The play begins. The atmosphere reminds one of a shipyard - a symphony
begins, composed of the noise of work, clanging and screeching as in a rolling
mill - snippets of incomprehensible work orders fly through the air, sparks
fly, engineers run around, and then, out of the confusion of pipes and tubes,
there rises the bow of a ship, many metres high. A giant double wheel is the
motor, and a crane hoists the command bridge. In an amazingly short time the
ocean giant emerges.
The legend of the twentieth century is created out of nothing, out of
chaos, as if by magic. The christening of the ship follows. The fat, laughing
owner and his puffed-up lady take the luxury cabins. Then the launching. A
one-legged stoker is placed on top of the gigantic turbine. He is the engine;
he limps around on his crutch, trying to keep the ship in perpetual motion.
The ship's orchestra plays a discordant parody of a farewell melody, and
there she goes - the ship sets sail. And shortly afterwards, of course, it runs
into the iceberg. Nobody seems to notice, nor to be interested: A huge pig is
roasted and served up at the banquet, fountains of champagne spurt high into
the night, the musicians play, attached to crane jibs. The mood on board is
relaxed. But down in the machine room, the stoker is struggling like a lone
Sisyphus against the unfolding doom, but his efforts are futile. He tries to
block off the first spray of water with his crutch. But the spray turns into
floods. He is powerless. The signs of impending disaster are becoming more and
more visible, but the people on board stubbornly look the other way: Here,
someone decides to have a bath, there, the cook plucks a chicken. Sailors are
ordered to scrub the deck - until everything is under water. The ship catches
fire, collapses, and sinks.
In the end, the »Titanic«, the technological wonder, is nothing but a
mass grave. A gruesomely beautiful apocalyptic feast, a splendid orgy of a
downfall.
