The End of Everything Ever

An accordion, two guitars, a horn and a violin are passed around a troupe of six as they unfurl their wartime drama. The mixed European ensemble has the taste of street performers with a hint of bohemia. As the audience assembles in the theatre, the performers move amongst the rows of seating, greeting the crowd with music and vodka. In their own time they regroup on stage and begin creating the story.

Like medieval buskers they are self-conscious entertainers. They have no Shakespearean inflexions in their speech, nor drama school precision in their movements, but as they strum, fiddle, and stumble about the stage, they gently entice the audience to join their lives for a while. It’s an approach to storytelling which belongs to ancient campsites where folklore would pass from mouth to ear. Their props, consisting principally of a wardrobe and a bevy of vintage alarm clocks, seem to come alive and genially contribute to the telling of the tale.

But beneath the warm exterior is a heart-rending insight into the life of a Jewish girl separated from her family under the Nazi oppression. The pathos born amongst the constant, convivial glow will send seismic shock waves of compassion down your heart strings. Through shamelessly stilted accents, simple folkloric music and a touch of burlesque, The End of Everything Ever kindles that camp fire which will continue to glow inside you long after you have left the theatre.