Of course, something that cannot be recriminated to date to Pablo Messiez is that he does not risk when choosing his projects. Both in the assemblies that start from their own texts and in their approaches to different works by other authors, there is a deep concern for the human being in the search for his best or most harmonious location in the world; a concern of a philosophical nature that the director usually shows, however, and here comes the risky and original, under dramaturgies and formal parameters that deliberately escape the rational and the logical, and therefore also the philosophical in a strict sense. Taking into account, then, that the starting point in many of his works is the relationship of the individual with a strange or hostile environment for him, and that his theatrical style shuns, in discursive terms, the most Cartesian models, it does not surprise his interest in Samuel Beckett and, more specifically, “Happy Days”, a work that the Argentine has been able to read very well – with all its defects included – to put it on its feet promoting new meanings that are not hidden by other better known ones. Thus, to the inexorable human deterioration that is associated with the passage of time, and that has traditionally been pointed out as one of its possible fundamental themes of the text, it joins here, remarked with scenic force, another issue, recurring in Messiez, which is that of the alienating monotony that causes us the lack of communication or that generates us, rather, the lack of true interest in some of our forms of communication that are painfully futile and stereotyped. “Another divine day,” Winnie says as soon as she starts the show by fine-tuning her words and ironically anticipating the repeated failure in her attempt to speak with Willie, her husband. And it will be repeated in the monologue of the protagonist, with a formidable and tight interpretation of Fernanda Orazi, that frustrated idea of feeling heard, of engaging in a dialogue that will take her out of her gradual eviction. Of course, the interpretive work of Orazi so that the viewer does not disconnect is unimproved, but even she cannot achieve it at all because the work, like all the theater of the absurd, works well as a metaphor only in its entirety. There is no action and therefore no development. Everything is the same in the first minute and the last. And that deliberate choice of the author, past the novel and provocative effect it could have when it was written, inevitably makes it today, let’s not fool ourselves, quite boring.