I enjoy travelling. I enjoy puppets. Sometimes — not all the time — I travel for puppets.
I came across a marionette theatre in Salzburg on social media. A beautiful building dedicated entirely to the art form. That night I discovered that around Christmas they stage operas. The Magic Flute and The Nutcracker were on the bill. I worked out the best window to catch at least two shows, and off I went.
Salzburg in winter is something else. The city was covered in snow. Stunning architecture at every turn. I got a bus straight to the theatre and walked into a grand entrance hall lined with puppets — the history of the company, past, present and future. The building was old, but well kept. Grand in a way that felt entirely right for what went on inside.
I took my seat and the show began. Small, delicate marionettes appeared in a snow scene, throwing snowballs at each other. And I was gone. Completely absorbed. I've seen a lot of live marionette work over the years, but this was on another level. The craft, the detail, the whole illusion of it.
My one note: I was two rows from the front, so I could see everything up close — the mechanics, the strings, the workings. Next time I'd sit further back and see whether the image holds right to the rear of the auditorium. I suspect it does. But I'd like to know.
At the end of the show, the curtain rose to reveal ten performers standing on the bridge above, dangling the puppets, smiling and waving. It was a lovely moment.
I went out, picked up some food, and two hours later I was back in my seat for the second show. Excited to see what they'd do with it.
The music started. And then, directly behind me, a grandfather and his nephew sat down. The boy was maybe seven. The grandfather was maybe eighty. And he began to talk. Not a whisper. A full running commentary, in German, as if he was narrating the entire production from memory. Which, to be fair, he probably was.
I turned around twice. The second time we made eye contact. He kept going.
After five minutes I got up and left. I couldn't hold it together.
I went back to the hotel in a quiet rage and fell asleep still grinding my teeth about it.
The next morning I woke up still thinking about it. And then something shifted. Yes, talking through a show is a bit selfish. But look at it another way. That old man had brought his seven-year-old nephew to a marionette opera. Not in front of a television. Not anywhere familiar or easy. He was sitting in an unfamiliar place, in the dark, and he wanted to share it with the kid. He wanted to explain it. He was passing something on.
Puppetry is for everyone. That's the whole point of it. The moment I reframed it that way, the rage dissolved. And I realised they were the thing I actually took away from the evening.
Not the show. Them.