The play takes place in the 16th century. Martin Luther, an excommunicated German clergyman, a great reformer of the Church, allows Roman Catholic nuns to leave the monastery and enter into marriage, which is also indirectly supposed to help him gain the support of influential figures of Germany at the time. Everything happens, of course, in secret and under the cover of darkness. However, news of the activities of Luther and his, somewhat sidekick Philip, who enters one marriage after another, spreads throughout Europe and reaches the concerned ears of Vatican priests and even the Pope himself. Moreover, news of Luther's other, more notorious and outrageous actions in Rome are spreading. Such as the famous 95 theses nailed to the door of the castle church in Wittenberg, or not using Latin during mass, which made the sermon unintelligible to the church goers, and the translation of the Bible into German.

The action of the play begins when Catherine von Bora escapes from the monastery with her two closest companions. As a child, the woman ended up in a convent for economic reasons – her father could not afford to support his already overly large family. After spending years behind the monastery's walls and having entered into a secret correspondence with Martin Luther, von Bora decides to leave the order. As it turns out, however, the young woman is not interested in marrying a random person. As she says: she has dedicated her life forever to God. On top of that, she can also read, write and even compose music, so she stands out from the other nuns and therefore immediately rejects the young and handsome (but not very intelligent) candidate chosen for her as a husband. When she finally ends up back at Wartburg Castle, she has a chance to finally get close to Martin Luther himself. However, the former monk, despite establishing a letter-writing religious, and emotional bond with her, is not immediately able to open up to her, much less ready to abandon his vows of chastity for her. Catherine, as a woman and a fugitive nun, does not have many options in the 16th century. She can confess to black magic and hang on the noose as a witch, or marry and give herself to a man.

Adrian Szafranski's Luther/von Bora is an insightful, well-written and intelligent reflection on religious dogma, as well as a poignant analysis of a time when a woman's only choice was marriage or a monastery. The author, who is himself a Lutheran, looks at the titular and all-too-recognized figures in Poland with extraordinary care. He portrays them both as great reformers of the Church and ordinary people who are familiar with anxiety, loneliness and  the need for intimacy. In giving oneself to God, can one also give oneself to another person? As Martin Luther says to Catherine von Bora in the last scene of the play during a dinner together: “God is not man (...) God is love.”

This black comedy, which is, as usual in Anna Burzyńska’s works, filled with numerous unexpected turns of events, takes place in a Funeral Home. Ada, who works there, is a mortuary cosmetologist, but she also does special commissions… On this particular day, she is to work on a body of a man whom “God did not bless with good looks.” When Ada is powdering his nose, the man suddenly comes back to life. The woman faints. After a round of genuinely witty banter, it turns out that the man doesn’t remember who he is nor how or why he “died”. However, when he finds a balaclava in the pocket of his coat, he remembers that he is a hit man – one tasked with killing Ada at that. All because Ada made a fool of a don by mistakenly likening him with makeup to Shrek instead of Al Capone. Unfortunately, the resolute Ada has already stolen his heart, and the man finds it hard to resist her charms. These feelings make him “analyze this” in philosophical contemplation of how to have his cake and eat it too. Seizing the opportunity, Ada takes control of the situation. Now she wants to kill the man, because, as she puts it, “it’s better to take somebody out than to be taken out”. The tables turn, and now it is the man who has to find a way to save his life. What happens next with the pair of lovers from the funeral home? You have to find out for yourself.

The main axis of Mateusz Pakuła's chamber play is the meeting of two extraordinary figures of the 20th century: Harry Houdini (illusionist, escape specialist, debunker of spiritualist mediums) and Arthur Conan Doyle (writer, spiritualist, creator of the character Sherlock Holmes). The men meet in New York in 1922. They are accompanied by their wives: Bess Houdini (professionally also Harry's stage assistant) and Jean Conan Doyle (considered a spiritualist medium by Arthur). Their meeting is marked with an unspoken tension at the beginning, and over time by an increasingly open conflict between the rational and the irrational. At first, however, it might seem that it is the creator of the Sherlock Holmes novels who should be the proponent of what can be grasped and proven by human reason. The paradox of both this meeting and Matthew Pakula's play is that it is Harry Houdini, magician and illusionist, chasing away clouds and "disappearing" elephants on request, who is a believer in all things rational.

As the plot develops, the atmosphere between the couples grows thicker and thicker. A kind of climax of the play becomes the moment when Harry Houdini's mother supposedly begins to speak through Jean Conan Doyle... The magician and illusionist, however, is not fooled and cannot understand how educated people can allow themselves to be drawn into such "whirlwinds of nonsense", and his wife Bess ridicules the spiritualist séance with the statement: "I think the culprit is probably Plato, our reality is just a shadow of the true reality of blah blah blah."

Houdini vs Conan Doyle by Mateusz Pakuła is a brilliantly constructed, realistic and wildly comic play for two actors and two actresses. Both the following scenes of the piece and the distinctive characters are built in such a way that the play draws you into its content and does not allow you to tear yourself away for a moment. Here the author poses a question about the function of the irrational in our lives and forces us to reflect on faith in everything that cannot be explained by reason. What human needs, longings and fears does this faith respond to? And is it really worth tracking down and deconstructing all incomprehensible and inexplicable mysteries? What, in fact, is the difference between a predilection for illusionist tricks and belief in spiritualistic séances, and, following this line of thought - belief in God?

It's hard not to get the impression that this reflection in some way also applies to the medium of theater itself and the "illusionary magic" it produces, and thus also to theatrical tools. So the question remains as to what we choose to see. Arthur Conan Doyle's spiritualistic séance or Harry Houdini's "disappearance" of an elephant?

What would result from the meeting of two famous science-fiction writers – Stanisław Lem and Philip K. Dick? What if the Polish visionary-rationalist had joined forces with the mad energy of the American author? Among other things, these are the questions Mateusz Pakuła takes on in this play. Lem vs Dick is not however a straightforward attempt at finding the answers, it is more about exploring the limits of imagination (the famous authors and Pakuła’s own) on the one hand, and testing and pushing the line separating fiction from reality on the other.

In Lem vs Dick there is indeed a clash of worlds and characters, but not so much as a realistically presented confrontation between the two authors, but as a result of a gesture by Pakuła himself, who consciously marks this confrontation with his own imagination. Facts carelessly stand here next to fiction, conjectures right next to the truth, at times mixing together and making it impossible to distinguish between them, at other times appearing clearly separated, openly challenging each other. The piece balances between derision, artistic humour and thoughtful reflection on literature, theatre and reality, which is reflected in the varied, colourful language.
It all begins with the (in this case completely true) story of the conflict surrounding the Polish edition of Philip K. Dick's Ubik in Lem's translation. The Polish author could not pay the American writer his due in any other way than in zlotys, and these, after all, were worthless in the United States... In an absurd and amusing telephone conversation, Lem proposes to Dick to come to Poland, where he will be able to spend the money due to him immediately.

Pakuła's piece is divided into scenes depicting the development of this conflict and side episodes: once Dick tries to borrow money from his Mother to come to Poland, another time he denounces Lem to the FBI, exposing him as the alleged leader of an international conspiracy. The Polish writer, in turn, in one scene talks to a SB (a communist secret police) officer who threatens him, in another complains on the phone to Ursula K. Le Guin about Dick. Whose perspective an episode is presented from remains deliberately unclear, and the subjective nature of the narrative is clearly emphasised.
The relationship between Dick and Lem serves Pakuła to confront a series of opposites or simply radically different worlds: rationalism and madness, the West and reality from behind the Iron Curtain, calculated pragmatism and narcotic malaise. At the same time, the diagnoses posed here are regularly challenged by the author, the images painted in the work being erased with a single stroke of the pen. These gestures culminate when the author himself appears in the play as a brain in a jar functioning in virtual reality. Apparently he is trying to write a play about Dick, but it doesn't work out for him because he keeps thinking about his dying father.
It turns out, then, that it is the play with fiction, the artistic creation itself and its relation to reality, that are the main focus of Pakuła's interest in this piece. The layering and interlocking narratives, which are at an ever-changing distance from reality, are a recipe for a performance that is as demanding as it is absorbing in its structure, in which the author's hand remains constantly visible.

Who remembers when Pluto was stripped of its planetary status in 2006? Who protested loudly against it then, joining the chorus of the ninth planet’s fans? In whom did the excitement resurface when, in 2015, the New Horizons probe delivered the first high-resolution images of Pluto to Earth, and it turned out to be exceptionally beautiful? Certainly in Mateusz Pakuła, who in Pluto p-brane presents the story of the discovery of Planet X.

'Yes. It’s going to be a cosmic story. It’s going to be a story that happened and that at the same time rather didn’t happen. That is, yes, it is based on a biography, it feeds on the so-called true life of a true human being, who really existed, yet at the same time, it allows for plenty of fabrications' 

– Clyde Tombaugh, the discoverer of Pluto, announces at the beginning of the play. Before Clyde, however, it was Percival Lowell who was the main proponent of its existence and a fierce explorer of Planet X. You may remember him as the author of the theory of the existence of a Martian civilisation that inspired Wells' War of the Worlds.

Pakuła's 'Cosmic story' presents a number of versions of the improbable meeting between Lowell, who was ridiculed in the scientific community, and Clyde, the actual discoverer of Pluto. However, Pakuła makes no attempt to predict the likely course of such an encounter, instead playing with the very possibility of it in a series of brilliant and amusing scenes that verge on the absurd. Once, Percival destroys the paper model of the Solar System that Clyde brought him as a gift, complaining that this ‘crap made out of celluloid’ has the wrong proportions. At other times, Percival is a jaded, clown-like paranoiac who fiercely pretends to be out of it.

Although one can hardly find seriousness in Pakuła's historical play, it is by no means meaningless. Somewhere between the frivolous jokes, references to pop culture and science, but also letters from Martians or the author's songs mixed with historical facts, a long-lost dream rears its head, the afterimages of which we can see in the story about the discovery of Pluto. A dream of discovery for the sheer joy of discovery, of knowledge without purpose. And perhaps also (at least a little) of blurring the boundaries between art and science. We have lost the ability to marvel at the universe, Pakuła seems to be saying. However, he himself has certainly not lost it, as evidenced by Clyde's final monologue, in which the story of black holes, trillions of galaxies and trillions of stars, instead of becoming a boring lesson, is transformed into a rousing appeal – more stories! Because only they can make sense of the immensity of the cosmos.

In Young Stalin, Słobodzianek invites the audience on a journey through pivotal events in the life of the future dictator, recreating in a distorting mirror the decadent yet politically charged atmosphere of 1907. It is by no means a biographical piece or a psychological study, but rather a kind of ritual. In  a grotesque rhythm, the play disenchants the figure of the tyrant, inflated by history, scholarly studies, accounts and fantasies.
In 2013, when the play was written, the mocking jabs at an ardent idealist with a gangster-like modus operandi could have been seen as a warning or expression of concern. After all, analogies to modern times in the play were easy to spot. However, in today’s context, as the idea of Great Russia once again reaps a bloody harvest across the eastern border, Słobodzianek's portrayal of Parisian ladies performing a cancan at Stalin's wedding takes on a more ominous tone, resembling a danse macabre – although devoid of any semblance of equality in the face of death. There is no point in disenchanting Putin, and the opportunity for a history lesson seems long past, heightening the significance of the play. Słobodzianek's sarcastic humor, while amusing, now evokes a sense of fear. Thus, the laughter here is not so much a respite from the horrors of the still ongoing war, but rather an unsettling echo of the sinister chuckle of history repeating itself.

The play offers ample opportunities for laughter: in a Viennese café, where Stalin meets Trotsky, Freud and Jung engage in a duel of complexes at the neighboring table (Oedipus vs. Electra), Hitler convinces Wittgenstein that the fate of the world hinges on upcoming art college exam. On the other hand, in London, a convention of revolutionaries turns out to be financed by an American capitalist (harboring the hope that post-revolution Russia will use the soap he produces), and Lenin's discussions with the Mensheviks on political strategies are repeatedly interrupted by disputes over unequal accommodations for comrades.

In spite of being filled with Parisian cancan, Georgian folklore, and political satire, the story has a tragic ending nonetheless. When an idea turns into action, and revolutionaries attack a convoy transporting a substantial sum of money, the beauty of the political utopia becomes obscured by a bloody red. The robbery results in the deaths of bystanders, including children, and the banknotes turn out to be unusable as they are all from the same marked series. There is nothing left to do in the aftermath beyond "icing" the suspicious comrades, whom furious Stalin unceremoniously shoots in the head. At the order of the future dictator, music plays as he once again dances the lezginka... this time, however, on a stage of corpses.

In Genius, the ailing Stanisławski seeks an audience with Stalin with the hope of saving the repressed Meyerhold. Employing subterfuge and flattery, Stanisławski convinces the dictator into making a deal: in exchange for teaching Stalin how to better play the role of a ruler, the latter will grant his three wishes. And so, the famous method of physical action is used in a completely non-artistic context. After all, in the words of its creator, “Ruling over a state can be an art. Also one of acting...”. Thus, the dictator learns to utilize gestures, props and proper intonation to inspire even more respect, and he also learns how to reveal physical weaknesses to create a trustworthy image. Satisfied with the lesson, Stalin complies with Stanisławski's requests and, in a gesture of generosity, decides to return the favor by teaching the director how to administer beatings and punishments, using the recalcitrant chairman of the Committee for the Arts as an example.

Słobodzianek's play is part of a series of Quartets - chamber plays written during the pandemic. While each stands as an independent work, the dramas interweave seamlessly, complementing each other through shared ideas, form, and subject matter. The author blends in varying proportion historical facts, meticulously gathered through in-depth research, with anecdotes, gossip or even fiction. This strategy allows the exploration of the great ideas of twentieth-century theater history, where prominent artists engage in discussions amidst the constant interference of politics in matters of art. Meyerhold's biomechanics clashes with Stanislavsky's method of physical action, and Kantor meets Grotowski in a café in Kraków. And it is the founder of the Theatre of 13 Rows, appearing as the protagonist of most of the Quartets, who turns out to be of particular interest to the author. However, as Dariusz Kosiński notes in the afterword to the book edition of the Quartets, the focus is not on studying and interpreting Grotowski’s work. Instead, he “appears as one who, through his very presence, poses inquiries about theater and the sense of theater-making”. This is the reason why appreciating Słobodzianek's series doesn't demand a background in theater history.

The narrative is peppered with spicy details of Moscow’s theater life at the time and discussions of theatrical aesthetics in the context of communist doctrine. Although Genius initially appears to be a light and entertaining play that is a pleasure to read and immerse oneself in, Słobodzianek leaves the audience with a lingering sense of hollowness and contemplation regarding the role of art. In the hand of the dictator, art becomes just another issue for the authorities, managed akin to filling party seats. It is, however, a constructive doubt, it would seem, one that prompts the audience to look more closely at the relations between art and politics.