This is the debut production of Iya Patarakatsishvili, a political activist who ventured into theatre to undertake this harrowing project. While it might seem apt to describe it as a play about the nature of pain, it is more accurately about the nature of unfreedom—fear, and what becomes of a person trapped in the prison cell of that unfreedom.

Upon entering the theatre, the audience is immediately immersed in the play’s atmosphere. One actor lies asleep, while another paces from corner to corner, staring vacantly into an indeterminate abyss of horror.

Each character resides in their own concrete prison cell, furnished only with a metal bench and a bowl for a prison food calls balanda in russian (how does one even translate “баланда” into English? And why do I so readily embrace this prison jargon?). The physical walls are absent, hovering 30–40 centimetres above the floor. Yet even in this ephemeral form, they are insurmountable. Behind them looms a metal walkway, ominously suggestive of the clanging steps of a guard’s boots. The audience’s suspicion proves correct—the clang becomes deafening, and the strike of a baton against the walkway pierces the air with a thunderous roar, jolting everyone in their seats.

Gradually, line by line, we piece together who the prisoners are and why they are there. The regime’s identity remains deliberately unnamed, inviting each viewer to project their own pain onto it. The prisoners—a doctor and an actor—have never seen each other. They communicate by tapping spoons against the concrete walls of their men’s prison.

Fear, mistrust, hope, and despair cycle through them as fluidly as the bowl and spoon shift between corners of the doctor’s cell. These objects, like the hands of an imagined clock, mark the passage of hours, days, and weeks.

Valdez (Vaj Ali) is a fragile Pierrot, his white makeup long gone, stubble grown in, yet the essence of a bewildered poet remains etched in his eyes. His movements resemble those of a setter dog, lost without its prey. Only yesterday, there were bright lights, applause, and interviews. Now, he sits in a concrete cage, beaten senseless for no reason. His body trembles uncontrollably, his flesh betraying him, existing almost as an entity apart. He leaves his hand suspended in the air, or loses his gaze somewhere in the ceiling.

Wallace (Richard Harrington) is older, more composed. He maintains his integrity even under inhuman conditions, his prison uniform fitting him as if it were a tailored suit. You half-expect him to consult a patient and head out for dinner at a restaurant, followed by an evening at the opera. His steady baritone is soothing, even within these concrete walls—a strange therapeutic effect. He fears the torture as much as anyone, yet seems to accept it as an inherent symptom of a society’s illness. Perhaps incurable—but at least worthy of study.

The tense dialogue, steeped in horror and hopelessness, is punctuated by the blare of sirens and the sudden flash of red lights, heightening the tension. But the arrival of the prison guard (Ross Tomlinson)—the third figure in this tragedy—plunges everything into a void of unending terror.

Young, strong, and not at all a fool (God help us—he even knows Cyrano’s name!), he struts across the resounding metal floor, savouring his power, reveling in it, losing his humanity with every passing moment. He speaks like a street thug, mocking, insulting, and degrading his victims. The horror of his transformation is yet to come.

The baton at his hip is not just for show. It serves its grim purpose.

A black hood is pulled over one prisoner’s head—crookedly, so that the fabric folds resemble ears, and the corner juts out like a boastful, absurdly raised nose on this eyeless fabric head. At that moment, the name Cyrano de Bergerac is uttered, grotesquely juxtaposing Rostand’s tender tragedy of unrequited love with the merciless torments stripping away all humanity here. No poetry, no love. Only inhuman suffering, leaving nothing human behind.

There is a genre called “grand guignol.” It originated almost accidentally when a self-taught dentist created a glove puppet with a comically menacing nose to entertain his patients. Monsieur Guignol (a relative of Punch, incidentally) would comically beat anyone and everyone with a stick, making audiences laugh and easing their fears of physical pain before enduring tooth extractions without anesthesia. Over time, however, the comedic elements were stripped away, leaving behind the raw flesh of horror. The term “grand guignol” came to denote plays that depicted physical torment and unbearable acts of violence.

And so, when the guard stomps once more along the grooved metal corridor, his arms elbow-deep in blood—thick and shiny, like oil—the baton slaps against his knee unevenly, his steps trembling. He sobs and wails, recounting how he tortured someone. In breaking them, he has shattered himself.

The ensemble of this production—three actors—evokes the grotesque puppet terminology of Punch and Judy: the Doctor, the Actor, and Punch with his club. But here, in this theater of unrelenting horror, the laughter of a carnival crowd is replaced by oppressive silence, broken only by cries and blows.

This isn’t horror for horror’s sake. To enter the theater, the audience must pass through an exhibit of photographs depicting political prisoners in Russia. Each image is caged behind bars, their gazes meeting ours through the metal grid.

Breathing after Unseen is physically difficult. Not just because witnessing suffering—albeit staged and performed—is hard. Yes, the blood is fake, the baton strikes slow-motioned—thank God. But the audience knows all too well that somewhere, right now…

Even when the sobbing guard opens the cell doors, the prisoners do not leave. Their message is clear: Where would we go? Even if we escape the confines of this cell, where can we flee from the crushing weight of Cyrano’s little nightmare?