They succeed on all levels. No company could better perform such a complex work as Scarecrow. It is long, no interval, and no pauses. It is about insects. It is about the loneliness of the housefly, or of the human thing who once lived in the same house.
People collapse into a hopeless darting.
They move with endless rapidity, these creatures of the last era of living matter. Everyone knows where to find such people but don't look now because the mirror too is cracked. The stage is bare but for a tall scarecrow and masses of clothes hanging on racks into which they all change, one after the other, draping yards of rags and useless glitter to no avail. Still no identity. Only the arch torturer, the motor vehicle is lacking.