I did the fact
Even the most explicit fiction aims to replace reality, just as the most problematic and crude truth ultimately has the unlikely disappearance of that boundary. Theatre is not life unless life is theatre. There is only one actor for whom this equation could be true: the actor who does not know that boundary, the actor who does not play a role but himself, the actor who inhabits the stage like life”. This is how we wrote, several years ago, about the sensitive actor and the return to the theatre of that virtual part – of life – indispensable for recreating its common sense, its collective utility.
Having placed Shakespeare's Macbeth as an investigative text then brings the questions directly to the centre, to the completion of a decisive action, of a decisive fact for the biography of the actor and the protagonists of the drama: “I did it, the fact. I heard the owl screaming and the crickets watering. I think I heard: Sleep no more! Macbeth killed Sleep, innocent Sleep.” Delirium, guilt, visions, and death are paragraphs of a lived, textual life that overlap within a crystal ball where destinies, witches, and blood rain down from above like snow, after turning the ball upside down and restoring its shape. The actor then truly becomes the crystal image of his past and present, the verses of Macbeth and the Lady, as well as those of the witches seem to emerge, with unknown and only minimally correct technique, like knife blades circling real and not fragments of a delirious dream. The real and virtual long-distance dialogue between the actor detained in his place/castle and the actress performing on his stage becomes an exchange of voices and whispers between two contemporary Pyramus and Thisbe; the two lovers and accomplices are distant, and in between lies the wall of civilized life and real society.