera centred on the seductive, unpredictable Carmen, whose charm captivates all men. Don José falls deeply for her, leaving his childhood sweetheart, Michaela, to run away with Carmen. His passion is tested by the bullfighter Escamillo, whose rivalry stirs conflict fueled by intense emotions.

This production is for four singers and one actor. Kristín Sveinsdóttir is the seductive Carmen, capturing the character's self-confidence in her soft movements and determined singing. Eggert Reginn Kjartansson plays Don José, who falls for Carmen, and he builds this character well. On the surface, Don José seems strong but is actually fragile and insecure. Eggert's voice is steady and powerful, and his performance of the flower song, when he declares his love for Carmen, was magnificent. Unnsteinn Árnason is Escamillo, the bullfighter, and he showed the audience the character's silly vocal prowess. Jóna G. Kolbrúnardóttir also did a great job. Fjölnir Gíslason was the only actor opposite the singers, and I have to praise him for that role. He consistently proves his comedic talent, and his interpretation of the soldier Zuniga was high-quality and agile, adding much to the work's comic side. I also liked how the orchestra, made up of three great instrumentalists, was woven into the story in various ways. Most of the people in the piece are trained in singing rather than acting, but they interpreted the scenes well, especially through their faces, though sometimes their bodies could have been more relaxed. The singing played a major role, and it was exemplary.

The piece is comical in parts, though also sad and poignant. It is probably not how Bizet and his companions saw it, but today, all this drama becomes funny, at least in this production. I liked how the artistic directors pushed the drama through costumes, as well as the video shown before the third part. Escamillo, in his peacock-like clothes, wore a shirt that screamed at you, and all these ruffles created a fun overall look for the group. I was not so impressed with Carmen's final dress; it looked half-finished, but that is just a matter of taste. The set was fantastic, expanding the stage and deepening its simplicity. The red curtains hinted at the weight of the work, and Fjölnir Gíslason's lighting design created a mysterious atmosphere. Everything was sensual. The set and costumes were by Andri Unnarsson.

A work like Carmen is all on the surface. Characters are stereotypical, and it is difficult to delve deeply into any of them. It is sometimes difficult to empathise with the characters, but the singers in this production manage to convey their emotions effectively through their facial expressions, which helps a lot. I almost started to feel for Don José in this flowery song, until he started doing things that no one can forgive him for. Carmen is just a giant embodiment of the femme fatale archetype, acting only on her own impulses. I had a hard time seeing her fault in the sequence of events, although Bizet probably intended her for a role viewed differently in earlier centuries. Perhaps the way the work is read and the sympathy for the characters vary from one viewer to another.

It is a pleasure to see these operatic works in Icelandic translations, bringing them back to the audience in new ways. This production of Carmen is polished, with a strikingly dramatic and visual presentation. The group's singing is excellent, the empathy palpable, and everyone should attend Carmen to discover a love for opera.

RÚV Radio, Trausti Ólafsson

The Chamber Opera's rendition of George Bizet's Carmen at Tjarnarbíó powerfully sharpens the opera's central theme: how love and jealousy drive individuals to extremes. By reducing the number of characters, the narrative zeroes in on the erotic Carmen, the desires of Don José and the bullfighter, and Michaela's steadfast loyalty, distilling the story to its emotional core.

The orchestra's vocal repertoire is also varied, and in the performance, only three instruments are heard: the violin, played by Una Sveinbjarnardóttir; the accordion, played by Flemming Valmundsson; and the double bass, played by Jacek Karwan. The notes of the accordion, violin, and bass are as tinged with gypsy music as Bizet's original.

Tscho Theissing arranged the music. I don't know much about him, but Google says his treatment of Bizet's music has been heard before, and in larger halls than Tjarnarbíó. The instrumentalists conjure an interlude from Sigfús Halldórsson's song at the start of the show. I can say this has never appeared in this context before. The song is Sigfús's well-known film score. It immediately reminds one that roads lead in all directions, connecting Carmen and Gógó in the film “79 af stöðinni.” Both of these women challenge society and break its rules. They are beautiful, provocative, and dangerous to young country boys who get shot at by them.

Carmen is portrayed as a gypsy woman, a choice that originally surprised Parisian audiences who were unaccustomed to seeing an opera centered on a character of her background. The opera’s candid depiction of how desire and jealousy affect men drawn to women from different backgrounds was also provocative.

Apart from that, Carmen is what the French have long called a femme fatale—a life-threatening woman. In Tjarnarbíó, Kristín Sveinsdóttir plays this fearsome woman and sings the magnificent arias that most people in the audience have heard countless times. She easily shows the audience the lust, ruthlessness, and cruelty that dictate Carmen's actions. Kristín thrilled the men in the show so that everything played out on a tremor of anger in their soulful anguish and singing.

Eggert Reginn Kjartansson sings and plays Don José, Carmen's lover, who, blinded by jealousy, walks away from his dead love. Eggert Reginn did a good job acting and singing this role. He was sometimes tragic in his interpretation, and I felt he grew increasingly bitter as the show went on. Don José's call for his mother, high up in the mountains where he is flirting with Carmen, did not elicit any laughter in the audience, but Eggert Reginn's sincerity and conviction in this sensitive scene outweighed the bitterness.

Jóna G. Kolbrúnardóttir sings and plays Michaela, Don José's girlfriend who embodies virtue. Jóna sang Michaela's arias with sophistication and confidence. I found Kristín and Jóna's duet, when Carmen and Michaela face off in the mountains of Regin, to be one of the highlights of this show.

Unnsteinn Árnason plays the role of the bullfighter, and he easily convinces us that he can outsmart Don José. After all, Carmen's love is "the child of the moment," as I quote a line from Þorsteinn Valdimarsson's translation of the opera text, which he did for the National Theatre's performance half a century ago - and Sigríður Ella Magnúsdóttir sang unforgettably.

The Chamber Opera's production of Carmen is a delight on the small stage of Tjarnarbíó, with good singing and excellent instrumental playing. There is also lively theatre in red, black, and white. Andri Hrafn Unnarsson's costumes and set design refer directly to the opera's origins and content. The stage movements and dances that Bjartey Elín Hauksdóttir rehearsed are imbued with the erotic undertones and overtones that the music offers and the work's content requires. Íris Sveinsdóttir's hair and make-up are of Spanish origin, as befits an opera set in the Iberian Peninsula.

Perhaps the lights disturbed some of the audience at times, but I didn't notice it, and Fjölnir Gíslason was hilariously funny as the drunken cop Zuniga in his reflections on women's affairs.

After the intermission, silent video clips on a screen, accompanied by live music, made a memorable contribution to the opera, highlighting its characters and some deleted scenes. At the same time, these videos, some of which were humorous, slightly lightened the mood in an otherwise overly dramatic sequence of events.

Adolf Smári Unnarsson directs Carmen, and the staging is characterised by simplicity, proving the old adage that less is more. Adolf Smári also translated the opera's text. It is brave to follow in the footsteps of Þorsteinn Valdimarsson in that field, but I didn't hear that Adolf Smári was lacking in that regard. The conversational tone in his translation certainly suits our contemporary ears better than the poetic flight Thorstein would have.

RÚV RADIO, Trausti Ólafsson 29.03.2025

There was a time when the common image of THE ARTIST – written with capital letters – was that the artist was almost a divine being or at least in very close contact with the divine. The artist's talents were such, and far beyond what other people were born with, that they had to be supernatural. However, it is also said in old poems that the artist's amazing talents were, unfortunately, often accompanied by a particular and fatal disadvantage. Romantic artists were prone to depression and drunkenness. Then, some of the best poets fell down stairs, broke their legs in the fall, and died from these accidents, although the real cause of death was probably something else. Syphilis killed many men in the nineteenth century, but then the image of the drunken, depressed, and dying artist rose to its highest peak, as it was a romantic age with its variations. Then came the twentieth century, and other drunken poets wrote immortal poems about the dying and depressed poets of the nineteenth century. In his poem about Jónas Hallgrímsson, Jóhann Sigurjónsson used the soft, colourful death roses and the wrinkled leaves in an autumn forest as a metaphor for this ill-fated child of misfortune. Misfortune is not a kind parent, but Jóhann's words about this terror have become tenacious – so tenacious that they contain much of the subtext of the opera Brím, which is a brand new Icelandic opera which premiered at Tjarnarbíó on Thursday night, composed by Friðrik Margrétar and libretto by Adolf Smára Unnarsson. The title 'Brím' refers to the surname of the central family in the opera, a name that carries with it a legacy of both artistic brilliance and personal tragedy.

The opera Brím begins with an introduction to the situation, performed by two singers with microphones and live video. This introduction sets the stage for the audience, providing key background information about the central character, Karl Brím. We learn about his artistic prowess, his European education, and his rise to fame, all of which serve as the foundation for the opera's narrative. Along with this prequel to Karl Brím, Áslákur Ingvarsson's face appears in the role of the genius on three white surfaces on the stage, and he sings about art. Just hearing Áslákur sing melts my heart. When you add to that the sight of his face in such a close-up, Karl Brím's ironic dissection of art becomes not only unbearably funny but also so painful that you almost believe that it is the misfortune itself in his person that caused him to die and not his drinking, but as we later learn Karl Brím dies from alcoholism.

Karl Brím, like the poet Jónas from Hraun in Öxnadalur and the playwright Jóhann from Laxamýri, thought it was good to have a drink on winter evenings and even drink Icelandic Brennivín – as inappropriate as it is now when you are an international artist in Paris. But unlike Jónas and Jóhann, who had no heirs, Karl Brím had a daughter, little Nína Brím. She was fortunate because her mother, a fine embassy lady in Paris, spared no effort to ensure that she received the best art education available. Luck seems to smile on Nína when she opens her first exhibition in Amsterdam. A wealthy woman, Hrafnhildur, who owns a gallery in Reykjavík, arrives on the scene and, with golden promises of lavish champagne parties, fame, fortune and popularity, lures Nína Brím into her greedy clutches. Hanna Dóra Sturludóttir sings and plays this greedy gallery owner so brilliantly that one could believe that she has fallen into such a trap.

Little Nína Brím then begins to wonder what her exhibition in the cosmopolitan city of Reykjavík should look like – but she finds it difficult to solve the task. She realizes too late that it is too early for her to step onto the stage as an independent artist. She also learns that being called Brím can come with a significant burden. It is not a great fortune to fall into the arms of a woman like Hrafnhildur, who understands only that art must be sold – sold above all, no matter what the cost. Nína's struggle and eventual realization of the harsh realities of the art world serve as a poignant reminder of the sacrifices artists often make.

The orchestra, which is made up of only four instruments —piano, bass clarinet, harp, and percussion — plays well and is very well-organized, as far as I can see and hear. The staging of Brím is ingeniously handled by Adolf Smári Unnarsson and carefully crafted- and the same can be said for everything else, including the costumes, props, set, and lights. In my opinion, the weak link in the opera Brím is how uniform and monotonous the music becomes. I found this especially noticeable after the interval. Although the nuances in the instrumental playing were fascinating and sometimes exciting, I felt that the singers lacked a stronger Wagnerian theme and its development to build their characters on. But this is not a particular cause for concern. Friðrik Margrétar and Adolf Smári are still very young men and do not bear any signs that they are the ill-fated children of misfortune. They have probably learned long ago that works of art and the arts only arise to a small extent from talent alone. Behind art lies tireless work, perseverance, education, training – and sometimes perhaps a tiny bit of suffering. However, their youth and potential give us hope for the future of the arts. Please, as a final word, let us see and hear more later! We thirst for ambitious works of art that are at once funny, tragic, political and philosophical, like the opera about the Brim family.

Tímarit Máls & Menningar (The Journal of Culture and Literature). Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir 17.March 2025

Tjarnarbíó is currently showing a new opera, Brím, by Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson with a libretto by Adolf Smári Unnarsson, who also directs. I saw the second performance of the work last night, which premiered on March 13. The musical director is Sævar Helgi Jóhannsson, who also plays piano in a four-piece orchestra on stage. Auður Ösp Guðmundsdóttir designs the set and costumes, Magnús Thorlacius is the lighting designer, and Fjölnir Gíslason is responsible for the videos and technical implementation. The videos are live and shown simultaneously, which is pretty cool, but the drawback was that the sound and mouth movements were not quite in sync at the beginning.

The work begins with a prologue told to us by two narrators (Ólafur Freyr Birkisson and Margrét Björk Daðadóttir) as we see and hear the fateful force of the work, Karl Brím, the nation's most famous artist (Áslákur Ingvarsson) singing a melancholic aria about art and the afterlife. His song is projected onto three white walls that form the stage-design. It turns out that Karl Brím died in his forties, leaving behind his daughter Nína, then three years old. After this prologue, the work moves to the present day.

Nína Brím (Þórgunnur Anna Örnólfsdóttir) is now an adult, and at her graduation exhibition from a prestigious art school in Amsterdam, Hrafnhildur, the owner of a gallery in Iceland (Hanna Dóra Sturludóttir), offers her a solo exhibition in the fall. Nina is happy and excited, but she also sings about the fear of not meeting the demands, a fear that is mixed with a longing for the father she lost in childhood. But she is a young and beautiful woman, full of life's lust, and we get snapshots of a hot summer in Amsterdam, where her boyfriend (Þórhallur Auður Helgason) is either in or out in the cold.

At the same time, a gallery assistant, Margrét (Björk Níelsdóttir), sings about her dream of exhibiting her watercolours in the gallery. Hrafnhildur looks at her portfolio and praises – but points out that no one knows her name and she won't sell anything, so it's not worth it for the gallery to show her work. Margrét takes this harshly, and her feelings do not improve when she sees Nina Brím, this "privileged bitch” who needs nothing but her name to have the galleries of the world open to her. She watches jealously as the wealthy Benjamín (Unnsteinn Árnason) wants to buy Nína's work before the exhibition opens – he is eager to acquire the Brím name.

This story is a unique subject that offers internal and external conflicts in music and lyrics. The lyrics are written in lively, modern language, incorporating hesitations and slurs where appropriate. The music deepens and expands the conversations, broadening and promoting the drama, while being both extremely well-sung and well-acted. Hanna Dóra is an exquisite singer and interpreted this visionary marketing person with art and conviction. Her and Unnstein's duets about the purchase of the artwork were cunning and multifaceted – and Unnstein was also a convincing drunken moneylender, both in voice and movement! The duets between Hanna Dóra and Þórgunnur gained ever-increasing weight until everything finally came to a head. But the most impressive duet was between the young artists, which Björk and Þórgunnur played and sang with enchanting emotion; they both have amazing and also pleasantly different voices, one a bright soprano and the other a dramatic alto. The

Morgunblaðið, Magnús Lyndal 17.04.2025

In just under a year, I have seen three new Icelandic operas. This must be a record showcasing the growth of the opera in this country, despite the Icelandic Opera having been more or less closed since 2023 and the Parliament still discussing the possible establishment of a National Opera. Then there are the numerous entertaining performances by the performing arts group Óður in recent years, as well as the Chamber Opera'sOpera's recent adaptation of The Marriage of Figaro (the list, of course, is not exhaustive). There is no need to hide the fact that the grassroots opera scene is strong and needs to be built on.

Brím is the second opera that Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson and Adolf Smári Unnarsson have written together, but Nothing is more tragic than a human being premiered in 2020. The subject of Brím is immortal art, power and nepotism. The story revolves around Nína Brím, who, after graduating from a prestigious art school in Amsterdam, receives an invitation to hold a solo exhibition in a well-known gallery back home in Iceland. Nína is the only daughter of Karl Brím, one of the nation's most famous artists from the second half of the 20th century. However, immediately after the opening, she begins to wonder: What is on display, and for whom?

Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson's music is minimalist, built on repetitions in the singers' relatively narrow vocal range (with exceptions, though), and Adolf Smári Unnarsson's text is both clever and hilarious at times. The text delivery was also precise at the performance I saw in Tjarnarbíó.

Brím was also mostly well sung, and I would especially like to mention Þórgunn Anna Örnólfsdóttir (Nína Brím), Björk Níelsdóttir (Margrét) and Hánna Dóra Sturludóttir (Hrafnhildur). Vocally, the work is also well composed (it is "easily sung"), and the singers also performed their roles well in terms of acting (especially Björk Níelsdóttir, but her role is perhaps the only connection to reality in the work).

The instrumental arrangement was also innovative: a quartet consisting of piano, harp, bass clarinet and percussion. The performance was convincing and original. The hall in Tjarnarbíó is not large, but a lot was accomplished with a limited budget. The walls of the gallery were also used for video art, so to speak, serving as a "live broadcast" of the events unfolding in the work. Perhaps too much was projected, and at times, sound and image did not align. The rest of the work was minimalist and simple (in keeping with the music), including the costumes.

The three new Icelandic operas this season are quite different works. As far as contemporary music is concerned, however, all three composers do a good job of dealing with the operatic form. Any news of its death is very premature!

Lestrarklefinn – Díana Sjöfn 31.July 2024

Díana Sjöfn and I went to Háskólabíó, which now houses the theatre Afturámóti. According to the founders, Afturámóti is a performing arts house that maintains a space for artistic creation, performances, and new production. They aim to create a platform for new generations of theatre artists to experiment within the field. It's fantastic news! The founders are Höskuldur Jónsson, Ingi Þór Þórhallsson and Kristján Óli Haraldsson. Máni Huginsson is the organisational manager, and Karla Kristjánsdóttir is the stage manager, but they are also in charge of production.

Under the city, under the skin

The first play we watched in the Afturámóti summer theatre was Undir by Adolf Smári Unnarsson: five actors, five microphones and five chairs on the stage. The actors hesitate before speaking and try to remember something, but it doesn't seem easy – maybe the hesitation is fear. Fjölnir Gíslason suddenly raises his voice. His character is an actor who tells the audience how he always wanted to play a hero. Then, the character of Berglind Halla Elíasdóttir takes the floor and tells the audience why she decided to become a doctor. Björk Guðmundsdóttir plays a businesswoman who is dying from individualism and stress. The doctor's husband, played by Jökull Smári, only wants to relax on his vacation. A young girl, played by Vigdís Halla Birgisdóttir, tells us about her grandmother. How are these characters related to each other? They all have one thing in common: They were all in a metro station when someone fell onto the tracks. Then they tried, or didn't try, to save him. They recall this challenging event, but everyone remembers it differently.

Social review

In such an ensemble work, there is a danger of piling up stereotypes, but Adolf Smári manages to avoid it. Instead, we get a deep character dive in a short piece. Tragic situations are painted coherently yet comically, and we get to make fun of ourselves by mirroring ourselves in the characters. The themes are various: Individualism, the problem of homelessness, tourism, Icelandic theatre, idolatry and lust, relationships and how shallow our compassion is. These are all themes that appear in this 70-minute work. The work's presentation is suitable, the text is realistic and revealing, and the script is tightly packed to present a clear and entertaining picture of five distinct individuals. Adolf Smári uses light and video to frame the work successfully. The cinema screen is used amusingly to count down the minutes and create a tense atmosphere, and microphones and chairs are enough props to drive the material nicely.

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The costumes are well executed. Although they seem low-key, various details in style and clothing underline and complete the overall image of the characters. We can mention the doctor's outfit, which shows her personality. The way her partner wears a Gucci belt in a style only because of the girlfriend's influence – compared to the rest of his clothing – says so many things about their relationship. Also, the clothes of the girl testifying for her grandmother are well made because they work for both a shy young woman and an old grandmother since they both live in the actress's body. Fjölnir's clothes are precisely those for someone who refuses to admit that he is middle-aged. Björk seems to be in such an uncomfortable outfit that it is inevitable that she will get nervous as she tries to catch her breath through her buttoned jacket.

Comic presentation

Overall, Undir is extraordinary and robust work. It is reasonably long and fun and flows well. The actors are superb, Björk is really funny, and the audience laughs a lot at her character. No actor overacts or falls into stereotypical behaviour, but there is depth in all of them. The medical couple is like a well-written sketch from a comedy show that breaks up the tension. Perhaps you could say that it took a while for the actors to really get going, but within a few minutes, the energy level was very cool, and their playing was stunning.

An exciting twist was having a character enter as a witness advocate, not witnessing the event. It offered another layer to the narrative and the story because the young woman brings an outside perspective. Still, at the same time, she is playing her grandmother in the situation, so she has two eyes on events. The dream of the grandmother collapsing (a little reminiscent of the article about good grandmothers in the context of immigration) is also a strong core of the work. It shows particularly well how multifaceted the person is – a good grandmother to her little girl, but then she talks about homeless people as disgusting. Everyone struggles to protect themselves or rather to protect the idea of ​​themselves as a good person.

The work is an ethical study that pushes the audience to ask themselves challenging questions. The way characters tell lies, embellish their picture of events, embellish themselves and disagree about the course of events is really interesting and invites speculation as to whether any of what they say is actually true. What happened on the runway?

Morgunblaðið – Þorgeir Tryggvason 02.August 2024

My feeling is that moral pinch plays have pretty much fallen out of fashion since Arthur Miller wrote "The Fee" and Magnus Dahlström's "The Log Cutter." We have become so ironic; the theatre has become so post-dramatic and more concerned with identity and state of mind than with ways of living together and sharing moral values or arguing about them.

Adolf Smári Unnarsson's latest play is nevertheless part of this old tradition, where the stage is used as a kind of laboratory, and a moral dilemma is placed in the way of several characters with different backgrounds, situations, missions and values.

We are on the platform of a metro station. Or rather: we are in a theater where five characters recall dramatic minutes at the station and defend their decisions to the audience and to each other. The occasion is when a homeless man lays down on the tracks, apparently with suicide in mind. What to do, and who to save him? Is it the young career woman on her way to a job interview (Björk Guðmundsdóttir)? Or the reckless actor (Fjölnir Gíslason)? Maybe the older woman who has sent her granddaughter in her place to the questioning (Vigdís Halla Birgisdóttir)? Was it possible to ask the confused tourist couple who did not understand anything (Berglind Halla Elíasdóttir and Jökull Smári Jakobsson) to help, especially given that she is a doctor?

As the form requires, the puzzle turns out to be more difficult to complete. Each points at the other with various excuses; none of them has the heart to let this incident ruin their plans for the day. The result is a well-woven and sometimes quite comical portrait of ordinary people acting in a critical moment.

The actors paint a pretty straightforward and funny picture of these types and their dilemmas—so clear and humorous that you thirst for more from the text and plot – a deeper look at the forces that drive people in these situations, a clearer position, more compelling reasons for each to not act, a more powerful presentation of them, and more crunching conflict. Nevertheless, it is a well-formed work, sometimes poignant, more often funny, and well-presented in a simple arrangement that puts all the responsibility on the actors, and they fully support it, given the limitations of the material.

Undir is the first show I've seen at the brand new theatre in Háskólabíó, which seems to be buzzing with life in the coming weeks and months thanks to the powerful entrepreneurs who launched it. You can't help but admire the passion, wish Afturámóti's relatives happiness, and encourage them to do more.

T.M.M. (The Journal of Literature and Arts) – Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir 19.July 2024.

Anna Karenina, the protagonist of Tolstoy's novel of the same name, is probably the most famous (literary) character to die by throwing herself in front of a train, but her example has been followed by many, both in literature and in real life. Last night, a new play by Adolf SmárI Unnarsson, Undir, premiered at Afturámóti in Háskólabíó, which revolves around such a case. Magnús Thorlacius is in charge of lighting and technical designs, the music is by Ronja Jóhannsdóttir, while Júlía Gunnarsdóttir dressed the characters in especially appropriate clothing. Adolf Smári directs his own work.

We do not see the event itself, not even on the video that shows snapshots of the environment where it takes place, but we listen to five characters recounting it afterwards, each from their point of view. They are far from agreeing on precisely what happened – what each of them said and did and when – but the basics are apparent. They are all waiting for a train at an underground station in an un-named city when they each become aware that an ill-mannered homeless man has laid down on the tracks just before the train is due to arrive. The older woman who first noticed the man and tried to draw the others' attention to him is not included in the discussion about the incident, she has sent her granddaughter (Vigdís Halla Birgisdóttir) with a written description of how she experienced it. (The granddaughter sometimes adds to that description as she feels that the other people have not done a good enough job.)

The first to respond to the grandmother's cries and calls are an Actor (Fjölnir Gíslason) and a Business-Woman on her way to a job interview (Björk Guðmundsdóttir), who both avoid responsibility, although the Actor eventually makes a feeble attempt to call the police. The next to react are two tourists who are coming from visiting a nearby palace, the Doctor (Berglind Halla Elíasdóttir) and her husband (Jökull Smári Jakobsson – who wishes he rather be on a sunny beach .) They do not speak the language of the natives and try to make themselves understood by other methods; the author makes good use of this joke.

We gradually get to know all these people, their mindsets and expectations for life. These are, of course, quite typical people, busy with themselves and not ready to risk their lives for a rather unattractive stranger. The dialogues are rich and revealing, mercilessly revealing the characters' inner selves, and the actors put them to good use. But when it comes down to it, the group turns out to be quite monochromatic despite their different backgrounds, positions and jobs, at least they all lack neighborly love. Adolf Smári spreads the bitterness in this truth by emphasizing the humour of the conversations, playing with power and excitement rather than the weight of the material; it makes the work colder than the text necessarily suggests. But this is an interesting show that concerns us here and now. Is there a Good Samaritan in the group?

Adolf Smári follows his play Nokkur Augnablik um nótt, which the National Theater of Iceland showed last year and RÚV recorded for television. Theatre enthusiasts will enjoy comparing these works and seeing the two actors from Kannibalen that Adolf directed in Tjarnarbíó – in other, less outrageously provocative roles.

RÚV RADIO, Katla Ársælsdóttir, 18.October 2024.

UNDER by Adolf Smára Unnarsson, which he both writes and directs, re-premièred in Tjarnarbíó recently – but the play was first shown under the banner Afturámóti in Háskólabíó. The play takes place in a subway station in an unnamed city in an unidentified country, where five unnamed people are waiting for the next train. They are all at the station on different missions: tourists who need to return to their hotel, an actor on his way to work, and another person going to a job interview.

That morning, everything seems to be going as usual at this filthy train station until the characters start to notice that a man, who just before laid down on one of the benches, is now lying on the train tracks and only a few minutes to the next train. From then on, we see how the characters handle this difficult situation and grapple with their own moral dilemmas. The work travels in time, from when the sequence of events began to an undetermined time in the future when they are reunited in the theatre to tell what happened.

One character stands out: Vigdís Halla Birgisdóttir's character, who plays her grandmother. She was not at the train station with the others but is there to report her grandmother's perspective on the event.

It causes a certain misunderstanding among the other people why Vigdís Halla's character is in the theatre, and it was interesting to watch her try to understand the sequence of events and her grandmother's part in it. The character is very close to her grandmother and, therefore, has specific ideas about what happened based on how she experiences her grandmother. Consequently, she has a hard time accepting it when it turns out her grandmother did not react in the same way the character assumed. This struggle to understand and accept adds a layer of empathy to the character's journey.

The time within the work moves in a certain spiral, repetitions and cycles are dominant in the narrative style, but the audience always gets more information about the characters and the events. The characters constantly break the fourth wall as they talk to the audience. They must face themselves and decide how to deal with the event. By telling the audience from their point of view, they seek some form of atonement for their actions with us in the audience, or rather their inaction. This quest for atonement involves the audience in the play's resolution, making them feel more connected to the characters.

Fjölnir Gíslason, who plays an actor on his way to work, runs off the stage and ends up with a microphone in the audience hall and a spotlight as he gives an impressive monologue to the audience. By moving out into the hall, he further promotes the feeling that we sitting in the hall are part of the work. Also, the lights are on in the auditorium throughout the piece, further encouraging audience participation as they cannot hide in the darkness that theatregoers are used to.

When the audience first walks into the hall, the actors sit side by side at the front of the stage with a microphone and take turns to say hesitant words. None know who or how to begin this complex and difficult narrative. Fjölnis Gíslason's character starts talking briefly about himself, and the other characters do the same. In this way, the audience gets a micro-introduction to the characters that helps them understand the characters' behaviour and reactions as the play progresses.

The progress is slow and dramatic, but this is the nature of the narrative style. Nevertheless, this reviewer sometimes felt the text was too repetitive. At several points in the play, a video is shown on a large screen behind the actors. It is a breakdown and indicates that a new cycle is beginning. The video, which consists of small clips of a metro station, did this unnamed station an excellent job. Still, the reviewer wonders if changing the footage throughout the piece would have helped with the interpretation and progression within instead of repeating the same fragments repeatedly.

The characterization is good, but I would have liked to get to know the characters even better. The work brings up interesting ideas about social responsibility and how we face ourselves. With a minimal set design and minimal use of props, the focus is on the text, which describes the tense scenario in a vivid and fascinating manner.

Hugrás - online zine of the Faculty of Humanities, University of Iceland – Dagný Kristjánsdóttir, feb 16.2024

Guðrún Steinthórsdóttir and I saw the Danish play Kannibalen in a packed Tjarnarbíó. The piece's popularity is understandable. It's provocative, shocking, and different from anything else that's been on the scene for a long time.

The work is based on actual events (2001) in which the German computer scientist Armin Meywes advertised on the Internet, specifically on a forum for cannibal enthusiasts, for a young, bulky man in his thirties who wanted to be slaughtered and eaten. Many people answered the ad and volunteered, but he chose Berndt Jürgen, a successful engineer in a good relationship with a nice man who only wanted to be eaten, preferably alive. They talked for a long time online and prepared the act together. Every detail was planned and arranged between them.

In the Tjarnarbíós performance, Armin Meywes is played by Fjölnir Gíslasson and Berndt Jürgen by Jökull Smári Jakobsson. They both play their roles very well. Gradually, the audience is drawn into a sequence of events where we get to know each of their beliefs. Berndt/Jökull Smári is nervous at the beginning, cold and callous, and wants to "hurry it up", but Armin/Fjölnir wants to follow the rules they have set and "enjoy" the action. In both persons, there turns out to be a void in the soul where a mother's love should have been, a longing and a hunger that both believe can only be cured through complete fusion with another person who wants the same. And once this dream is followed, there is no turning back.

Ordinary and reasonably sane people like Guðrún and all those who filled Tjarnarbíó do not understand the sick mentality behind such an act and even less the horror that comes with carrying it out. For once, the ban on cannibalism separates humans from (other) animals. Ignoring this taboo is tantamount to renouncing one's own species, and even where that line is crossed in primitive rituals or extreme famine, it is never taken for granted.

The author of Kannibalen is the Danish author Johannes Lilleøre, an actor and writer. He calls his work "a love story." The interaction between Meiwes and Jürgen in the play gradually reveals that their loneliness and the illusion that drives them both are strong and insurmountable and perhaps tragic and romantic.

But one thing is sure: this show (unfortunately) does not leave the viewer's mind as soon as they leave the theatre, but continues to disturb you!

Adolf Smári Unnarsson and Júlía Gunnarsdóttir translated the play into Icelandic. Adolf Smári directed it, and Júlía was in charge of costumes. Ronja Jóhannsdóttir was in charge of the music. Lighting in the piece was the work of Magnús Thorlacius, precise and minimalistic; the moving close-ups of the dying Berndt projected onto the black background of the stage were almost unbearable.

Well done Tjarnarbío!

Morgunblaðið (The Daily Paper) – Silja Björk Huldudóttir, 18.jan 2024

Cannibalism has been featured prominently in the magazine's pages recently, with several recent works of art focusing on this societal taboo. Before Christmas, Bragi Páll Sigurðarson released the novel "Meat", which offered a juicy story about an artist whose last performance in his career involves being eaten. At the beginning of the year, the book "Blood and Blood - A History of cannibalism" by the historian Reay Tannahill was published in an Icelandic translation, where the author traces the history of cannibalism from ancient times to the present, including the human sacrifices of various religions. On closer inspection, the culture is full of stories about cannibalism. For example, in Stephen Sondheim's 1979 musical "Sweeney Todd," Mrs Lovett benefits from the murderous barber, who provides her with the finest ingredients for her meat pies, which sell like hot cakes – and in the exceptionally bloody 16th century the tragedy of Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare has the title character avenge the rape of his daughter by manipulating the mother of the two rapists into eating her sons. And who doesn't recognize Grýla, who has something in common with the witch in the story of Hansel and Gretel who eats children.

Although cannibalism has accompanied humanity since the dawn of time, it is fortunately not a widespread practice. Thus, in most people's minds, human dignity seems to extend beyond death, and few think of grabbing a bite to eat from morgues. The Danish play "Kannibalen" (2022) by Johannes Lilleøre, directed by Adolf Smári Unnarsson, which premiered in Tjarnarbíó in the middle of last month, focuses on contemporary cannibalism – because the play is based on actual events that took place in the German city of Rotenburg in 2001. The play is about Armin Meiwes, who dreamed of eating another person - but only if the victim agreed to such plans. Meiwes found a willing target in Bernd-Jürgen Brandes, who dreamed of being eaten. The two men met on the web, and after some conversation, they decided to meet in real life to make these desires a reality. They recorded the activity on video, which was used in the trial of Meiwes when he was prosecuted and convicted for the murder of Brandes. The play's text is characterized by realistic and graphic descriptions of what happened in the Meiwes household almost a quarter of a century ago. For example, the audience gets to hear how Meiwes cuts off Brandes' penis and cooks it for them. Although Brandes's blood gushes, the moment of death drags on with the increasing nervousness of the cannibal. At the last moment, the victim, who, until then, motivated his executioner to act either with mockery or threats, seems to want to stop dying, which undeniably spoils Meiwes's plans but reminds us how incredibly strong the will to live can be.

Both men seem to have made unrealistic and beautiful ideas about what was to happen, which were quickly washed ashore when reality took over. In the same way, the sexual undertone at the beginning of the work, which appears in the kisses of the two men when they have just met for the first (and indeed only) time in the real world – and when they eat the private parts of Brandes, disappears, as if a hand is waved back from the production. As the director pointed out in an interview with Morgunblaðið on the eve of the premiere, the relationship between the two men can easily be seen as accepted violence. From the beginning, the victim seems to be directing the executioner; thus, the author puts a question mark on who the real perpetrator is and who the victim is in the action. However, Brandes control over the situation rapidly erodes in proportion to the blood loss.

The director has chosen not to pursue the realistic tone of the playtext, but to work intentionally against it, knowing that the imagination is always stronger than all the theatre's supply of artificial blood. The actors Fjölnir Gíslason and Jökull Smári Jakobsson await the audience when they enter the hall and, at the beginning, seem to be reading the play with their scripts resting on music stands. The scripts are also used to remind the audience of the agreement the two men made with each other beforehand. Although the manuscripts are quickly put aside, a specific reading tone remains over the narration. Microphones and projectors are a prominent part of the set and constantly remind us that we are in a theater. In the spirit of real events, video cameras are also used considerably in the staging. At the same time, the lighting is used in a creative way to create mood, whether it is to capture the light that falls when a freezer is opened or the flash of a news photographer. However, it is most effective when the light goes out entirely in conjunction with the moment when Brandes blacks out due to the trauma of his body losing a limb – the darkness amplifies the audience's internal images of what reaches his ears.

Fjölnir was believable in his role as Meiwes and portrayed his pain well, making the audience sympathize with the cannibal. Jökull Smári easily conveyed Brandes' initial dominance and, subsequently, his desperation as the fateful night unfolded. Alongside Brandes, he took on various roles, i.e., the neighbour of Meiwes, a police officer, a lawyer, and Brandes' roommate, and managed to create clear characters in a few strokes.

At the premiere, theatregoers often laughed nervously when witty remarks came from characters' mouths and as the show took on an increasingly unreal tone. This reaction was a good reminder that there is no such thing as a normal response to an abnormal situation.

Lilleøre tries to walk a fine line between making a judgment on a real and very unsettling violence – and understanding what happened to the two men. What makes a person want to be eaten? Meiwes and Brandes both seem to be marked by childhood traumas related to their mothers. It serves the play well, but of course trauma doesn't automatically turn people into murderers or fill them with self-loathing and delusions. Meiwes, in his distortion, seems to think that cannibalism is the best way to deal with his loneliness because he believes that by eating his friends, they will always be a part of him. This is an mesmerising study that will easily leave the audience with a bad taste in their mouths.

Tímarit Máls & Menningar (The Journal of Culture and Literature). Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir 19.January 2024

The play that premiered in Tjarnarbíó last night under the direction of Adolf Smári Unnarsson is not exactly comfortable to watch and listen to. I would have found it difficult to imagine ever having to take a stand on such an unlikely event as cannibalism in a match. But the Danish award-winning work Kannibalen by Johannes Lilleøre from 2022 still deals with exactly that topic. And it's even "based on true events," according to the theatre's promo. Adolf Smári and Júlía Gunnarsdóttir translate the play.

It tells the story of two uncontrollably unhappy people with unique but serious mental disorders. Computer scientist Armin Meiwes (Fjölnir Gíslason) had a miserable childhood in a huge house with a mother who her husband and older son had abandoned. Armin also leaves her to join the army but comes home to take care of her after a car accident. She oppresses him mentally and physically, and he is glad when she dies but lives in constant longing to be reunited with someone who won't leave him. He develops the compulsion that if he can eat another person, he will gain a friend who will never betray him.

After a long search on the Internet, he finds the engineer Bernd-Jürgen (Jökull Smári Jakobsson), who, for his part, longs to be eaten. They meet at Armin's house. To his irritation, Bernd is ten years older than he pretended to be online and too old for Armin. Bernd also has a sad past that won't leave him alone, and he longs to die.

After a rough start, they share the first bite of Bernd between them, and after that, Bernd is supposed to die quickly—but it gets out of hand. Death is not kind this time. He comes eventually, though. The aftermath will be long and historical, although we will not go into it here. The scene is more powerful than words.

It's really disgusting stuff that the text does its best to describe accurately. However, for consideration of the audience, the director purposefully reduces the drama through various means. Fjölnir and Jökull narrate rather than act out, so we don't immerse ourselves in the events - except when Jökul's face is projected oversized on the back wall. Then, detaching from what was acted on stage wasn't easy. Likewise, Magnús Thorlacius used the lighting purposefully not to show the worst but to allow the audience's imagination to take over. It was quite effective. Ronja Jóhannsdóttir's music thoroughly fueled our darkest ideas while sitting in the hall, dark and scary.

It was strangely appropriate to choose Jökul Smára for the role of Bernd-Jürgen. In Icelandic folklore, it is said that red-haired boys are particularly good at baiting, and Jökull has a beautiful red mane. He also plays the role well as he is allowed to, and his cried-out face on the back wall, dull eyes and mouth portray the feeling of drifting out of this life poignantly well. Fjölnir was even more muted in his role, but the type was just right. Jökull played the role of other characters – the neighbour (who is very fond of Armin), the lawyer, the prosecutor and the psychologist – and did it well.

It's hard to encourage people to see this show because of the high vibe of the material, but I suggest that such a work is not likely to come across your shores any time soon, dear theatre lovers. So it's now or never!

Heimildin – Sigríður Jónsdóttir 09. febrúar 2024

"Hey, I'm looking for a young bulky man to butcher." He should be between 18 and 30 years old. Those interested should not hesitate to get in touch. I'm hungry. Franky."

This post appeared on the Internet on December 29, 2000. Many indulge themselves and let their fantasies wander under the cover of anonymity on web forums without carrying out their intentions—but this time, there was seriousness behind the message. Two German men find each other and decide to fulfil their deepest and darkest desires.

The Danish play Kannibalen by Johannes Lilleøre is based on terrifying and actual events when the Internet was about to take over the world and transform how humanity communicates. On the surface, Kannibalen is about cannibalism and murder, but in reality, it is about devastating depression and loneliness. The desperation of the two men in search of liberation brings them together. One wants to destroy himself, and the other wants to unite with another person. One wants to be eaten, and the other wants to eat another person. Lilleøre mixes fiction and documentary theatre to investigate the possible reasons that can lie behind an event that seems completely incomprehensible. The author succeeds best when he focuses the microscope on the eve of the meeting, the fateful day and the hours after the first act of violence is committed. Time seems relative when the two men meet. Their past, present and future blend like blood and bathwater on a tiled floor. They make awkward attempts to talk before starting, but making fantasies come true is sometimes complicated; we cannot escape human frailty.

The audience is encouraged to challenge themselves.

The translation is in the hands of Adolf Smára Unnarsson, the show's director, and Júlía Gunnarsdóttir, who succeeds well, but the flow of the text is blocked in individual scenes. Likewise, the writer fails in the second half, which is relatively short, when other people are taken into this world. Adolf Smári finds other theatrical solutions to the text and the situation than to recreate some reality; instead, it is rejected. The men stand alone, facing each other, facing the world in a dark, unclear space with nothing but a microphone and a film camera to make their mark.

Fjölnir Gíslason and Jökull Smári Jakobsson play the two men, as well as other characters. Both are taking their first steps on the professional stage, but Jökull has been prominent in independent theatre shows recently. The raw environment of the show is challenging because both are entirely exposed. They have memorable moments, especially when they meet at the country house. Jökull shows more emotional breadth and confidence, but Fjölnir's acting is exceptionally effective in the scene when the cannibal discovers that maybe he hadn't thought this all through.

Composer Ronja Jóhannsdóttir is a new name in the theatre, and her work is promising. Harsh electric tones crunch under the show and penetrate the nervous system. It is necessary to talk about the involvement of Magnús Thorlacius, who is in charge of lighting design and other technical implementations. The lighting and use of lighting are among the best he has done, raw and isolating. As with other works shown in Tjarnarbíó, the performance time of Kannibalen is short. Despite its shortcomings, viewers are encouraged to challenge themselves, buy tickets, and reevaluate preconceived notions about this horrific event and the men carrying out the deed. Kannibalen highlights that not much of human nature is what it first seems. The playwright raises intriguing questions about the nature of acceptance and how far we are willing to go to connect to others.

Conclusion: It is an intriguing show about human tragedy

RÚV (RADIO) – Nína Hjálmarsdóttir, 2. February 2024

In their book Anti-Oedipus, Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari criticize Freud's psychoanalysis and the idea that desire, in the grand scheme of things, can be explained in the clear triangle of the Oedipus complex, in our mommy and daddy desires. To summarize, they present and analyze how schizophrenia, or what they call schizoanalysis in English, can be seen as an opposition to capitalism. Capitalism is the system that permeates our existence and is the universal machine that captures our desires. However, the split analysis and how it defines desire is a model for how we could have a more accessible and more creative way of thinking, free from hierarchy and forms. Deleuze & Guattari argue how the desire of the schizophrenic constantly paints outside the lines and how impossible it is to capture its meaning or prepare a statistic about it that capitalism can use to create needs or desires for the patient. This free-flowing desire is too slippery to stay still.

The ideas of Deleuze & Guattari were recalled to me last weekend while I watched, or rather experienced with all the senses, the work Kannibalen in Tjarnarbíó. Namely, the work deals with a desire that falls outside of what is considered moral in the social contract, the urge to eat another person and, to the same extent, the desire to be eaten yourself. The play is by the Danish playwright Johannes Lilleøre. It premiered in 2022 at Det Kongelige Teater in Copenhagen and was chosen play of the year at the Danish Theater Awards. It is based, very accurately, on a real-life cannibalism that took place in Germany in 2001 when computer scientist Armin Meiwes killed, chopped up and ate engineer Bernd-Jürgen Armando Brandes. What turned out to be a twist in the courtroom was that the victim, Bernd-Jürgen, gave his full consent to these gruesome acts – as was seen in a video recording of the act. After the police arrested Armin, it was revealed that despite being diagnosed with schizophrenia, he was fully aware of his actions. Armin, who now serves life in prison, however, swore that he would never have done this except because Bernd-Jürgen wished to be killed and eaten.

Júlía Gunnarsdóttir translates the play nicely into Icelandic with Adolf Smári Unnarsson, who also directs the show. The script is of such a nature, as is the direction, that it tries to reduce the dramatic involvement of the audience by having the characters tell the audience a story rather than us seeing the story unfold on stage. Adolf Smári gets the actors to use lights, cameras, and microphones to make more distinctions between scenes. Magnús Thorlacius' gloomy lighting emphasizes the atmosphere in each scene individually but also gives a sense of the unnatural world from which the characters speak. Ronja Jóhannsdóttir is an exciting composer who is thrilling to hear in this context, and her music gets a good place in the show, with cold and raw sounds that penetrate the skin and amplify the chills accompanying this terrifying subject. Therefore, the framing of the piece works with the direction of letting the viewer's imagination take over as the characters describe the scenario to us. Instead of dramatically living the events on stage, we see them vividly in our imagination.

Fjölnir Gíslason plays Armin Meiwes, the man who never received love and security and, therefore, has to deal with the particular urge of wanting to eat another person and unite with them. I haven't seen Fjölnir on stage before, so I remember. Still, he is certainly memorable and manages to bring out a pretty nuanced interpretation of this repressed man and evoke sympathy from the audience. He does this even though the script does not give him much to work on, both because of the content's incoherence and the style that puts the actor in the role of narrator, which spoils the audience's ability to see the character develop in the work. Jökull Smári Jakobsson is a charming actor with a unique stage presence, but he attracted well-deserved attention for his role in the show "Eyja" last fall. Jökull makes the scenes where Bernd-Jürgen is dying a slow death especially effective as we see his face projected over the entire back wall of the stage. He succeeds in bringing the character of Bernd-Jürgen to life even though it is written rather vaguely and is full of contradictions, but the audience never gets to know what his driving force is for getting eaten.

Honestly, I couldn't pay as much attention to every detail of the show as usual because I was disgusted. Right after the show started, the first graphic descriptions of the text came vividly to me. I began to feel dizzy and break out into a cold sweat, and I thought I was passing out. Fortunately, I recovered quickly and breathed my way through the show, even laughing at some of the jokes that hit the mark, a testament to the actors' good comedic timing. It was a small consolation to see that I wasn't the only one who suffered, but quite a few audience members had to leave the hall in disgust. I can imagine this being a show for people who binge-listen to crime podcasts, which is no doubt a good recreation but can quickly turn into voyeurism, addictive consumption, or a desire to be entertained by the gruesome stories of real victims and criminals.

Reading over the script makes it easier to spot the style seen in how the characters alternate between being in the role of narrator, telling what happened, and being inside the sequence of events. It makes it difficult for the audience to relate to the story. However, what stands in the way of the play is that it is based on real people and focuses too much on the facts about them and this case. The playwright hardly gets, or hardly gives himself, the freedom to draw his conclusions about the inner lives of these men or allow the audience to understand them a little better, to understand their desires better. Adolf Smári's direction also fails to fill in these gaps. Instead, the show is full of contradictions, like when Bernd-Jürgen is sweet one moment as he tries to seduce Armin, but barely a moment later, he's cold and hateful. He is a mystery to the audience throughout, which is a shame because there is hardly a more juicy material than someone who longs to be eaten.

According to the German police, thousands of people enjoy cannibalism – up to ten thousand people even, and that's only in Germany. If we come back to Deleuze & Guattari and their ideas about desire, which is not defined in terms of lack as in Freud, but as a creative force, then I felt that their theories corresponded to the question I asked myself again and again while watching Kannibalen; Why is this a crime? What makes the show interesting is the issue it is based on – where two people decide with full consent that one shall eat the other; and how it dances outside the social choreography, paints outside the lines. There are moral questions that don't fit in the fixed structures we have created. This crisis

became evident when the case hit the world news in 2002. This play does little to deepen this crisis, add anything to it or remove any layers from it - instead, it does little more than use the stories of these real people to shock the audience. It capitalizes on the public's curiosity for true crime and anticipation of disgust and doesn't offer much original content in return.

Fréttablaðið – Sigríður Jónsdóttir, sept 16.2020.

We live. We die. We travel to holiday resorts despite a worldwide pandemic, global warming, and other catastrophes, just to feel better between scenes. To make sure that our sorrow won’t get overwhelming. This contemporary opera and performance premiered in Tjarnarbíó a short while ago, and the piece is not only a pleasant surprise - it sets the bar high for the theater year to come. Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson’s music is characterized by ambitious minimalism. Live music is chosen above recordings and the quintet is an integral part of the experience. Repetition plays a big role in the music, along with playful experimentation. The production captures a state of mind, divided into phases, rather than revolving around a plot. Adolf Smári Unnarsson writes the texts and directs. His texts are both witty and grimly humorous as Adolf mostly manages to avoid the tedious sarcasm sometimes found in recent social commentary. His direction is clear, which serves both the piece and the singers, yet the yoga choir takes too long.

An ideal artificial world

The singers Dagur Þorgrímsson, Heiðdís Hanna Sigurðardóttir, María Sól Ingólfsdóttir, and Ólafur Freyr Birkisson form the cast. Each bringing their unique flavor to the production. Each getting a chance to shine. Their harmony is particularly good, filled with humor. The singing is remarkable as well as their pronunciation, which makes the words dance. Their physical performance, especially their disinterested facial expression throughout, is exceptional and often hilarious. The figures on stage are dressed in well-curated clothes from popular labels, which the buyers think make them unique, but instead make everyone the same. Pastels, white sneakers, fun blouses and trousers. All identical. All identical. Bryndís Ósk Þ. Ingvarsdóttir finds a simple manifestation for her aesthetics, which reaches an artistic crescendo in the production’s final scene, the ideal artificial world. In the end, we are nothing more than showpieces.

An oasis in the desert

Hafliði Emil Barðason’s cold lighting fits the production like a glove, straightforward but impactful. Too bright to be warm, too grey to spark joy. Elmar Þórarinsson’s video work is also a good fit, but the screen could have been a few inches larger, to give the images of computer-generated nature and electronic snowflakes space. Nothing is more tragic than the human being is an oasis in the desert, especially in these most recent and peculiar times. Fires rage, the world grows warmer, democracies fall. But deep inside, the human being craves happiness and to pretend that nothing is wrong. Because the world won’t end with a bang, but a whimper.

Conclusion:

A riveting journey in summer flats through existence’s vale of tears.

Morgunblaðið – Þorgeir Tryggvason, september 17 2020.

Quiet but comic desperation of everyday might not be the first topic that comes to mind, thinking of operas. But why not, though? Why should the bloated epic dramas of the 19th-century control how we think about the form, as we don’t consider that period and its traditions when looking at other areas of the performing arts. Even so, it is a fact that of all the performative arts, opera is the most rigid. It is plagued by arthritis, obesity, and osteoporosis. Kept alive by the ever graying upper class, in the opera reservations where the same old, safe works are regularly highlighted as in a museum or a zoo.

Still, there is a sign of life outside the reservation. Actually, it stems partly from the tension between form and tradition VS the subject matters the new generation chooses to address. That is why waves of laughter went through Tjarnarbíó’s audience as the four somber holiday-makers sang with mechanical gusto: “Dining out / drinking wine / Laugh out loud / Be on cloud nine” and other riveting lines. It can not be said that the composer Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson or the librettist and director Adolf Smári Unnarsson were strictly working with that tension. There was hardly a trace of parody to be found, beyond that which will always look silly to everyone not fully initiated into the world of opera: that people are singing what could easily be said. And indeed, the giggles ebbed out gradually. It is not a stretch to think that people might at times have been bored with the stalling, the monotony, and the repetition that are the fundamentals of the work's aesthetics. Although some did burst out laughing as the lengthy series of exercises started up for the third time, but no one laughed as it kept on for the sixth time. Wagner isn’t alone in testing people’s patience. He can also be giggled at.

There are no especially new or groundbreaking things on offer in Nothing is more tragic than the human being per se. The young generation’s satirical surrender to what awaits them on their journey through life in these latest and darkest times is both understandable, well-known and maybe rather dull fuel for an artwork. Empty cliches of school and work counselors, yoga teachers, and relaxation gurus express little more than their own meaninglessness, comical as they are. There were not many attempts made to mislead, deepen or parody these messages, beyond what comes with singing them or performing them in spoken unison. The strongest scene, the one with the strongest message, was probably the choir part where the text “Everyone is doing their very best” was sung as the TV showed apocalyptic images of smoldering fire.

What stays with me the most after the show, was the whole group’s superbly polished control. It starts with the material itself. Friðrik has composed music that's particularly easy on the ears, under a strong minimalistic influence, where one works thoroughly with two tasteful interchanging musical harmonies where the variety comes first and foremost through slow chaotic beats. Fantastic work was done with the shades of instruments on offer, and extra points for inviting the accordion into a small traditional chamber orchestra. The accordion provided considerable fullness and fun effects, along with blending in seamlessly with both wind and string instruments. The musicians’ and singers’ performance was quite flawless and tasteful work was done with amplification. Pronunciation was all around particularly good; more meaningful lyrics have oftentimes gotten less care from Icelandic singers. There is nothing specific to be said about any one singer per se, which in itself provokes the star culture rife in the opera world, but Dagur Þorgrímsson, Heiðdís Hanna Sigurðardóttir, María Sól Ingólfsdóttir, and Ólafur Freyr Birkisson delivered theirs flawlessly, which must count as the biggest virtue in the production’s world and its objective. Adolf Smári’s staging is another element where total control gets to shine. The work is choreographed down to the tiniest detail, the movements are strictly disciplined and that discipline never challenged. Characterization, interaction, and contact with the audience are elements that are completely boycotted, and even if they might be missed, with benefits of a more relaxed approach, the discipline is respectable and the result intriguing in itself. The designs of Bryndís Ósk Þ. Ingvarsdóttir (stage and costumes), Hafliði Emil Barðason (lighting) and Elmar Þórarinsson (video) is excellent work.

Nothing is more tragic than the human being is not rife with conflict. Drama is kept minimal, cold stylized precision replaces human intimacy and emotional expression. This is no Puccini. However, this is an admirable exercise in precise refinement and research into the possibility of expression in monotony.

Highly successful for what it is, as far as it goes.

Víðsjá (RÚV RADIO) – Snæbjörn Brynjarsson, October 1. 2020

Many things could have been taken further in the Icelandic contemporary opera Nothing is more tragic than a human being, says Snæbjörn Brynjarsson, critic.

The authors’ collaboration seems to harbor exciting possibilities but the group’s artistic productivity was not maximized.

Nothing is more tragic than a human being, a new contemporary opera was recently shown in Tjarnarbíó. Music by Friðrik Margrétar Guðmundsson, text and direction by Adolf Smári Unnarsson, stage and costume design by Bryndís Ósk Þ. Ingvarsdóttir. Matthías Tryggvi Haraldsson was a dramaturg, Elmar Þórarinsson designed video, Pétur Björnsson conducted and lights were in the hands of Hafliði Emil Barðason. More artists contributed to the work, a quintet accompanied on clarinet, flute, violin, cello, and accordion, and four singers performed. They came on stage, dresses as if for a trip to Tenerife, suitcase in hand, wandering around in a hazy landscape. As the sterile lighting increased we saw 2D palm trees and chairs, but rather than feeling like we were watching people on holiday, it was more like a waiting room, perhaps a lonely air terminal under construction. Over the palm trees there were pink neon lights and a screen showing clouds and various chaotic images, along with a text prompter, translating the text as it went.

As the title Nothing is more tragic than a human being suggests, the subject was depressing; humanity’s search for happiness. Nothing is more depressing than looking for happiness, since one doesn’t search for something one possesses, only what one is lacking, but the piece could also be called Nothing is funnier than a human being, as the texts are witty and the work is humorous, critiquing this search for happiness. There are songs about the dream job, which traits are desirable in a person, and about productivity. The characters not only crave to be productive in their workplace, but want to increase their productivity during time off as well, they want to produce as much happiness as possible, but as soon as one starts measuring joy, demanding to experience it, it seems to vanish into thin air. Then it won’t matter whether you are at work or on a sunny beach, if you start looking for happiness, you won’t find it.

Here I will refrain from criticizing the music, or at least it’s performance, as I don’t think I’m professionally equipped to evaluate it, but as an amateur, I can say it was a pleasant listen, Dagur Þorgrímsson, tenor, and Ólafur Freyr Birkisson, baritone, sounded beautiful in my unskilled but enthusiastic ears, and the same is to be said about the sopranos María Sól Ingólfsdóttir and Heiðdís Hanna Sigurðardóttir. I found María Sól especially funny in her performance as she sang about productivity and in the group gymnastic scene. But as my background lies in theater and not music, this has to suffice when it comes to statements about the musical performance.

The opera's biggest flaw is how thin its material actually is. The poems that the music accompanies are amusing enough to make you laugh, as you can’t help but laugh when you hear such ambitious music and see deadpan faces sing about “Dining out/Drinking wine/Feeling fine, but it’s difficult to base a whole production on a sarcastic distance to its subject. Because of that I feel that its quality is not consistent throughout, it’s certainly enjoyable, but it might have given space for some more philosophical musings, more sincerity or earnestness in delving into humanity’s innermost desires and yearnings. Making fun of hollow cheerfulness has become the most prevalent theater cliche, oftentimes trying to evoke tension with boredom, some succeeding and others not.

But there wasn’t anything wrong with this work per se. Nothing wrong, not a thing, as the performers sang, it flowed comfortably and was enjoyable even though the subject could have been expanded. The show’s best quality, excluding the music, was Bryndís’ stage design, which fit the opera’s wistfulness and sarcasm perfectly. Nothing is more tragic than the human being, but there is a thin line between tragedy and comedy. Many things could have been taken further, Adolf Smári’s, Friðrik’s and Bryndís Ósk’s collaboration harbors exciting possibilities and the outcome might be interesting, should they choose to continue. I, at least, feel like their artistic productivity has not yet been maximized.goes here

T.M.M (The journal of Literature and Arts) – Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir, 7.september 2020.

The artistic team of the new opera, "Ekkert er sorglegra en manneskjan", which premiered in Tjarnarbíó last night, have warned their viewers not to search for a plot in their work. It is "post-dramatic", say composer Friðrik Margrétar-Guðmundsson and director and lyricist Adolf Smári Unnarsson. But it is challenging not to begin to spin a story based on what happens on the empty, semi-dark and foggy stage. Four people are walking around with suitcases – and sending me, in my thoughts, to the biggest and ugliest foreign airports I've ever been to (Gatwick probably wins). In their lonely wanderings, the people are thinking, and we hear their thoughts about relationships with others, complex topics of reflection, fear, time, happiness, and even philosophical theories about life, whether it is better to live in the present or to have plans for the future. Doesn't there have to be a purpose?

With such a good start, it was no problem to follow the journey of the four, who are clearly on a group trip – as an ensemble, they act mainly together but occasionally break out into solo singing. Bass-baritone Ólafur Freyr Birkisson sang about his life and worries in his aria while the others did stretching exercises. The soprano María Sól Ingólfsdóttir had a very funny aria with text from all kinds of explanatory and apologetic phrases. Their arias by tenor Dags Þorgrímsson and soprano Heiðdís Hanna Sigurðardóttir were variations on the theme of happiness and meditation. The boys sing together the duet, "Free me from bitter anguish / Let me have what my heart desires..." The dominant feeling in the whole piece is man's unhappiness, expressed suitably ironically. Nothing is wrong, but life is still a walk in the desert, say Adolf Smári and Friðrik. But there is hope, and maybe there is "wine in the desert"!

The traveller's trip had clearly been to warmer countries, as seen from the actors' clothing, and was supposed to be for rest and relaxation. It didn't go well. Time-consuming "yoga exercises" did nothing but stress the travellers and audience members in the auditorium. Of course, repetition is a rich feature of operas, but the Yoga one took that feature beyond all limits! However, I was most afraid of falling asleep when they started chanting the relaxation mantra in chorus, but the increasing weight and speed of the performance took away all sleepiness.

Surrounding all this was the music, varied and exciting. There, you can hear various musical moans and funny groans, as well as classical chants and soft movements that remind you of the church music of the past centuries. All four singers have well-educated and beautiful voices that obey them perfectly. Their confidence in chorus scenes, whether sung or spoken, was admirable; they were utterly united in voice and movements. A six-member band played on stage under the direction of violinist Pétur Björnsson – and the band had a big part in the event's success.

It was not easy to stage this opera, and there is reason to wish Adolf Smára and his team a big congratulations on a very interesting and thought-provoking performance of an innovative work.

T.M.M (The journal of Literature and Arts) – Silja Aðalsteinsdóttir, 9.October 2022.

There has been a change in the foyer of the small stage in the National Theatre. Walls have been removed in the lobby, and the space has extended, so I could hardly believe my eyes. It, therefore, suited particularly well that the first premiere after the renovation should make special use of this new lobby, as the play by Adolf Smári Unnarsson begins in the front lobby. We are at Ragnhildur's election meeting (Vigdís Hrefna Pálsdóttir), who is giving us a thunderous speech. (This usage of the foyer is then repeated by the cast during the break – quite well done!)

On the stage itself, everything became more familiar, but the freshness and the unexpected continued to characterize the show - as is to be expected when the director is Ólafur Egill Egilsson.

Ragnhildur and her husband, the investor Magnús (Björn Thors), are in their elegant summer home (a gift from his father) and are expecting guests for dinner, Ragnhildur's little sister Björk (Ebba Katrín Finnsdóttir) and her boyfriend Óskar (Hilmar Guðjónsson) – whom they have not met before. The younger couple arrives late for dinner, and it soon becomes clear that there is a lot of tension between the sisters, who rarely see each other. Björk is not interested in her older sister's election, and Ragnhildur is not interested in her little sister's musical career. They have nothing in common except their childhood home and don't like recalling memories from there.

There is also tension between the two men. First, it is unspeakable for a long time but gradually builds up brilliantly. They are like day and night, Magnús and Óskar - one born with a silver spoon in his mouth, moreover a former football hero and now a wealthy and well-off investor, the other a poor artist who likes sitting over beer and football with his friends. The characters all have the same weight in the work, and they become clear through the text. The conversations are about art, politics, football, money, happiness, parenthood and religion, and they are well written, fast, witty, often funny, but mostly revealing. Little by little, the stay in this summer house becomes completely unbearable...

A few moments a night is a well-made play, as they say. Apart from the scenes in the foyer, it takes place continuously, building a tension that is released at the work's climax. The whole framework helped; Hildar Evlalía Unnarsdóttir's stage design indicated the wealth of the older couple, and the boat design on which the men are having fun was clever. Ásta Jónína Arnardóttir's videos filled in the time that passes in work by showing us the behaviour of the characters between the scenes with them; they seemed at first to be too demanding for attention, but they gradually came into harmony with the text and finally became very impressive. Artur Zorģis' costumes are extremely well thought out; Jóhann Bjarn Pálmason's lighting was purposeful, and Aron Þór Arnarsson's music and soundscape were crucial at certain moments in the exhibition.

Most importantly, however, the acting was good. Here, every man was in the right place. Björn Thor shows Magnús' outer and inner man extremely well, who believes that the image is the reality - that you should create yourself as you want to be. But we also depend on other people, and he chooses his wife according to the image. But what if she's not all where she seems? Vigdís Hrefna portrayed with exceptional skill a woman who appears on the surface to be solid but is broken and damaged on the inside. There was a lot of attention for Ebba Katrín in the role of Björk, who is so angry, bitter and hurt that she wants to disappear the most - get rid of herself; the actress's facial expressions, voice and movements revealed the character perfectly.

Hilmar Guðjónsson gave life to Óskar with colour and aroused both curiosity and excitement: what will he do in this "group of enemies"? Then the more pressing question becomes who gives more, the investor from Vesturbær or the boy from Breiðholt who thinks it's enough to enjoy life with the people who make him feel good.

Adolf Smári has published two novels and received great praise for the direction and libretto of the opera. Ekkert er sorglegra en manneskjan in Tjarnarbíó two years ago. Therefore, there was a reason to expect good things from Nokkur augnablik um nótt – and the work and the exhibition significantly exceeded those expectations: heartfelt congratulations, Adolf Smári, Ólafur Egill and all others.

Morgunblaðið – Silja Björk Huldudóttir. 19.October 2022.

When premiere guests arrived at the National Theater to see Nokkur augnablik um nótt by Adolf Smári Unnarsson, a newly renovated foyer awaited them. In their design, Þórður Orri Pétursson and Hálfdán Pedersen looked for the origin. Physical education teacher Jón Þorsteinsson built the building and taught sports and gymnastics there for years – hinted at by the designers in the new setting. The change has been very successful, and director Ólafur Egill Egilsson used the foyer to start the show at the beginning of the evening and again after the break. It was extremely appropriate to premiere the building renovation in connection with a play on image creation.

Adolf Smári invites us one summer evening to a summer house owned by the couple Magnús and Ragnhildur. Björk, Ragnhildur's younger sister, and Óskar are invited (he is the first boyfriend Björk introduces to her sister.) As the evening progresses, we learn that the sisters grew up in a broken home where drinking and beatings were part of the everyday. Despite her promise to always look after her younger sister, Ragnhildur used the first and best opportunity to get away when she was in her early twenties. In the 16 years that have passed in the relationship with Magnús, she has been able to live in luxury abroad, get an education and is now purposefully climbing the ladder of fame within the largest political party in the country.

Björk dreams of breaking through with the band she has been singing with for the past five years, as there is nothing romantic about endless hard work and effort. Björk and Óskar have in common that neither of them managed to get an education. They now live in his parent's garage on the sisters' childhood grounds in Breiðholt. (Magnús also lives well enough to enjoy the support of his parents, although it is on a completely different scale, as his father, who is an investor, recently gave his son the summer home where the play takes place.)

While the sisters share a common past, football creates an unexpected point of contact between Magnús and Óskar. The author paints a clear picture of representatives of different social groups and reveals, among other things, how easy it is to talk about how everyone is the creator of their own fortune when one's own fortune is primarily based on having been lucky enough to be born in the right country, into the right family, of the right gender and the right skin colour. At the same time, the author questions the value of growing an entire forest if one cannot properly care for one's roots (meaning your health – or the happiness of the people you love)

In interviews, Adolf Smári has described the play as a traditional drama and a contemporary tragedy. The work is similar to "The Well-made Play" even though the realism frame is purposefully broken up in several places, e.g., with direct talk about the set and characters' descriptions of their actions in the third person. However, the lack of crucial information stands in the way of a deep reading and, thus, a real understanding of what is at hand. For example, there is no way for the audience to know how long it has been since the sisters last met, which in turn affects how to read and interpret the interactions. The audience also gets no indication of whether Ragnhildur's concerns about Björk's drinking and drug use are justified or based on prejudice. Patches like this in a script make it almost impossible to judge whether a character's reaction is moderate or out of line.

"You should never place a loaded rifle on stage if you don't intend to fire it. It's wrong to promise something you don't intend to keep," wrote the Russian playwright Anton Chekhov in a letter in 1889. One of the "loaded guns" in Adolf Smári's work is the water drought during the summer that is introduced to the story at the very beginning – and it's safe to say that the "drought gun" is kept promised before the end. The same cannot be said about Ragnhildur's sudden "discovery" of Björk's physical condition nor her confidence when she shares her life-or-death secret with Björk. The interactions between the characters have not been sufficiently well-grounded on stage for Ragnhildur's confession and confession to be believable, significantly reducing the impact of the consequences.

The entire framework of the piece is exemplary, whether it concerns Hildar Evlalía Unnarsdóttir's cosy set design, Artur Zorgis's costumes that drew a clear difference between the two couples' different social status, Jóhann Bjarn Pálmason's elaborate lighting, Aron Þór Arnarsson's good music and sound design or Ásta Jónína Arnardóttir's innovative video design. It worked well to use videos from the real world between scenes. Perhaps it would have been more effective to strengthen those aspects even more.

The ensemble performs well under the strong direction of Ólafur Egill. Ebba Katrín Finnsdóttir was believable as the rebel younger sister whose mouth is below her nose. She got off to a flying start in her "cross-examination" when it came to Magnús's family, and it would have been interesting to have more drawn-out confrontations in the characters' interactions since the edge of work is stronger in well-written conversations than monotonous monologues.

Hilmar Guðjónsson managed to paint a picture of a man who was at once likeable and pitiful but at the same time potentially dangerous, as was clearly seen in the conversation on board the boat where Magnús managed to really get scared of Óskar. In several places, the author's monologues became too long. Óskar's monologue in the church is an example – the author could have put information from there into conversations.

Björn Thors makes a beautiful examination of the role of Magnús. His subtle but uncomfortable aggression is immediately apparent in the opening scene with Ragnhildur. Magnús' harshness in communication was highlighted in his monologue in the foyer towards the end of the break. Magnús is not a man you want to get on the edge of. In that sense, he is one of the "loaded guns" of the work.

After arriving at the summer house, the scenes are either divided into group scenes with everyone or gender-differentiated scenes. The backstory of the sisters is far more interesting than the men's football connection. Still, it would have been informative to see more of the interactions between the two couples separately. From the front, Vigdís Hrefna Pálsdóttir gets to do most of the work, as she is a key figure when it comes to connecting the different worlds that meet in the work. She successfully conveys the leading lady, who has a good command of politeness but does not listen properly to the answers and can hardly remember if the sister's boyfriend is called Óskar or Óttar. As mentioned earlier, the events of the work are not sufficiently well-grounded, but they mainly affect Ragnhildur's character, so Vigdís Hrefna's work is made quite challenging even though she did her best under difficult circumstances.

But what remains is that Nokkur augnablik um nótt is an interesting play in a dynamic and well-acted production. Key themes such as the destructive force of poverty and the reminder that violence in communication does not ask questions about social class unfortunately still have a place in the social debate.

Hugrás - online zine of the Faculty of Humanities, University of Iceland – Ásta Kristín Benediktsdóttir 17. October 2022.

The thought of a new play about Icelanders in a summer house filled me with doubts. "A perfect Icelandic summer evening, a perfect home, a perfect oomph on the grill and the whole night is ahead...," says the introduction to the work, which is called Nokkur augnablik um nótt and is by the young star of the literary scene – Adolf Smári Unnarsson. The plot is familiar; the viewer knows that the three repetitions of the word "perfect" mean drama, exposure and conflict – and what can such a scenario, where drunk Icelanders are in the foreground, lead to anything other than a familiar theme, well-worn clichés even? I attended the premiere at the National Theater with hesitation – but I also allowed myself to be hopeful, not least because the playwright is an unknown figure, a newly graduated director who is also currently publishing a novel. It's always a bit exciting, and who knows, maybe there are still original and interesting sides to a BBQ in a holiday home.

The evening did not start well! In the foyer, a woman got up on a chair and started talking about political reforms in kindergarten. Her emphasis was capitalistic, and my theatre partner was grossly insulted; we were caught up in something that looked like a political meeting of the Independence Party. I was the first to realize that it was no coincidence that this speech started at 20.00. The work had already begun; it was refreshing; the guests and I laughed, and the mood followed us into the hall, where the summer cottage appeared on the stage.

In short, the play is about two couples. On the one hand, the upper-class people in Vesturbær, Ragnhildur (Vigdís Hrefna Pálsdóttir) and Magnús (Björn Thors) have a huge summer home and a thriving business. He has a bold football career behind him – and she has a political career on the rise. All of this, in one way or another, has come about with the help of Magnús's parents, but the belief in individual initiative and freedom is paramount here, so let's say that "they" built this life themselves. However, it is Björk (Ebba Katrín Finnsdóttir) and Óskar (Hilmar Guðjónsson) who are eternally broke and live in the garage at Óskar's parents' house in Breiðholt; Björk is a musician who dreams of her band being discovered, and Óskar works with teenagers and wants to learn to become a social worker.

Thus, the men's parents represent the two couples' different class positions and the worlds they belong to – and they seem to have little overlap. The couples meet at Ragnhildur's and Magnús' summer house that evening, but it is unclear how they are connected from the outset. It soon becomes clear, however, that Ragnhildur and Björk are sisters who grew up in a broken home, and the play deals with the reasons why two children from the same home search and get pulled in such different directions.

Identity nightmare.

"The image, it is the reality." This is the mantra Magnús chants to his company's staff. The audience jiggles when he tells them that they are all responsible for the company's success; every mistake they make will damage what they built together: the image. Magnus is not a villain—far from it—and Nokkur augnablik um nótt is not a one-sided satire of neoliberal ideology but a study of how images take hold of people's lives.

The time of the play is the present – so, of course, smartphones and digital reality play a significant role. All the characters have their own image and that of others on their minds, not least Björk and Óskar who are critical of Ragnhildur's and Magnús' lives, which they find superficial and empty. It's just other kinds of images that guide the former. Björk seeks recognition in the world of music and art - and, among other things, tries hard to define Óskar as an artist who himself moves away from this identity – he only paints in his spare time because he wants to. Óskar is a spiritual thinker who seems indifferent to material images, but football is his obsession – a dark obsession.

The images are, of course, first and foremost a veil around sensitive flesh. The characters have one thing in common: they are broken, they all have behind them traumas and difficulties that explain their fragility to some extent. The class division and the imbalance of wealth and power have a significant effect on them – but also poor communication: They mean well but misbehave, they don't listen to each other but hear what they want or expect, a bit like myself when I went to the theatre full of preconceived doubts.

Nokkur augnablik um nótt is not an original play, and the clichés are not far away. The characters are stereotypes, and the sequence of events is predictable: they drink and talk to each other. At first, the superficiality is emphasized in the conversations. As time passes, cracks appear, secrets are revealed alongside unexpected connections between characters – everything ends with a dramatic showdown. It's a familiar piece with traditional construction, and my scepticism about the cottage was well-founded; it could have gone badly. But it didn't – because all of this is so well done!

The character creation is good. Although it is based on types – there is depth, and engaging and likeable characters are formed in all cases. Here comes together a good script, good direction by Ólafur Egil Egilsson, excellent acting and generally successful interaction between all theatre professionals. Vigdís, Björn, Hilmar and Ebba all play their roles very well, and I can't decide between them. The use of the lobby in the box office is an example of the excellent collaboration between author and director – as the script is memorably adapted to the space. Ásta Jónína Arnardóttir directs videos that, together with Arturs Zorģis' costumes, underline the work's contemporary references, class division and the digital existence of the characters. Hilda Evlalía Unnarsdóttir's set is more than a set; it represents the theme of the piece itself, and it can even be said that it is one of the characters. Aron Þór Arnarsson's excellent sound design climaxes in a fantastic end-scene that cannot be discussed further here. You have to see it with your own eyes.

Víðsjá (RÚV Radio) – Nína Hjálmarsdóttir, 15.October 2022.

Premiere guests mingle in their finest clothes over glasses of sparkling wine in the National Theater and discuss the week's gossip when the show begins, transforming the crowd into characters in the play. The heart is racing, and the tension is in the air when the fourth wall finally closes, and we get to fall into the comfortable role of passive audience. The play is called Nokkur augnablik um nótt, a new Icelandic work by the young playwright Adolf Smári Unnarsson – directed by Ólafur Egill Egilsson. The playwright himself has called the work traditional dramatic theatre, but it is based on a popular age-old theatre formula where one couple visits another couple - a polite dinner party that quickly sours, and everything goes to hell.

The play takes place one evening in the summer house, or rather the villa, of Ragnhildur and Magnús, an upper-class couple in their forties, with whom many premiere visitors could identify. The play revolves around the relationship between Ragnhildur and her little sister, Björk, but she and her boyfriend Óskar are artists who hardly make ends meet and dream of making it. The essence of the work lies in the tension between these two worlds, the snobbish elite and the elbow children, who all compete to maintain some outward image, but the play's poster, which is a picture on Instagram, refers to this intention of the work.

Obsession with the approval of others is reflected in Ásta Jónína Arnarsdóttir's video projection, where we see the version in which the vacation home trip appears on social media, parallel to the reality. Hildur Evlalía Unnarsdóttir's set also reflects the content, with potted plants representing the forest they have planted around the fine summer cottage and the rootless forest within them. Jóhann Bjarni Pálmason's lighting underlines the Nordic realism of the work with cold tones. Aron Þór Arnarsson's soundtrack adds to the rural atmosphere with natural sounds, but his music stood out and did a lot for the feeling of the work, and the final soundtrack must especially be mentioned. Artur Zorgi's costumes emphasize each character's class status and social role. Still, they could have gone further to clarify the characters, such as having Ragnhildur's dress made of more expensive material.

The foursome have a lot of fun in the first part of the piece, where the older couple paints a grand picture of their lives under the pretext that they are getting to know Björk's new boyfriend. These conversations paint a juicy picture of the Icelandic upper-class elite, who strive to prove their worth with knowledge of fringe art and look down on people like Óskar, who is supposed to be an artist but doesn't know Banksy and Ragnar Kjartansson. The tactics they use to undermine Óskar's confidence are pretty familiar to those who have met these types.

In the majority of the work, the couples are divided by gender. The dialogue of the sisters reveals their backstory, that they grew up under challenging circumstances of lower class people where Ragnhildur, played by Vigdís Hrefna Pálsdóttir, married into a wealthy family that no doubt has a lot of influence in the Independence Party, and is now herself a candidate for the party. Ragnhildur's initial premise is promising, that she is a politician trying to change the system from within – but unfortunately, little is done with this interesting thread. Meanwhile, Björk, played by Ebba Katrín Finnsdóttir, remains in the damaged home and works through her wounds with music in rebellion against the system. Both actresses do their best to convey nuanced characters, but the script makes their task difficult. All subtext is brought to the surface, and nothing is left for the viewer's imagination. The characters are simplified; they are defined by a broken youth that forces them either to marry for money or to be in constant rebellion and arguments.

At the same time, the male characters get to be diverse and multifaceted; the author knows them well and has played with them. Björn Thors is a wealthy man who has had everything handed to him and has never had to worry about anything. But what makes this character so juicy is that he is not evil or violent – he is this good guy that everyone recognizes, the one who cares so much about presenting himself as a feminist that you stick with him and care about him despite the overwhelming blindness of privilege. However, the character's power is not only because of how well it is written, but Björn Thors is completely born for this role and manages this balance between modesty and subtle force well. Hilmar Guðjónsson is in his element as the sleazy Óskar, a character who succeeds despite being reminiscent of too many guys in Icelandic cultural life - fringe artist, Sunday school teacher, football bully and spiritualist. The audience couldn't stop laughing during the scenes between the two, which are juicy and examine the ideas of the work. The climax is reached at the end when Óskar doesn't let himself be swayed anymore and exposes Magnús, his privileges and hypocrisy. It's clever to let the flimsy fool be the voice of reason in the work and, at the same time, the audience's hero.

The work's aim is most strongly conveyed in its breakdowns, especially those that take place in another space and reveal the social group that has access to theatrical performances, revealing the audience to themselves. We can also mention the few moments where the characters get out of arguments and drama and fall into a poetic void where the lyrical text pulls the content in new directions, making the final scene very memorable. It would be desirable if these scenes, scenes that play with the audience and graphic scenes that do not rely on the text, had been given more space in the work. Some attempt was then made to deconstruct the show by having the stage-hands appear on stage, flip the stage, and have characters mention that they are in a theatre, but this meta-experiment didn't work in the otherwise realistic world and fell flat on its own.

The play is a magnificent opportunity for us privileged people to break free from our existence in Scandinavian pain, where we become depressed by comfort. We are all just as much pretending in a virtual reality, empty and lost in search of recognition and yearning to belong.

Hybris – Tereza Stejskalová September 4, 2022.

"It was beautiful!" "I really liked it!" "They were seriously impressive!" "The ending, the ending got me!" – One of the many responses that echoed in the foyer of the Disk after the performance of Kocka na kolejích by the Icelandic director Adolf Smári Unnarsson. Topol's drama Kocka na kolejích premiered in 1964 at the Theater behind the Gate, directed by Otomar Krejča, with Maria Tomášová and Jan Tříska in the lead roles. At that time, Topol wanted to rest from the "big games", so he came up with the intimate Kocka full of puns about two lovers Évi and Véna – about one evening, about one stop, about one love – about the long wait.

VENA: One should be alone.

ÉVI: One is alone.

But can he really be alone? Hana Šimková and František Baleš played the roles of lovers. In his adaptation, Unnarsson cut out the other characters from the original play, giving the whole production a more intimate nature. Minimalist scene. A perfect interplay. The white square in the middle of the stage symbolized the platform, alongside a white box with transparent plexiglass. But maybe that square space was a symbol of something else. It resembled a kind of safe zone in which it is possible to reveal one's soul to another and shake off all the weight of a seven-year relationship. Both actors come on stage barefoot, gradually discarding individual layers of clothing. Finally, they stand naked in front of each other after all the regrets, memories of the past and unhappy thoughts about what the future should bring.

The Icelandic director proved that Topol's play is relevant even after almost sixty years and will continue to be so. Love and death – the central motifs of Topol's play cannot dissolve and will not lose their importance even in the following years.The main characters spin in circles, waiting for a train that may never come. Absurdity. A situation from which there is no escape. Šimková and Beleš presented their characters to the audience with incredible ease, finding a balance between comedy and drama. The viewer laughs with them but feels incredible tension the whole time.

Back to the white square. Both actors stay on the minimalistic stage for the entire performance. It's a place where anything can happen, where they talk about children, love, and hate. Where they laugh and shout at each other. Where they hate each other and where they love each other. Where they want and don't want each other. Where they long for each other and try to figure out if they can be together. Any exit from the white zone seems dangerous. When the "cat" Évi, under the influence of drugs, goes to the roof of the station, we follow her dangerous manoeuvres thanks to the shadow play on the opposite wall. The shadow of Šimková, who is hidden behind the bus stop, suggests that she is climbing the edge of the roof with staggering movements without realizing the risk she is facing. The viewer watches everything and, together with Véna, tingles with horror.

Hana Šimková's Évi is a girl who is a little hysterical at times and, at the same time, madly in love – as if Véna was the only reason for her existence. He wants to get married, he mainly talks about the future. František Beleš, on the other hand, portrayed Véna as a funny kid who brags too much. He, too, is in love but insecure. It goes back to the past. Perhaps he is afraid of what might come. When Évi digs into Véna's hair and blindly tells him about every part of his body, we see how Šimková experiences every touch with her eyes closed. She gradually touches individual parts of his body and describes with seriousness what she feels. What every bump reminds her of. Beleš has his head in her lap. He laughs. She with a focused expression. He looks like a little kid who wants to lighten the seriousness of the situation. Anger alternates with a smile, a smile with tenderness, and tenderness with laughter. Both of them worked perfectly with facial expressions and gestures, and we witnessed a complete acting harmony for the whole hour – which was enhanced by Ramin Kuliev's slow and dark music. 

And then, then the inevitable end. Yes. The end of young people who, after a seven-year relationship, discover that it is impossible to get out of an eternally recurring situation that leads nowhere. And that's why it's better to end it. In each other's arms. On the tracks, waiting for the train. It's an ode to love. And death – a thin line that we can easily cross.

I-DIVADLO – Pavel Širmer, 29.November 2022

The Icelandic director tried to bring Topol's lyrical play to the younger generation. The actors evoke sympathy with spontaneity and convey emotions their peers can identify with – despite speaking in a language several decades old. The scenography does not give the impression of a railway station but directs attention to the content, coinciding with the idea of ​​stripping down to underwear at the end. However, a meaningful vision lacks dramaturgical supervision and consistent editing of the text (the language barrier could also have played a role), which means the concept is only partially defended. Mentions of the "fatigue" of a several-year relationship, among other things, do not correspond to how the director guided the actor, especially since this layer remains largely neglected.