All right. Good night.

MH370 was a scheduled Malaysia Airlines international passenger flight. 

On 8 March 2014, the Boeing took off from Kuala Lumpur with 227 passengers and 12 crew members towards its final destination, Beijing: an unspectacular routine for 39 minutes and 13 seconds. Then the plane disappeared from radar.

Its disappearance has been described as one of the greatest aviation mysteries of all time - because it seems incredible that something as large as a Boeing could be lost in a world where everything and everyone is probably under surveillance.

And it seems impossible that it would remain lost. Even if the search, which has cost over 150 million euros, has been the most expensive in history and on an imposing scale.

Shortly after the plane disappeared, the author and director's father wrote his grandson four letters to congratulate him on his birthday. The contents were almost identical, with each envelope bearing a special stamp. A year later, no card arrives, the birthday has probably been forgotten and, at some point, this forgetfulness has a name and becomes an illness: dementia. The grandson's name is forgotten, as is the fact that there is one, and finally the certainty of who he is. 

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In 'All right. Good night.', Helgard Haug traces the disappearance, the search and the struggle against uncertainty - using the example of the disappearance of a plane and her own father's onset of dementia. It is the record of an irreversible process.

Music is the artistic medium with the greatest tradition of making disappearance comprehensible. Whether it's a requiem in memory of the deceased or a chorus that, as far back as ancient theatre, acted as chroniclers, recounting unimaginable battles and divine providences. For 'All right. Good night', electro-pop musician Barbara Morgenstern composes for the first time for a classical orchestra, in collaboration with arranger Davor Vincze. Can the 12 musicians of the Zafraan ensemble make sense of the gap and the emptiness that follows?  

Theatre is a place of concreteness, presence and liveness. Or A-Liveness. Everything that happens on stage is imbued with liveliness. The audience can see it for themselves, second after second: these bodies on stage are there for me, this voice is speaking to me - right now, in this moment. We are sharing this very moment, here in a room - this reality.

But what happens in the theatre when the evidence of human presence disappears for the duration of a performance? 

What remains then? 

Just thoughts and memories? The bare theatrical apparatus? The music?

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https://www.rimini-protokoll.de/website/en/project/all-right-good-night

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