Above all, however, it can be a body-voice, a collective facial grimace expressing individuality. The CHORUS of women solves the ideological and artistic problem of feminist theatre by transforming the form and structure of the performance into a message. That's what it's about - the solution to the formal problems of socially engaged theatre is the fact that the very idea of the choir takes on the form of the performance's musical score, and constitutes the acquisition and deconstruction of the cultural framework in which femininity operates. In recent years, I have not seen, not heard, not felt as strong an opinion on Polish religiousness as yesterday evening at the Theatre Institute. Indeed, it is a form of journalism, but it is also a strong statement involving emotions, and is thus utterly artistic in the deepest, even ritual sense of the word. Magnificat: let us rejoice that the choir lets us shout out our anger and unity.

Led by director Marta Górnicka, a choir of some twenty women from different backgrounds and professional fields sings, whispers, shouts, and recites a collage of texts - from Sophocles to Marian hymns, from "Gazeta Wyborcza" articles to Nigella Lawson recipes.

By shouting, whispering, singing and stamping, they turn the humble "God bless you" into an accusation, trial and verdict - all rolled into one. After all, what is there to thank for? For their subordinate role in church, at work and in their own bedroom? For Sunday sermons full of tips on "how to carry your own cross?" For Nigella Lawson, who, as we all know, "bites, licks and sucks?" In the libretto, a report on a female "defender of the cross - made famous through YouTube - is juxtaposed with personal confessions, while crooning turns into screeching, wailing, howling, church singing or conspiratorial whispering. They talk to each other, talk in unison, build a common front - all least for that short moment. But they are not only a shapeless mass, they also perform solo numbers, depart, or provide opposite opinions.

Górnicka frequently beckoned for more and more volume from her singers. If Tu mówi chór… was a fugue or a madrigal, then Magnificat is the loudest movement of a symphony, when all the instruments in the orchestra are playing at once. If Tu mówi chór… was the birth of that new kind of theatre, then Magnificat is its adolescent rebellion.

This woman is obviously the female shaman herself: Górnicka. Her voice, amplified by the vocal power of the on-stage performers - like during a rock concert - boldly and ruthlessly demolishes the chauvinistic foundations of our national culture. The reciting, singing, wheezing, and shouting creates a sensational oratory, orchestrated - with vivid imagination - into twenty-five a cappella voices. In this performance, there are no changes in lighting, no electronic sounds, no instruments. The bodily expressions are reduced and subjected to a strict form of discipline. Individual "compositions" are sometimes crowned with a crescendo, during which twenty-five women stand before the audience and shout a looped fugue of what tend to be grave words - straight in our face. They begin the performance by whispering Hail Marys and end with a beautifully rendered Magnificat.