polski

Journalist Tom visits Professor Witz, a legendary researcher in the field of artificial intelligence. He wants to talk about a project initiated by the professor in 2049 in the Łódź area, which has gotten somewhat out of control. The aim of the project was to “study the consequences of the spontaneous development of coexisting organic and inorganic intelligence systems, combined and assisted intelligence, and the transintelligence of biotechs and technobiotes, as well as accompanying non-systemic entities.” The idea was to protect the rights of intelligence regardless of its origin – without favoring or discrediting any form. Over time, however, intelligence “colloquially and pejoratively” referred to as artificial began to take control of other forms, and “fully human persons” found themselves in a distinct minority. Threatened with extinction, they hide in the ruins of a post-apocalyptic city. Tom, who gradually gains more and more knowledge about the development of the project, simultaneously loses his grasp of the situation. Who is who? Is the professor's demonic daughter, Mona, a flesh-and-blood human being, or did she die with her mother in a car accident as a full-blooded human being, and her consciousness now exists in a new, “borrowed” body? Does the professor's frail shell really only contain his own consciousness, or could it also be a prison for another, younger consciousness? Who is the intelligence equipped with all the attributes of existence, and who is merely a voice? Who is Tom himself?

Referring to the mythical ship of Theseus, in which rotten planks were replaced one by one, the author asks an abstract question that is no longer so abstract in the present day: “If we replace all the elements of a complex object with new ones, so that the entire object is replaced with a new one, does it remain the same object?” And what will remain for humans in a world dominated by AI?

In the afterword to Joanna Oparek's anthology of art, Loneliness is a Serial Killer, Karolina Felberg writes:

On the margins of her reflections on human pride – the desire for divine creations and interventions – Oparek breaks another cultural taboo. She prophesies a time when organic humans will become algorithms, and inorganic beings will take over the most important competence of the humanistic era – the ability to perform creative (aimless and selfless). What will remain for humans then? Suffering, suggests the writer. Superintelligence will not learn to suffer “sophisticatedly” anytime soon. "Its beauty is indifferent. That is why it needs us, feeds on people, greedily devours the leftovers," says Mona, the daughter of a brilliant inventor. In Łódź, dominated by inorganic beings, the ark of organic humans will therefore turn out to be exactly what they are defending themselves against – their inherent ability to experience loss and pain.

Tadeusz Kuta's Wigilia (Christmas Eve) is a play that begins as a comedy of manners but ends with a question that no one wants to ask: is the empty seat at the table really for a stranger, or just for our alibi? Words bounce off the walls of a modern apartment like reflected text messages. She and He — a couple from the IKEA catalog, with discounted souls. He thinks life is Excel. She still remembers Christmas carols that were not sung for likes. A Guest enters — uninvited, uncomfortable, with a suitcase like something out of a dream. Something about him doesn't fit. And then it fits too well.

This is a play about how much we pass each other by, even when we are sitting right next to each other.
About how the most silence is at the Christmas Eve table, and how it hurts the most when we already know who has left and who has stayed — and why.

We have farce and emotion here. Clarinet and impunity. Lidl and Norwid. And this absurd, scratchy truth: that the warmest moment of Christmas can only happen after the lights are turned off.
This is not a play about Christmas. It is a play about everything that Christmas tries to cover up. About how, in the modern world, morality mixes with plastic, love with marketing, and loneliness with a Wi-Fi router.

Happiness can be perverse – it comes when no one invites it, and sometimes it looks completely different than we expected. Tadeusz Kuta's Szczęściarze (The Lucky Ones) is a classic, intelligent situation comedy in which the everyday life of Bol and Niuńcia, an average couple from a housing estate, is turned upside down by a lottery win and a series of unexpected guests. Among those who drop in are an eccentric street artist, a priest with a sense of humor, a bishop with an ego, and a businessman with... imagination. Suddenly, the home that knew only routine begins to buzz with absurdity, comedy, and questions about what is really important in life.
This is theater full of humor, but not shallow laughter—rather, laughter that helps you look at yourself with distance. The dialogues are witty, the situations are taken from real life, and at the same time full of theatrical finesse. The comedy does not arise from jokes for the sake of jokes, but from a precise observation of human nature, the clash of appearances with reality, spirituality with consumption, routine with dreams.

The Lucky Ones is a text that has been tested and loved by audiences – performed hundreds of times at Teatr Nasz and several repertory theaters in Poland. It is a comedy that hits the mark without offending anyone. Light, but not trivial. Funny, but with a deeper meaning. Perfect for today's times – and for any evening when we just want to... have a good laugh and feel a little better.

Characteristics of the characters:
- Bolo, approx. 50 years old, a gray-haired clerk living according to a routine: work, home, vacation, work, home, vacation
- Niuńcia, approx. 50 years old (maybe younger), a naive idiot type, unemployed, likable
- Mr. Aniołek, the personification of a free spirit, earns a living by performing on the streets, full of charm and empathy. A character as if taken from the flower power era, a colorful pacifist. Age rather undefined, between 30 and 45
- Father Stefan, may be the son of Niuńcia and Bola's friends, and therefore around 30 years old. He may also be their school friend, and therefore of a similar age to Niuńcia and Bola. Good-natured, righteous, with a great sense of humor, open and honest
- Bishop, eager for praise, greedy for money, a 60-year-old with no sense of humor, but arousing sympathy rather than dislike
- President, aged 40-50, a typical businessman, making money from shady deals, unscrupulous, rather crude and primitive, but harmless
- Vice-president, aged 30-40, simple, not very bright, not to say primitive, at times funny, even a caricature of a representative of the contemporary business elite. A mirror image of the President. His presence allows the President to alleviate his complexes

Laundry is a three-part tragicomedy by Tadeusz Kuta, set somewhere between a dream and everyday life, between the bed and the door, between the refrigerator and the telephone. In this seemingly ordinary space, where He and She have been lying for months in bedding that can no longer be washed—not only because the washing machine is leaking—a story unfolds about the powerlessness, fear, and absurdity of contemporary existence. About dirt that multiplies out of nowhere. About a relationship that lasts more out of habit than necessity. And about how easily life turns into a script from which it is impossible to write oneself out.
It is a story about a couple who seem to be stuck in stagnation, but in reality are fighting the most intense battle – for meaning, for attention, for who will get up to answer the door. Their everyday dialogues jump between witty verbal comedy and poetic lamentation, between intellectual fencing and the simple: “Ass. Shit.” It is theater of the absurd lined with the truest drama. On top of that, there is the Stranger – a character straight out of Kafka's lost and found office – who begins to regularly deliver them “dirty laundry,” materializing metaphors that are better kept in the mind.
With each scene, the tension grows, the boundaries blur, and the dreamlike rituals become more and more real. In the second part, the characters get out of bed, but only to immerse themselves in the grotesque world of contemporary diets, medications, and “spiritual renewal.” The outside world turns out to be even more absurd than the one enclosed within four walls. The third part returns to the starting point, but now everything is clear. There is no escape, no washing away. Because the laundry room is not a place. It is a state of mind.

Ja zawsze! (Me, Always!) is a three-act stage comedy-drama by Tadeusz Kuta, set in a space suspended between theater and a dream, between rehearsal and life, between absurdity and last chance. The play tells the story of a rehearsal – theatrical and existential – in which forgotten actors try to return to a world that has already forgotten them. It is the story of Betty Gallan and Georg Labrynsky – a couple united by the stage and divided by everything else – pushed back onto the stage by the desperation of the director and the maniacal faith of the producer. Nothing is ready. Everything is falling apart. The rehearsals resemble a ritual of madness rather than a path to the premiere. The dialogues crack with tension, jumping between farce and lyricism, grotesque and reality. Sometimes they burst out laughing, only to strike a tone of deep regret a moment later. She – famous for her cooking, he – infamous for forgetting his lines, try to perform a play about two suicidal people standing on the edge of a roof. At the same time, they themselves are balancing on the precipice of their own past. With each scene, the boundaries blur – between character and actor, between fiction and confession, between rehearsal and reckoning. It is not only a story about preparations for a performance, but theater about theater, love about aging, death about ridiculousness. At the end, there is a song, because theater must have a finale, and there is singing, because life goes on despite everything, and there is irony, because otherwise it would be impossible to bear.

Me, Always! is the perfect text for small stages and great actors, for directors searching in the dark and for audiences who want to laugh – even through tears. It is a story about how there is nothing more serious than ridiculousness and nothing more ridiculous than life. And that even if there are only three months left, you can still say: “Me, always.”

Two people are stuck in an elevator. She is well-groomed, pragmatic, and connected to the institution of “the system.” He is unemployed, homeless, seemingly simple-minded, yet surprisingly eloquent. Their encounter, initially accidental, turns into a series of confrontations, verbal scuffles, confessions, provocations, and attempts to cross boundaries. Not only physical boundaries, but also social, mental, and emotional ones. The elevator—a confined space—becomes a microcosm in which a tense, comical, and at the same time bitter game of survival unfolds. The characters test each other – in dialogues, jokes, arguments, and silence. The boundaries of shame, intimacy, decency, and rationality blur in the rhythm of increasingly absurd events. And when it seems that the story is coming to an end, the loop begins again.
This is a text about loneliness in a society full of superficial communication. About class contempt, false identities, the limits of love and humanity. The clash of languages and worlds – administrative and street – creates a dense, rhythmic stage score. We enter the realms of Gombrowicz, Beckett, and Mrożek, but with an original, local flair and humor.

The play requires precision and courage from the actors – both emotional and physical. It is ideal for staging in a minimalist, claustrophobic space. It can be performed with distance or with full identification with the characters. Excellent material for acting duos – for a theater that is not afraid to think, entertain, and doubt at the same time.