Through the eyes of death, man beholds his own reflection — and discovers only what he himself has given.

Beneath the expansive sky of Weimarhallenpark, on Sunday, August 17, 2025, unfolded not an ordinary performance, but an inspired journey: Everyman, the timeless morality play by Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874-1929), was reborn in a form that rarely graces the theatrical horizon. Director Nicolai Tegeler chose restraint over spectacle, depth over outward grandeur, and created a production that made its impact not through display, but through an unwavering commitment to inner truth. It became a meditation on mortality, loss, and reconciliation, where language, breath, silence — and the night itself — inhabited the stage.

An existential journey between heaven and earth

Hofmannsthal's Everyman, rooted in the medieval Everyman and written in 1911, during the suffocating eve of the Great War, is saturated with an almost sacred language. The story of the wealthy Jedermann, who encounters Death at the zenith of his power, poses the eternal question: what remains when everything vanishes? His wealth, friends, and loved ones turn away from him; only faith, good deeds, and conscience remain in his final hours.

“"What good is my wealth if I must die?"

"What good is my wealth if I must die?"

In Weimar, the city where Goethe and Schiller breathed, this centuries-old text found new life. Nature was no mere backdrop, but an engaged co-player: the whisper of the trees, the encroaching darkness, the starlit sky as a vault of transience—everything breathed with the performance, everything lent weight to the message's power.

Julian Weigend: vulnerability in its purest form

Julian Weigend was the beating heart of the production. He sketched not a stereotypical wealthy man, but a human in crisis. His loneliness and fear were palpable, his vulnerability awakened deep empathy in the audience.

In the opening scene, we saw him as a self-assured, almost indifferent man, surrounded by party guests. His bearing was arrogant, his words powerful, yet beneath that façade lurked doubt. The confrontation revealed an inner conflict: the desire for pleasure clashed with revulsion—a tension Weigend played subtly, both through his physical expression and the variations in his voice's pitch and volume.

When Death appeared, Weigend's façade crumbled entirely. His powerful bearing gave way to smallness, to the vulnerability of a man forced to face his own mortality. With a trembling voice, he spoke his surrender:
"Wer du mich hast zurückgekauft, so wahre jetzt der Seele mein."
"As you have redeemed me, so now preserve my soul."

The silence that followed was almost tangible; his breathing set the rhythm of the moment, drawing the audience into the weight of the event. Here Weigend showed maximum emotion with minimal means.

In his encounter with Good Works, his inner struggle between guilt and hope became beautifully visible: initially skeptical and resistant, he ultimately seeks support and forgiveness. His restrained gestures and bashful gaze spoke of deep self-control.

Weigend made of Everyman an archetype of human vulnerability, a search for meaning at life's end—a man who laid himself completely bare to his mortality, his body and voice as instruments of his inner struggle.

Thomas Thieme: Death as a calm, inevitable presence

At 75 years old, Thieme brought a Death that seemed not of this world, stern and ancient, yet without enmity. His voice was heavy as stone, each sentence irrevocable. No theatrical grin, no frightening specter, but a calm, implacable truth reflecting the inevitable. His voice, deep and somehow restful, carried the words as an inescapable pronouncement:
"Ich bin der Tod, der niemand verschont."
"I am Death, who spares no one."

With monastic sobriety, a slow pace, and complete mastery, Thieme transcended the human and became Death itself—an almost philosophical, serene presence radiating nothing but peace.

An ensemble as moral mosaic

Where Weigend was the beating heart, the ensemble wove the soul around him. It was a hall of mirrors in which Everyman lost his masks, layer by layer. Each character stood not only for itself, but for an aspect of the human condition: sin, vanity, loyalty, faith, temptation, loss, conscience. The strength of this cast lay in its harmony: each brought something unique, yet together they resonated like an ethical chorus.

• Susanne Bormann – Die Buhlschaft (The Paramour)
  "Ich bin kein Weib fürs Sterben, nur fürs Leben."
  "I am no woman for dying, only for living."

Bormann played no lover, but an icon of desire: radiant, graceful, yet inwardly hollow. Her presence was palpable, her gaze ice-cold. She breathed physicality, but without intimacy—a vision of possession that tolerated no closeness. In her confrontation with the dying Everyman, she showed no compassion, only the pragmatism of worldly love. Her posture, slightly turned away, her words—flat, yet sharply articulated—made clear: she chose resolutely for life, not for loyalty.

• Ralph Morgenstern – Mammon
  "Du hast mich nicht geliebt – nur gebraucht."
  "You never loved me—only used me."

Morgenstern embodied money itself — brilliant, glittering, but with an undertone of icy mockery. Dressed in gold and eccentric clothing, he played the tempter with flamboyant flair, but beneath the glitter lurked moral emptiness. He was amusing, until he dropped his mask and let the truth — for the audience too — fall like a cold coin.

• Tine Wittler – Base
  "When man arrives, the word holds true."
  "When man comes, the word holds."

Wittler brought lightness and irony, but no complacency. Her Base was sober, worldly-wise, someone who didn't deny death but didn't make it more dramatic than necessary. With a sharp eye and a spark of humor, she balanced between mockery and seriousness. Base was sober, worldly-wise, someone who didn't deny death but didn't make it more dramatic than necessary. With a sharp eye and a spark of humor, she balanced between mockery and seriousness.

• Michaela Schaffrath – Good Works
  "What I have done remains."
  "What I have done stays."

Schaffrath brought Good Works as something that grew slowly, from fragile to powerful. Her voice was soft but steady; her gestures small but charged. When Everyman finally let her in, the energy shifted: here sounded the return of hope. Her physical presence became comfort, not obligation. Good Works as something that grew slowly, from fragile to powerful. Her voice was soft but steady; her gestures small but charged. When Everyman finally let her in, the energy shifted: here sounded the return of hope. Her physical presence became comfort, not obligation.

• Alma Rehberg – Faith
  "I was with you, yet you did not recognize me."
  "I was with you, but you did not know me."

Rehberg radiated a quiet, steadfast presence. Her faith was no dogmatic voice, but a whisper only heard in silence. Her performance was subtle: soft hand gestures, a calming gaze, and a voice that sounded like the conscience you couldn't ignore, no matter how hard you tried.

• Bernhard Bettermann – The Devil
  "What is right must remain right: he belongs to me!"
  "What is right must stay right: he is mine!"

Bettermann played the devil without theatrical grimace. No fiery demon, but a calculating player. His evil was businesslike, his anger grounded in justice, not revenge. In the end, he too withdrew.

• Reiner Schöne – God's Voice
  "Everyman, you must give account!"
  "Everyman, you must answer for yourself!"

Schöne was no physical presence, but his voice filled the Weimarhallenhof Park with thundering majesty. Not comforting, but absolute. A voice that left no room for doubt or negotiation.

Together, this ensemble formed a living moral tapestry. Each character was a facet of the human condition: greed, temptation, vanity, kindness, faith, guilt, fear, hope. They never stood apart from Everyman, but mirrored, enriched, and questioned him—and thereby us. In their interplay, no chaos emerged, but clarity: a hall of mirrors in which man saw himself reflected, naked and true.

Direction as meditative sculpture

Nicolai Tegeler opted for a spare, contemplative approach in which text and nature took center stage. No bombast, but a refined staging in which light, sound, and silence were deployed with surgical precision. Nature breathed along: the rustling of leaves, the wind moving through the trees, the falling evening—all of it created a poetic space that invited reflection. Stillness, breathing, waiting, glances: moments in which the unspoken came to life. Tegeler showed theater as an inner journey, a listening sculptural work that challenged the audience to reflect.

Music as the whisper of conscience

The musical interludes by Maya Forster, dressed as an angel with wings, added depth. Her voice was not decoration, but an inner echo of Everyman's struggle—a whisper of hope, connection, and forgiveness that created space beyond language.

Hopefully returns Everyman to Weimar

Tegeler has found the key to the beating heart of Everyman Hopefully he will succeed in bringing this work back to Weimar next year, a city steeped in culture and history. Here the piece finds its true meaning as a mirror for the soul, as an invitation to self-reflection. From the first minute, you are drawn into the story, and before you know it, two hours have passed, in which you have walked the path of mortality together with Everyman.

More than theater: an incantation

This Weimar edition of Everyman was no extravagant spectacle, but a quiet call for reflection, a whisper from the past that found its meaning in the silence of the moment. It did not ask for dramatic answers, but invited the audience to pose the question themselves: what remains when everything falls away?

Tegeler proved that classical repertoire need not be a frozen relic, but a living organism, a conversation between past and present. This Everyman was not a scream, but a gentle breath, inviting the spectator to rediscover the depth of human experience. In the silence of the evening, where everything faded, the question itself became the most intimate answer. Everyman reminded us of the essence of our existence—an invitation to find, in the emptiness of the moment, something enduring nonetheless…