Period between regaining independence in 1991 and joining the European Union is remembered in the Baltic countries as “the wild ‘90’s” – the time of turbulent political and social transformation. Polish, Estonian, Lithuanian and Latvian reality was changing at that time with an insane speed, fueled by a conflict between the supporters of change and the protectors of the status quo. But what about people, who never took either side, and found themselves marginalized? Elmārs Seņkovs, a recognized Latvian director, focuses on a strange garage space, a place that was a shelter both for the homo soveticus and for the new citizen of the democratic republic. The action of “Two Garages” takes place simultaneously in Estonia and Latvia and presents a story of young men who reach adulthood just as their countries win their independence. What if both the old and the new world seem foreign to you? How to reconcile opposite social expectations, life goals and conspiracies? What if the inherited father’s garage seems to be the only safe haven?

Od reżysera:

My father had a garage.

My father repaired washing machines.

My father fought with the racketeers.

My father drank.

My father sang loudly. When he was drinking. Sometimes even when he wasn’t drinking.

When I found a condom in my father’s pocket and asked what it was, he was silent for a long time and then he said it was a headache medicine.

My father taught me how to punch someone in the face if that someone abuses me.

My father didn’t play with me when I wanted to, but he took me to the circus. He liked clowns. My father gave me money when I needed it. That is, if he had any money to give.

My father travelled to Estonia once and brought me a fridge magnet. I still have this magnet.

My father’s garage was full of plastic bottles, and I have no idea why he collected them.

My father used to tickle me. That’s how he expressed love. Later, he stopped tickling, and began showing tricks with packs of cigarettes instead.

My father had disappeared… and then came back when no one was waiting for him anymore.

My father broke up with my mother.

My father also collected beer cans… I don’t know why.

My father always smoked, even at home. The smell of cigarettes still reminds me of my childhood.

My father didn’t teach me to drive because he didn’t have a license. And maybe it was good thing, because he really drank a lot.

I don’t know what he was thinking about. I don’t know what he was dreaming of.

I used to be ashamed of him. Now, I’m saying I no longer care, but I probably still do.

My father is not someone you would create a play about.  He is not a hero, although he fought. With himself. With time. All the time.

Me?

My father had a garage.

My father repaired washing machines.

My father fought with the racketeers.

My father drank.

My father sang loudly. When he was drinking. Sometimes even when he wasn’t drinking.

When I found a condom in my father’s pocket and asked what it was, he was silent for a long time and then he said it was a headache medicine.

My father taught me how to punch someone in the face if that someone abuses me.

My father didn’t play with me when I wanted to, but he took me to the circus. He liked clowns. My father gave me money when I needed it. That is, if he had any money to give.

My father travelled to Estonia once and brought me a fridge magnet. I still have this magnet.

My father’s garage was full of plastic bottles, and I have no idea why he collected them.

My father used to tickle me. That’s how he expressed love. Later, he stopped tickling, and began showing tricks with packs of cigarettes instead.

My father had disappeared… and then came back when no one was waiting for him anymore.

My father broke up with my mother.

My father also collected beer cans… I don’t know why.

My father always smoked, even at home. The smell of cigarettes still reminds me of my childhood.

My father didn’t teach me to drive because he didn’t have a license. And maybe it was good thing, because he really drank a lot.

I don’t know what he was thinking about. I don’t know what he was dreaming of.

I used to be ashamed of him. Now, I’m saying I no longer care, but I probably still do.

My father is not someone you would create a play about.  He is not a hero, although he fought. With himself. With time. All the time.

Me?

I too have a garage. It’s called theatre.