pointless international
brings point of no return

Coco, Buster, Joey, Sugar and Stan Vreeken
once again demonstrate their inability to bring any venture to a successful end
in this brand new show with the last remaining scenes
the leftovers without content and meaning
the most incomprehensible tricks
the cherries on the cake long gone
eaten all the currants out of the porridge

in short: With nothing in their pocket but a large certificate of inability and with fresh and sweet reluctance
the clowns take the step back into the arena and on stage

Very unwise and against better judgement
because there is no way back in Point of no return

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what says the press about 'pointless international'

**** 'what better mirror can you hold to humanity?'
(Sander Janssens, Theaterkrant, 4 Nov. 2017)
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'They are examplelessly good, these four clowns."
(Loek Zonneveld, De Groene Amsterdammer, 30 Nov. 2017)
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**** ' Clowns who come on stage with empty hands and effortlessly create comedy out of thin air.'
(RiRo,12 Oct. 2017)
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**** It's not only to laugh, but also admirable skillful and very clever thought about.
(Karin Veraart, de Volkskrant, 16 juni 2014)
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**** The four of them are grandiose: tragic and laughable, provocative and admirable, chaotic and insane.
(Joukje Akveld, Parool, 16 juni 2014)
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**** It's a hurricane, this sweet war of laughter.
(Loek Zonneveld, Theaterkrant, 14 juni 2014)
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*** Pointless International is largely real clown theater full of virtuoso stunts and hilarious jokes with, admittedly, the occasional literary quotation.
(Sara van der Kooi, Trouw, 16 juni 2014)
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**** a serie of succeeded failures
(Eric Nederkoorn, Dagblad van het Noorden, 4 okt 2014)
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The utility of futility
by Gladys Vantrepotte - Pointless International in Theatre Garonne, Toulouse (France) - 21 december 2015
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calendar

point of no return

2023/2024

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Interview with Buster, Sugar, Joey and Coco

by Erik Bindervoet

A chilly December afternoon at the Rembrandtsquare in misty moody Amsterdam, The darkest time of year, the darkest of times in dark times. Sooty ice slush piling up around the skating rink. Wafts of weed and oliebollen compete with the freezing breath plumes of two decently and warmly hatted clowns waiting in front of a sliding fence closing off the entry to the place where we were supposed to meet each other and the Others : fellow countrymen, actresses, colleagues, cooks, stray dogs, cool cats, eaters, drinkers, floaters, clinkers, humanoids and other exiles from galaxies beyond our knowledge. But always ourselves, echoing through the ages.

Oh, no! The doors are closed, I venture, to break the ice, in my best Internationalian, the langue prefere in clowning circles.

The doors are always closed for clowns, pour nous, poor we..., mutters Sugar under his visible breath, thoughtfully, as always, but unusually talkative for a silent clown, whose act mainly consists of being present. Of being. Being here.

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