Mike Müller and Rafael Sanchez inaugurate the new era at the Zurich Schauspielhaus: Their production is funny and harmless

What a harmonious image: amidst a grassy, ​​hilly landscape, a farmhouse with a shingled roof, a light-colored wooden chalet, so cute and clean as if it had just been cut from a craft sheet (stage: Simeon Meier). The Knuchel family has lined up in front of it, the Knuchel farmer with his hands in his pockets, next to him the Knuchel farmer's wife and grandmother, dressed in traditional costumes. Together with visitors from the village, they yodel the Alpine blessing.

As a theatergoer, you're prepared for the worst. As soon as the curtain rises, you expect conflicts, crises, and tragedies. In this respect, this opening to the production of Beat Sterchi's novel "Blösch," to the 2025/26 season, and to the new era of Schauspielhaus directors Pinar Karabulut and Rafael Sanchez, seems surprisingly peaceful.

To the Spanish farmhand Ambrosio, who will soon appear on the farm, it all seems like a grand theatrical set, designed to create a Swiss paradise for him, the stranger. And, of course, it quickly becomes clear that parodic alienations await the postcard world. The first laughs are prompted by a dog that obediently stands up – and even more so by Blösch, the Knuchelhof's favorite cow, who, played by a woman (Mirjam Rast), gets to sing in the choir.

Anyone sitting at the Schauspielhaus on Thursday won't have a successful evening – but at least it will start off friendly and fun. This is primarily due to the new artistic directors, who greet the audience in a pleasantly informal way. Rafael Sanchez, who directed "Blösch" himself, doesn't try to hide his premiere nerves.

But the humor, as expected, is primarily thanks to Mike Müller. The comedian and actor has translated Beat Sterchi's earthy and anarchic "Blösch" novel into lively dialect and adapted it for the stage. He also plays a role himself as a new Schauspielhaus ensemble member. Not as a protagonist, of course. But his humor, his satirical flair for Swiss characters, characterizes the "Blösch" production from the beginning.

Beat Sterchi's 1983 novel is a highly sensual and dynamic symphony of language with two corresponding settings: a farm and a slaughterhouse. In dystopian dramaturgy, the author contrasts chapters of seemingly idyllic, yet in fact fragile and abysmal rural life with chapters of noisy and brutal slaughter. Agriculture and meat processing complement each other to create a grim doom for both animals and humans. In their physical materiality, they both seem subject to the industrial metabolism of feeding, fattening, labor, and exploitation.

Given Sterchi's surging flow of language, Mike Müller has acted as a kind of breakwater, slowing down and tidying up the text somewhat. He divides the contrasting chapters into two parts that ultimately turn out very different. And he tames the force of the words by filtering out the concrete dialogues, clichés, and curses from the text, thus creating vivid roles that are embodied by the almost universally convincing actors.

Michael Neuenschwander comes across as the last upright Swiss citizen, honest but stubborn. Marked by the hard work in the stable, he suffers from tendonitis. Anyone trying to talk him into buying a milking machine knows nothing of his purism: the farmer, who's a scrawny old man, doesn't believe in modernization; he relies on pure nature. The irony of this story is that it's his old, grumpy mother (Karin Pfammatter, outstanding) who's pressuring him to buy a machine. She'd simply prefer the machines to the Spaniard Ambrosio (Alexander Angeletta), who comes to the farm to relieve the farmer's burden.

Initially, the guest worker serves primarily to draw attention to everyday life in the microcosm of the Knuchelhof. Cows are milked, humorously portrayed by the mooing and chewing human staff. In the evening, the farmer goes to the "Ochsen" for a beer. However, problems arise from Blösch, the mother cow who only gives birth to calves and no cows. Instead of the old bull Gotthelf, she is now to be mated by the new, magnificent bull Pestalozzi – but he shows no interest.

Ambrosio proves himself a reliable assistant. But he causes unrest in the village. And in the play, which begins as cheerfully as a lighthearted farce, he adds more explosiveness. Rafael Sanchez presents rural life without any dirt, noise, or stench. Instead, he shows how the stench of xenophobia settles over the rustic world like a poisonous cloud.

The cheesemaker, the mayor, and the bailiff harass the Spaniard, who doesn't speak Swiss German and can barely defend himself, with bureaucratic intimidation, later with hatred and violence. This creates a sour mood at the Knuchel farm. The farmer becomes increasingly stubborn and defiant. And Rahel Hubacher, who previously played the Knuchel farmer's wife as a discreet and understanding wife, suddenly launches into a vicious whining, a spiteful but brilliant rant against her husband, the stubborn goat. This promptly earns a standing ovation from the premiere audience.

The first part of the production ends with the slaughter of a piglet. The Störmetzger promises the Knuchelbauer that he will find the controversial Spaniard a room in the city and a job at the slaughterhouse, where the second part now takes place.

The stage, covered with expansive red cloths, looks more like a hellish lounge. Or are the butchers, resembling dervishes with their white aprons and caps, inside a cow's stomach? The confusion is further compounded by the fact that hardly any slaughtering takes place in this slaughterhouse. Unlike the novel, there is hardly any chaos, no splattered bodily fluids, no animal noises; instead, muffled, distorted electronic loops create a horror-like atmosphere.

The main problem, however, lies in the text. In the second half of the "Blösch" production, it's almost impossible to filter out concrete characters from the literary polyphony. Pfammatter now constantly curses in the Valais dialect, but her role as a merciless foreman soon becomes boring – as do the long-winded remarks of the butcher's apprentice (Florian Voigt). And the fact that old Blösch now appears again as a friendly old woman (Margot Gödrös) may be original, but it's not plausible.

Matthias Neukirch, at least, provides some late highlights as the Swabian-speaking angry citizen Rötlisberger, who clings to his bullshit job as a tripe maker to avoid being put in front of a gut-processing machine. And Mike Müller shines as the frustrated cattle dealer Fritz Schindler, who is desperately torn between the demands of the butchers and the offers of the farmers.

When Ambrosio finally believes he recognizes his own fate as an exploited worker in the old Blösch, only to finally leave the slaughterhouse and Switzerland again, one is left with mixed feelings. The production thrives on the bravura of individual actors. It also brings to the stage the comedy that is subliminally inherent in the novel. But not the sensual violence, the at times outrageous physicality of the literary source material. "Blösch" remains relatively harmless on stage.