I arrived at the Klown Congress in high spirits, a full bladder and a very fine frock: new to me, one hundred years old to the world, and perfectly suited to the winter night. I felt magnificent striding next to my wingman as we graced the steps of the Hebbel Theatre. Unfortunately, the moment I crossed the threshold into the heated lobby, the frock became an oven and I, the roast.
The Hebbel was built in the Jugendstil style in the year 1908, it only had one bomb fall on it, and by 1945, it was the only operating theatre in Berlin. Many plays previously deemed degenerate by The Most Popular Fascists were performed here. I mention this because I was now standing in that same lobby, a degenerate myself in more ways that I can count.
Still, bravery is a reporter’s virtue: I composed myself, prepared to find a water closet, and immediately ran into a fellow clown, a balloon artist of such skill and imagination that the laws of physics tremble before their creations. Beautiful things, monstrous things, disgusting things: balloons bent into shapes the human mind was not meant to contemplate. Turns out my wingman had arranged for this interception, and I became engrossed in some conversation about streetwear while my bladder filed a formal complaint.
Soon we made our way up the ornate stairs to the balcony seats where I deposited my woolen layers. Unhindered by the sweltering garments, I had nearly reached the door leading back to the toilets when an the usher materialized before me with the kind of bureaucratic solemnity usually reserved for border control.
“I’m sorry”, they announced, “but I’m locking the door now. The show is about to start.” And they gently closed it in my face. Knowing I’d miss the show if I left, I marched back to my chair with a full bladder and an empty notebook, ready to report whatever I survived long enough to witness.
The Show
The show opened with a monologue: a very unhappy clown sat on a stool in front of red velvet curtains. I think she was smoking. She challenged us, insulted us, insulted the world, and assured us the would not be a happy one: I was already delighted.
When the curtains parted, the stage looked as if someone had dropped one half of a circus ring on a sandy beach and walked away. The ring, a raised platform striped red and white, circled a vast mound of sand; the performers could use it like the lip of a volcano. From various corners of the space, the ensemble emerged: pompous clowns, beautifully dressed clowns, clowns radiating menace, clowns radiating hope.
A sharply angled figure stepped forward with immaculate posture. When he opened his mouth, the voice that spilled out was not human: it was the timbre of an alien deity addressing a minor planet. Surtitles appeared above the stage translating his proclamations. This was the ringleader and he carried the air of someone who could execute a subordinate with ease.
Soon enough, he did.
The first clown stepped forward into the ring, unfurling a black whip. She was dressed in a sort of harlequin attire, her face painted in fierce geometric patterns, almost tribal. She appeared to usher a giant monster onto the stage: a great circular spotlight that prowled across the sand, roaring, snarling.
Things went well at first. The luminous disk obeyed her commands. Its roars and snarls came from a beatboxer DJ clown standing behind a laptop in the corner. Soon the tamer lost control, and the light-beast rampaged around the ring with utmost violence. It would have been a full massacre if not for the ringleader who shot the poor creature with an imaginary gun. Later, the ringleader, offended or threatened or bored, shot the beatboxer as well.
Mortality continued to be a theme, with one clown claiming to have found a solution to all global crisis. Their gibberish language was contagious, their manic optimism unstoppable. They radiated the energy of a prophet, or a malfunctioning blender. Their method: attempted hanging. Attempted electrocution in a bathtub. Attempted impalement on a bed of nails. All failures. All glorious.
And then came Dicknose: a clown with a phallic flesh colored nose, addressing society with specific and accurate grievances. They invited audience members onto the sand, played with them, derailed themselves when necessary, and stitched the chaos back together.
Throughout the night, the clowns returned to a central truth: audiences are terrible.
As an audience member myself, I could not agree more. They mocked us, reprimanded us, whispered backstage about how we “weren’t giving enough.” Sitting there, bladder in open revolt, I felt genuinely seen.
The show finally came to a close with strange lights, eerie music, and a clown birthing scene right out of a David Lynch film. The audience gave a standing ovation and multiple curtain calls. But not everyone was thrilled. One person I interviewed found it “too intellectual.” Another, with an informed opinion on the matter, declared: “This isn’t clown to me.”
For myself, I may have entered Der Clowns-Kongress overheated in a vintage frock and unable to pee. I may have been trapped by a door-guard with a taste for procedure.
But my dearest readers, what unfolded before me was a rare event: a sprawling, chaotic, skillful congress of clowns, shifting from cosmic authority to beatbox wildlife, from despair to satire, from foolishness to philosophy. This may have been more choreographed theatre than loose, direct clown, but they erected no fourth wall.
Did I survive long enough to take notes? Barely.
Was it worth the imprisonment? Absolutely.
The show delivered an urgent and beautifully presented message: more clowns are needed.
~Your Increasingly Devoted Correspondent, B. C. E. Neiderlage
Play created and cast by: Walter Bart, Pina Bergemann, Wine Dierickx, Matijs Jansen, Joost Maaskant, Leon Pfannenmüller, Maartje Remmers, Marleen Scholten and Hanneke van der Paardt. Marvelous creatures of Theaterhaus Jena and Wunderbaum. Sacha Zwiers is credited for the delightful costume design.