Through the eyes of death man beholds his own reflection — and discovers only what he himself has given.
Beneath the expansive sky of the Weimarhallenpark, on Sunday 17 August 2025, no ordinary performance unfolded, but a spirited journey: Jedermann, the timeless morality play by Hugo von Hofmannsthal (1874-1929), was reborn in a form that rarely reaches the horizon of theatre. Director Nicolai Tegeler chose restraint over spectacle, depth over outward splendour, and created a performance that made no impression through display, but clung to inner authenticity. It became a meditation on mortality, loss and reconciliation, in which language, breathing, silence — and the night itself — inhabited the stage.
An existential journey between heaven and earth
Hofmannsthal's Jedermann, rooted in the medieval Everyman and written in 1911, during the suffocating eve of the Great War, is permeated with an almost sacred language. The story of the wealthy Jedermann, who meets Death at the height of his power, poses the eternal question: what remains when everything disappears? His wealth, friends and loved ones turn away from him; only faith, good works and conscience remain in his final hours.
"Was hilft mir Reichtum, wenn ich sterben soll?"
"What use is wealth to me if I must die?"
In Weimar, the city that breathed Goethe and Schiller, this ancient text gained new vitality. Nature was no mere backdrop, but an engaged fellow player: the whisper of the trees, the gathering darkness, the starlit sky as a vault of transience — everything breathed in unison with the play, everything contributed to the power of the message.
Julian Weigend: vulnerability in its deepest form
Julian Weigend was the beating heart of the performance. He sketched not a stereotypical rich 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 revellers. His demeanour was arrogant, his words powerful, but beneath that façade lurked doubt. The confrontation revealed an inner conflict: the desire for pleasure clashed with repugnance — a tension that Weigend subtly played out, both through his physical expression and through variations in his vocal tone and volume.
When Death appeared, Weigend's façade fell away entirely. His powerful bearing gave way to smallness, to the vulnerability of the man who must face his own mortality. With a trembling voice he spoke his surrender: "Wie du mich hast zurückgekauft, so wahre jetzt der Seele mein." "As thou hast redeemed me, so guard now my soul."
The silence that followed was almost tangible; his breathing determined the rhythm of the moment, the audience was drawn into the weight of the event. Here Weigend showed with minimal means maximum emotion.
In his encounter with Gute Werke his inner struggle between guilt and hope became visible in beautiful fashion: initially sceptical and rejecting, he ultimately seeks support and forgiveness. His restrained gestures and shy gaze testified to deep control.
Weigend made of Jedermann an archetype of human vulnerability, a quest for meaning at the end of life — a human who laid himself completely bare to his mortality, his body and voice as instruments of his inner struggle.
Thomas Thieme: Death as calm, inevitable presence
At 75 years old, Thieme brought Death who seemed not of this world, stern and old, yet without malice. His voice was heavy as stone, each sentence irrevocable. No theatrical grimace, no frightening specter, but a calm, relentless truth that reflected the inevitable. His voice, deep and somehow soothing, 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 tread and complete command, Thieme transcended the human and became Death an almost philosophical, serene presence that radiated 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 Jedermann lost his masks, layer by layer. Each character stood not only for himself, 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, but together they sounded like an ethical choir.
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Susanne Bormann – Die Buhlschaft (Beloved) "Ich bin kein Weib fürs Sterben, nur fürs Leben." "I am no woman for dying, only for living."
Bormann played no beloved woman, but an icon of desire: brilliant, graceful, yet inwardly empty. Her presence was tangible, her gaze ice-cold. She breathed physicality, but without intimacy — a vision of possession that tolerated no closeness. In her confrontation with the dying Jedermann she showed no compassion, only the pragmatism of worldly love. Her posture, slightly turned away, her words — flat, yet sharply spoken — made clear: she resolutely chose life, not loyalty.
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Ralph Morgenstern – Mammon "Du hast mich nicht geliebt – nur gebraucht." "Thou hast not loved me – only used me."
Morgenstern embodied money itself — glittering, shimmering, but with an undertone of icy mockery. Clad in gold and eccentric clothing, he played temptation with flamboyant flair, but beneath the glitter lurked moral emptiness. He was amusing, until he lowered his mask and let the truth — also for the audience — fall like a cold coin.
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Tine Wittler – Base "Wenn der Mensch kommt, dann gilt das Wort." "When man comes, the word holds true."
Wittler brought lightness and irony, but no complacency. Her Base was sober, worldly, someone who did not deny death, but neither made it more dramatic than necessary. With a sharp gaze and a spark of humor, she balanced between mockery and seriousness.
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Michaela Schaffrath – Gute Werke (Good Works) "Was ich getan, das bleibt." "What I have done remains."
Schaffrath brought Good Works as something that grew slowly, from fragile to powerful. Her voice was soft, yet firm; her gestures small, yet charged. When Jedermann finally allowed her, the energy shifted: here sounded the return of hope. Her physical proximity became comfort, not obligation.
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Alma Rehberg – Der Glaube (Faith) "Ich bin bei dir gewesen, doch hast du mich nicht erkannt." "I was with you, but you did not recognize me."
Rehberg radiated a quiet, resolute presence. Her faith was not a dogmatic voice, but a whisper that became audible only in silence. Her performance was subtle: soft hand gestures, a soothing gaze, and a voice that sounded like the conscience you could not ignore, no matter how hard you tried.
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Bernhard Bettermann – Der Teufel (Devil) "Was recht ist, muß Recht bleiben: er gehört mir!" "What is right must remain right: he belongs to me!"
Bettermann played the devil without theatrical grimace. No fiery demon, but a calculating player. His evil was businesslike, his anger based on justice, not vengeance. He too eventually departed.
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Reiner Schöne – Die Stimme Gottes (God's Voice) "Jedermann, du musst Rechenschaft geben!" "Jedermann, you must give account!"
Schöne was not a physical presence, but his voice filled the Weimarhallenpark with thundering majesty. Not comforting, but absolute. A voice that left no room for doubt or negotiation.
Together, this ensemble formed a living moral fabric. Each character was a facet of the human condition: greed, temptation, vanity, goodness, faith, guilt, fear, hope. They never stood apart from Jedermann, but mirrored, enriched, and questioned him — and thereby us. In their interplay arose not chaos, but clarity: a hall of mirrors in which man saw himself reflected, naked and truthful.
Direction as meditative sculpture
Nicolai Tegeler chose a sober, contemplative approach in which text and nature played the leading roles. No bombast, but a refined staging in which light, sound, and silence were deployed surgically. Nature breathed along: the rustling of leaves, the wind pulling through the trees, the falling evening — everything created a poetic space that invited contemplation. Stillness, breathing, waiting, gazes: moments in which the unspoken came to life. Tegeler showed theater as an inner journey, a listening sculptural work that challenged the audience to reflection.
Music as the whisper of conscience
The musical interludes by Maya Forster, dressed as an angel with wings, added depth. Her voice was no ornament, but an inner echo of Jedermann's struggle — a whisper of hope, connection, and forgiveness that created space beyond language.
Hopefully Jedermann will return to Weimar
Tegeler has found the key to the living heart of Jedermann. Hopefully he will succeed in bringing this work to Weimar again next year, a city steeped in culture and history. Here the play finds its true meaning as a mirror for the soul, as an invitation to self-reflection. From the first moment 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 Jedermann.
More than theater: an incantation
This Weimar edition of Jedermann was not an 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 ask 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 Jedermann was not a scream, but a gentle breath, that invited the spectator to rediscover the depth of human experience anew. In the silence of the evening, where everything faded, the question itself became the most intimate answer. Jedermann reminded us of the essence of our existence — an invitation to find, in the emptiness of the moment, something that endures…