She is screaming. A long razor sharp scream. Her long red hair is wet and wriggles around her throat as snakes. A bandage twines around her breasts, agitated by her stormy breath. Her legs open up like a scissor, with her claw-like hands she rips to shreds her brownish tights and presses out a black package, a trash bag consisting the two sons of Jason, murdered by their own mother Medea. Students from national art academy for acting present Heiner Müllers  "Medea Material" on fifth floor of an old labyrinthine house full of murmurs and secrets. "We did this play in our spare time" says Natascha, a tall skinny director wearing a black t-shirt announcing "Я люблю своих детей"  (ya lyublyu svoikh detey) what means "I love my children". Tradition, you are confirmed by different artists you met, tradition is still carved in stone, and blood sweat and nudity are still banned from serious acting in theaters. So young acting students rehearse the break through in their spare time and on hidden stages. You have to know the labyrinth or you need a local guide, a stalker - you remember tarkovskijs film from the eighties? - and you need definitely Ariadne who speaks the cryptic language and spins a red thin line through the unknown. Sergei is your guide your door opener who brings you to the underground venues and knows the code for the gates you have to cross observed by sleepy guards.