What would happen if one morning you missed a meeting with your own wife, left alone to walk a dog (Dog) she hates? Or, for ladies, if you didn't get to the doctor you didn't want to see anyway, all because of a stinking smell? What if, away from the bloody smell, on a platform close to the sky, you realized happiness is a slice of melon, a good cry and, above all, being yourself?
Well, then you'd be the Man and the Woman, neiboroughs on a page in Lia Bugnar's Snowman, the text you'll have the pleasure to read here. It has everything: few lines, but full of flavor, a bit of desesperation, a bit of fear, the inocence of those too small for such a normal world, and what's more important, a lot of laughing – of desesperation, fear, inocence.
Readers are naturally desperate people, a kind of addicted in perpetual search of (more and more perverse) textual pleasure, and for them this play is an almost unbeatable drog (well, more or less). You won't find in Lia's story (I know somebody who would kill me if he knew I talked about story in theatre, but nobody's perfect!) terrible depths or great psychology, but nobody said you would...
Arguments for this text? The vividness of the line and a bit of craziness at every moment, craziness that keeps on growing up to the cosmical dimensions of a living utopia. It's true, it won't take you far this little escape close to the sky, away from the stinking world, but the right to dream is a wonderful gift. I receaved it one night, unexpectedly, in the Green Hours cave, from two young actors, Daniel Popa and Dorina Chiriac, charming fools in a clouded city. It's a beautiful toy for you too, dear readers from the other side of this screen. Don't say no!