Massimo Marino
La ballata degli umili I Promessi Sposi di Lenz
And those humble Manzonians in The Betrothed, according to Lenz Rifrazioni, become today's outcasts, the speechless, the ones who struggle to progress, with bodies marked by some syndrome, with heads tossed by life, by old age, by that abandonment that some call madness. The novel that founded our Italianness is transformed into a labyrinth of small rooms where the tongue struggles, where bodies sometimes explode, and so does fury, amazement; other times those offended bodies remain abandoned on mattresses, as if under bridges of rubble, listening to someone speak, a voice screaming, legs, arms, trunks that roar a little further on. The walls are transparent, veiled, and shaded: it's up to the viewer, who can move around the stage cube in the center of a bare room, to choose what to look at, what to listen to, whether to blur the bodies and images by getting too close to the grid of curtains or whether to see away from or peek at the open corners; whether to follow the plot or get lost in the details, absences, and visions. Actors often move from one environment to another, their language strained, which reduces the plot to a few spoken sentences, while in each environment they flash and stare at each other, like paintings, images. They evoke, at the beginning and at the end, in a ghostly way, that suburb surrounding the Lenz warehouse, raped by a megalomaniacal and failed renovation (that of Parma), with many empty apartments or offices, demolished areas, a new station, a little further away, oversized for a left “provincial” railway hub, without high speed (if that means anything). But immediately, vertical or horizontal, deformed or defined, stand out figures that recall Manzonian characters as if filtered through a grotesque carnival, reviewed by the distorted brush of Francis Bacon, elongated by the severe deforming art of El Greco, Modigliani, Giacometti.
Lenz has been working for years on projects around authors he dissects, reverses, misplaces, and makes shine. With Manzoni, we are in the midst of a search for the language of Italy, between interrupted, jarring, impossible memories, and a deserted current affairs, where we can also rediscover a sense of communication. Manzoni comes after the Aeneid, and after The Betrothed Adelchi will arrive. The strength of this show lies in the performers, who mix professional actors ready to experience every extremism and those extraordinary “sensitive actors” that Lenz has trained and brought to the stage on various occasions. We still have in our eyes the slow, itinerant, shocking ghost sonata Hamlet seen at the Rocca dei Rossi in San Secondo in 2010, and other works with the long-term carers of Colorno. They, former patients in the Psychiatric Hospital, currently in the care of the Mental Health Care Department for Pathological Addictions of the Local Health Authority of Parma, plus some women with Down syndrome, now firmly established as actresses of the company, such as the formidable Barbara Voghera, give the characters an indefinable aura, which immediately makes them stand out from our school memories towards a material reality of oppression, tribulation, agrarian life, of deep suffering that is close to us (and that we do not see), with that everyday language, ready to spring into ʼanger, ʼinsuffering, ʼincontinence, ʼinane rebellion. “Sensitive actors” call them: like few others capable of giving internal echoes, threatening, fearful, but also in search of a truth and solidarity, of a different human possibility. The scenes intersect, in those milky rooms, under the notes of Verdi's Requiem manipulated, pulverized and made almost unrecognizable by Andrea Azzali_Monophon. The morality of Verdi's figures is reflected in Manzoni's tragic characters, one of the show's assumptions. Everything has something sacred and very popular, simple, like a story told, but with fury, indignation, fury and hope, before a fire in the night.
The fear of Don Abbondio, the violent screams and attempts at rebellion, the desire of Don Rodrigo, the separation, the creation of that monster which is the nun of Monza, with her face covered in gauze to represent incurable wounds, and then the revolt and the escape, the kidnapping of Lucia, the Unnamed and the Cardinal, the vow, the plague, the death, providence flows as acts of a modern sacred representation, astonished, interpreted by witnesses involved in the facts, in the sufferings, who still do not want to accept defeat.
The protests sometimes seem like those of children, like insults, like clashes, in the episode in which Fra’ Cristoforo kills a knight who blocks his step with a wooden sword, ready to transform into a penitent's cross. Forgiveness, the soothing pain of bodies, the helpless cry, the repressed desire often embodied by the serpentine bodies of actresses against the abandoned, static, imposing ones of sensitive actors, create an atmosphere of ritual, of suspension, of magical inner investigation.
The tongue shines with luminous simplicity. Renzo and Lucia's farewell generates a simple: “Don't leave me. I love you”. Don Abbondio is a small figure crumpled with fear, clogged like a nun, always in unstable balance on a stool. Renzo, corpulent, like Don Rodrigo, passes through the rooms, while the spectators circle this carousel of opalescent images (like memories, like something we have inside, profound), which ends with other words that give splendor to the banal, everyday language of affections: “Tomorrow we return home. Me at my job, you at yours. And after that? We'll see”. It seems to us in the last images projected before dark to see again the courtyard of the Lenz shed, which managed to survive the threats of demolition, renovation and eviction, but which is still not “safe”. Long life, then, and means, we invoke within ourselves for this ever-living outpost of an experimentation that is not an empty exercise, but a provocation to our intelligences, to our cultural belonging, to our lost feelings. Which is concentration. With the direction, the installation, the monastic or proletarian costumes of Maria Federica Maestri, the dramaturgy and imagoturgy of Francesco Pititto, and the excavation of both of the text, which shines with “linguistic and anti-rhetorical extremism” (the hall notes say well), so as to restore Manzoni's voice and the consistency of the language of the times.
On stage, worth mentioning are Valentina Barbarini, Frank Berzieri, Monica Bianchi, Giovanni Carnevale, Carlo Destro, Paolo Maccini, Andrea Orlandini, Roberto Riseri, Delfina Rivieri, Vincenzo Salemi, Elena Sorbi, Carlotta Spaggiari, and Barbara Voghera. Lights (and above all shadows, twilight of vision) and sound by Gianluca Bergamini and Nicolò Fornasini.