Sunline

Vyrypaev’s two-hander: Barbara and Werner, seven years married, talking through one night. Matveeva set them down on an island of petty-bourgeois domesticity — an armchair, a standard lamp with a crooked shade, a stove with a permanently whistling kettle, a battered fridge — and then let life-size Sosnowsky’s hogweed grow up through the sink, the fridge and the hob. There is hay on the floor.