All of them are considered classics today, although that was never what they desired to become, and they seem to speak a similar language. A language of words which well forth from deep in their hearts and which are as truthful as only the truth can be. A language of words which tirelessly rebel against violence, falsehood, and betrayal. Words which will never cease to accentuate the truth, tenderness, and love. Three uncompromising fighters, none of whom lived to be fifty. The dancing theatre with the subtitle A solo for three is not a purely narrative story. It rather depicts pictures intertwining into a kind of mosaic, which is a “flashback” of somebody whose name might have been Jacques, or Vladimir, or perhaps Karel…but it does not really matter.

This “somebody” carries inside him fragments of all three of them and, as a matter of fact and to a certain extent, he talks for them today. He voices their views through images, both epic as well as lyrical, with the spirit of a sharp protest within his characteristic humour, reaching from gentle pathos and endless grief up to awareness of the inevitability of loneliness and death. The same unchained inner energy which gives rise to something novel and unique is, however, the energy which sucks the life out of them and kills them at the same time.