progetto demoni

The latest, encouraging signal from Lecce: Demons-Fragments, by Alessandro Miele and Alessandra Crocco, that draws on Dostoyevsky's novel and extrapolates from it little pieces, intended for one spectator at a time. Tiny, full-frontal, intimate, immediate fragments. I've only seen the first of them, Marija, in the wonderful setting of the Tamborrino-Cezzi palace. A room lit by the dim light of a candle: she waits, sitting, then she speaks to you, she is looking at you but she doesn't see you. It is an encounter, a return, an abyss: on the instant you plunge into the situation and it is made of guilt, absence, disappointment. Then she looks you in the eyes and her stare, such poignant, is enough to say goodbye.

Gli interni dei palazzi storici, spesso sconosciuti o inaccessibili, presentano sorprese meravigliose, soprattutto quando si respira l'aria del tempo e sembra, attraversando una porta, di entrare nei secoli passati. Le ampie scalinate del Palazzo Candiotti a Foligno e del Palazzo Ginnasi Ghetti a Faenza rendono l'entrata e l'uscita come un'ascesa o uno sprofondamento interiori. Poi ci sono le parole e i personaggi di Dostoevskij, talmente distillati da suonare semplici e da far vibrare archetipi letterari legati all'abbandono, al tradimento all'amore. Poi c'è un'attrice molto brava, e accade così di essere trapassati da uno sguardo e allo stesso tempo di poter osservare per pochi interminabili minuti le sfumature di un'anima, come accade nelle pagine dei grandi romanzi russi. E infine ci siamo noi (tu, io…), il pubblico, in entrambi i casi invitato a partecipare uno per volta, da soli, guardando e ascoltando non da spettatori, ma da personaggi; anche noi precipitati improvvisamente dentro la storia.

From Dostoyevsky's Demons, Alessandro Miele and Alessandra Crocco extrapolate three gloomy Fragments, minimalist pieces, each one lasting five minutes and each one for one spectator at a time. A well arranged rite of waits that culminates in the halls where Marija first, then Liza and finally the stuck in mud Stavrogin harshly and hopelessly face each other. The vis-à-vis encounter is unsettling, only the candle light with a lugubrious and proud, tender and terrible, gentle and wild, friendly and cynical, now sensual now maternal Alessandra Crocco, among nineteenth-century carpets and couches, while in the last encounter Alessandro Miele dances in the pungent ammonia smelling mud on the notes of Iggy Pop's The Passenger: "I am a passenger/And I ride and I ride/I ride through the city's backside".

A new way of being there that reconciles me with the theatre and its times. A refined theatre, that keeps in its soul the times of literature. Indeed, in these few minutes I live a time that excessively transcends the present moment. She speaks and then she speaks to me. She's whispering a song. Her eyes match mine without notice. The encounter of souls tells a grievance, an estrangement that belongs to both of us […] I happily leave this first appointment and I look forward to meeting Liza. Here, the rejection by which the first fragment was defined gives way to sensuality, that also is, however, fear of being left, as in the reflection of a black dress on a grand piano […] The suffering paralysis that defines the body in the first fragment grows into slow approaching in the second one, till exploding in a frenetic movement in the last of the three. The third fragment interrupts the enchantment of the dual connection, opening up to a more canonical audience. We enter the familiar palace in a group of ten spectators. And with the usual "esprit d'admiration" we climb the wide steps. In the distance we hear the voice of Iggy Pop. And as we come in we meet with Nikolaj. He's almost possessed, as he chases the rhythm of The Passenger.

The following is crossing the corridors ― of extraordinarily crumbling beauty – of Tamborrino Cezzi palace where the actors have set the actions and the lives of the main characters of this tripartite movement. Fragment #1 / (the gaze of) Marija A palpable tension between the spectator and his guide. A surreptitious glance to the inner garden. Some certainties and some intuitions. You know that the performance will be structured in a one-to-one relationship: "You don't need to do anything, just sit and listen", Alessandro Miele explains at the entrance. You know it won't last more than ten minutes and that it is part of a study that will continue in the following two days. Instead you sense a close, maybe invasive, frontality between the actor and the spectator. "Please", the actor invites the spectator in the hall, he asks him to sit on a pouf and meet Marija. No matter how much one might love Dostoyevsky and suppose what is going to happen, there's a strong sense of alienation, strengthened by a confusing darkness. The guide disappears, you glimpse a faint light and you go on, following the tone of a distant singing. Then Marija appears, an absence rather than a presence. She recognizes you, she looks at you, she talks to you. She's descriptive, meditative. Her big eyes misted by a very sweet insanity. The spectator makes eye contact with her, she is not afraid of anything: She's not talking to you, she's not thinking of you, but her Nikolaj. The close distance becomes the impalpable setting of her entirely verbal revenge, aggressive and yet uttered in the impossibility of its fulfillment. Meanwhile, in the dark hall, you get used to darkness, her eyes disclose their cloudy blue and, after a suddenly changed inflection, they order you to leave her alone. In this fragment, as in the following ones, you repeatedly get in and out the traditional functions of fruition: acting technique, spect-(act)ing technique, narration, drama mix up in Marija's world/eyes, in her calm and unwavering voice, in her eloquent fixity. The functions stretch like a rope on which the actress consciously walks while we're groping our way. Thus, Dostoyevsky's work – edited into a monologizing, analytical dramaturgy – assaults and unsettles you, without go too far, it's measured, it creates intimate counterpoints, not surface, it convinces you and, by means of the logic of seriality, it intrigues you. Fragment #2 / (the step of) Liza Liza is bold. Like Marija, she faces your eyes and frightens you, but she's got a light and masculine, provocative and sensual self-confidence. The palace that hosts us is the same as the first episode, the itinerary through its corridors is different, but the spectator has a greater awareness and he knows what is going to happen, therefore he quickly goes on, well-aware, part of the game that has been set up for him. "Thank you for coming again" Alessandro Miele begins, alluding to a tacit complicity. Last evening, the actor tells us, in the same locations a party took place, and Liza has spent the night with Nikolaj. "You are Nikolaj. You will just have to sit and wait". The listening action of the first movement now becomes a waiting action the, as far as we know, might turn into a quiet and lonely act. It's a wonderful room: a bookshelf, a grand piano, sideboards in the corners, two mirrors, the entrance door behind us. Liza appears reflected in one mirror, she works her way into the corner of your inattentive eye. She advances towards us and she talks to us with the clear objective of never allow us to forget who we are: once again Nikolaj, his demon, the one who wants to drag her in a gloomy place, in the passivity of an indolent life. But Liza is frivolous and she gives the impression that she's twirling around us with words, even though she remains still, with her bare feet, her lively girlish gaze. Again, a goodbye that gives a taste of revenge: the actress circumnavigates of 180 degrees the armchair, in which we're petrified, and then she leaves, like a shadow, as though nothing had happened. We feel a moderate pity for the character that we have been called to perform, for this passive, emotionless monster. Both the actors artfully express one of the main features of the protagonist of Dostoyevsky's text through the involvement – that first the listening then the wait got passive – of the spectator. You are Nikolaj, even if you are a woman and you live in the XXI century. Even if you'd rather react. Frammento #3 / (the smell of) Nikolaj Nikolaj is an intoxicating smell, a corrosive white spirit. He's earth-covered, he's wriggling in a disjointed, tiring, heavy dance. His feet are sunk in the wet earth and finally he speaks, intentionally monotonous, marking his story with long pauses, underlining the elegance of the evil. This time there are ten of us, we're arranged in two lines, definitively frontal, and we witness the static and, always, almost indifferent narration of the horror committed to a young woman – who has been seduced and finally driven to suicide. Nikolaj involves us in an existential transition: the awareness of a negative nihilism, the same one that turned Marija and Liza into victims. In the end, the character dismisses us, with an imposing manner, as if until that moment he deliberately allowed us to peep and now he was tired of us, and himself too.

"Frammento #1 Marija", interpretata da Alessandra Crocco, realizzato al club 900.Introdotti in limbo tra la realtà materiale e le pagine di Dostoevskij, l'invito è a dimenticare o quantomeno a lasciare fuori le angosce della propria realtà materiale e psichica per poter così scendere sottoterra, in cantina, dove ti aspetta lei, Marija, che con lo sguardo perso nell'immensità del buio, canticchia una melodia seduta su una sedia, con la luce timida di una candela che le illumina il viso. Poi si volta, "sei tornato" dice, e da quel momento l'ipnosi è totale, il rapimento è condiviso e l'abbandono è uno scambio reciproco. Lei, abbandonata da te, delusa e addolorata, tu abbandonato a lei, sorpreso e svuotato. 7 minuti per crollare divorato da un senso di colpa tanto irrazionale quanto reale, sconvolto dalla situazione e dalle sue parole, fino al momento finale,"Vattene… Vattene…" … Un addio segnato dai suoi occhi e dalle lacrime sulle sue guance. "Frammento #2 Liza", interpretata da Alessandra Crocco, realizzato a Palazzo Paolo V.L'incontro questa volta non avviene nel sottosuolo bensì in una delle sale ai piani alti del Palazzo. Lo spettatore, invitato a calarsi nei panni di Stavrogin (il protagonista dei Demoni di Dostoevskij) attraversa i corridoi ed entra all'interno di una stanza poco illuminata, si siede ed attende. Da una porta lasciata semiaperta entra Liza, è l'alba. La donna, dopo aver trascorso la notte con Stavrogin, cammina a passo lento e, con movimenti sinuosi e placidi, si arresta al centro della stanza. Parla di lei, di ciò che è appena accaduto. Appare serena ma è con rassegnazione che si confessa, vuole andare a Mosca. Tutto è ovattato e in pochi attimi crollano i confini tra reale e non vero. Quando Liza esce dalla stanza, nuovamente il senso di colpa, si presenta come conto da pagare. "Frammento #3 Stavrogin", interpretato da Alessandro Miele, realizzato anch'esso a Palazzo Paolo V, è l'atto finale. Questa volta gli spettatori non sono da soli ma divisi in gruppi da dieci e la durata dell'incontro aumenta da sette a dieci minuti.Dopo l'attesa in uno dei corridoi del palazzo, le note e la ritmica di "The Passenger", introducono in uno spazio reso claustrofobico da teli di plastica che ricoprono pareti e pavimento. In fondo alla sala un uomo, salta e si dimena a piedi nudi nel fango sversato come rifiuti su una metà del pavimento della stanza. E' Stavrogin. La musica si placa, lui si ferma e con affanno comincia a parlare. E' la confessione finale del protagonista del romanzo (si trova in appendice) e ti sconvolge totalmente. Stavrogin fissa ad uno ad uno gli spettatori, colpendoli con le sue parole, shockandoli con il suo racconto. I tre incontri non possono unirsi tra di loro, sono unici così come le storie dei personaggi. Marija, Liza e Stavrogin sono vivi ma cercare di toccarli è impossibile, sono loro che toccano, pungono, attaccano e colpiscono. Nella decadenza di quest'epoca, il fango nel quale si muove Stavrogin è come sabbie mobili, metafora di una società che inesorabilmente, sta ingoiando ciò che resta di noi. Teatro vero quello proposto da Alessandra Crocco e Alessandro Miele con "Progetto Demoni – Frammenti". Un teatro che ci fa tremare nel silenzio, nel timore di quell'assenza di rumore, che spesso ci mette davanti ai nostri demoni. Esperienza unica, fioritura (forse la più bella e interessante) del componimento "Benevento Città Spettacolo".