Director:   Elmārs Seņkovs (Latvia)
Authors: Mihkel Seeder (Estonia) and Rasa Bugavičute-Pēce (Latvia)
Actors: Simeoni Sundja and Karl Robert Saaremäe from Estonia.  
Matīss Budovskis and Agris Krapivņickis from Latvia

An amusing story about men and being a man. A funny mixture of MacGyver style humour. What’s more, add deep thoughts and philosophy to the mix.

The play also gives answers to many essential questions: How to build something new out of old bottles? How to quit smoking? Who thinks faster – a Latvian or an Estonian? How to conquer every woman if you only have a piece of cardboard? Why should we always carry a couple of 2-litre bottles of soft drink to the beach and what sort of philosophy does an empty tube of toothpaste represent?

It’s funny and also a bit sad because we all know at least one such man. Or, in this case, four. Two in Estonia (Simeoni Sundja and Karl Robert Saaremäe), two in Latvia (Matīss Budovskis and Agris Krapivņickis.).

The play is in very basic English


Director Elmars Senkovs says:

My father had a garage.

My father repaired washing machines.

My father fought with the racketeers.

My father drank.

My father sang loudly. When he was drinking. Sometimes even when he wasn’t drinking.

When I found a condom in my father’s pocket and asked what it was, he was silent for a long time and then said it was headache medicine.

My father taught me how to punch someone in the face when abused.

My father didn’t play with me when I wanted to, but he took me to the circus. He liked clowns. My father gave me money when I needed it. That is, if he had anything to give.

My father once travelled to Estonia and brought me a refrigerator magnet. I still have this magnet.

My father’s garage was full of plastic bottles, and I have no idea why he collected them.

My father used to tickle me. That’s how he expressed love. Then he stopped tickling, and began showing tricks with packs of cigarettes instead.

My father disappeared… and then came back when no one was no longer waiting for him.

My father broke up with my mother.

My father also collected beer cans… I don’t know why.

My father always smoked, even at home. The smell of cigarettes still reminds me of my childhood.

My father didn’t teach me to drive because he didn’t have a license. And maybe it was good thing, because he really drank a lot.

I don’t know what he thought about. I don’t know what he dreamed of.

I used to be ashamed of him. Now, I’m saying I no longer care, but I probably still do.

My father is not someone you would direct a play about.  He is not a hero, although he fought. With himself. With time. All the time.

Me?

I too, have a garage. It’s called the theatre.