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players in ecstasy and boxers stricken with invisible tremors, the comedy was was usurped by the elegant formality of all it, its technical feat to some strange other world that was decided loneliness and pathos, that was undercurrent bedrock of its spectacle. And this sort of "encarnating" Bieber as the object of devotion he spectacularly exists as, feels obvious. The traditional techniques Pfeiffer used artisans for this incarnation are far more interesting than its conceptual gesture. Not quite funny enough to escape itself, nor dead enough to be camp, as is often the case Pfeiffer's works rimshot high-serious and silly. Also, in the rear, the workers have sculpted the heads of their children, which... not even going to get into that one's Freudian-capitalist undertones, shackling the workers to what they work for, cruel.
