lus albe klett gb

“Luṣ”byRenateKlett

It’s a true story, the story of Bêlda who lived in a village in Romagna, Italy, in the late twentieth

century;thestoryofanoutcastandderidedwomanheldtobeawitch.Butatnightthevillagerscame

to her surreptitiously, seeking help and remedies against stomach aches and the pains of love,

headacheandmalaria.Becausesheknewallaboutherbsandspells.Shewasahealerand,thepeople

said, couldcureyou “better than thepharmacist”.Butwhen theycrossedherpathbyday theyspat

thricebehindherback.Thiswentonforyears:onthestreettheyshoweddisdainbutintheirhomes

theyweregrateful,andnobodyfoundanythingstrangeinthisbehaviour.Excepther,butsheseemed

toberesignedtoherfate.Untilsomethinghappenedonedaythatchangedeverything.

ArumourwasspreadthatBêlda’smother,nowdead,hadbeenaprostitute,sothepriesthadhercoffin

disinterredfromthecemeteryandburiedelsewhere.Bêldawantstoavengehermother.Thehatred

andhumiliationofalifetimeistransmutedintomurderousenergy.Sheresortstoblackmagicforthe

first time and casts a curse, pronouncing the magic spell in mangled Latin. She gets the priest’s

footprintsfromthefield,rollsthemintoaballwhichshewrapsinvineleavesfixedwiththreethorns.

Withthreethornssheimpalesafrogand,pronouncingthemagicformula,laysitunderastone.Ifthe

frogdies,sowillthecursedperson.(Amongotherthings,thissameritualhasbeenhandeddownfrom

westAfrica,withthedifferencethatthefootprintsarewrappednotinvinebutinpalmleaves).

In1995thewriterNevioSpadonitoldthestoryofBeldainaproeminRomagnoldialect,onwhichthe

concert-play “Luṣ” is based, staged by Marco Martinelli for the Teatro delle Albe of Ravenna, a

productionbyEmiliaRomagnaTeatroFondazione.

IsawtheshowinCesena,hometownofRomeoCastellucci,anotherfigureofmodernmysticalinItalian

theatre.(Abriefparenthesisonthewellknownthemeoftheprophetinhisowncountry:Castellucciis

aworldfamousdirector,it’sonlyathomethatnobodyseemstoknowhim.Seekinghisworkplacein

this little towndeserves an article to itself, so absurd itwas.Not even the students at the adjacent

Conservatory knew his name, not to speak of the people in Via di Serraglio where the Societas

RaffaelloSanzioisheadquartered–andthebuildingisabigone!!)

OnthestageoftheTeatroBonci(whichisnotCastellucci’stheatre)therearethreepeople:theactress

ErmannaMontanari, the double-bassist Daniele Roccato and the composer Luigi Ceccarelli who for

eachshowcreatestheliveelectro-acousticsoundscapeofvoicesandsounds.Themixtureisexplosive

– because these three incite one another, they develop and succumb reciprocally. But the evening

obviously belongs toMontanari, one of the greatest Italian actresses. Having herself grown up in a

Romagna village she sucks the soul of this dialect, incomprehensible even to Italians from other

regions, she throws it intodisorder, goes through itwitha fine toothcomb, smoothes it, licks it and

raises it, takingyourbreathaway.Nooneelsepossessessuchpowerandmadness todraw intoher

ownbodyeveryinspirationanddanger,knowinghowtotransformthemintovoice.Heraccomplice,

themournfuldouble-bass,wrapsher inanatmosphereofobtusenessand superstitionwhich,being

rationalandenlightenedfolk,atoncerepelsandfascinatesus.

Ermanna Montanari is at the back of the stage, her feet well planted on the ground, enveloped in

electrical cables that terminate ina sickle. Sheholds itupproudly likea coat-of-armsandadvances

frontstageasifshewereMistressDeath.She’swearingadresssoakedin(real)blood,sheswingsher

hips and, throwing her arms upwards, emits these incomprehensible words similar to seagulls’

screechesorarchaicbattlecries.Thenshecalmsdown,complainsabouther fate, jeersat the“filthy

priest” whose domestic servant her mother had been. Montanari shifts from the innocence of a

frightenedchildtothepowerofcruelty–thathatredseeksdeathandthatloveinthisworldisinvain,

thisweunderstand at once.Although the Italian subtitlesdonot say so, one comes to imagine that

Beldacouldbetheparishpriest’ssecretdaughterandforthatreasonwasraisedbyrelationslivingfar

fromcivilization.

Thentheunheard-ofhappens.Theactressdoeswhat is forbidden,shegoesbeyondthethresholdof

evil.Realitychanges,theatreceasestobetheatre.SomethingAbsolutetakesitsplace,somethingwhich

won’tbenamedbutwhich isperhapsthe lostoriginalpowerof the theatre.Perhapscatharsiscame

aboutinthisway:theprotagonistand6thousandspectatorsgothrougheviltobecomepure.

Thecurseover,theterriblewomanoncemorebecomesthemistreatedcreaturewhohowls, invokes

thelightinordertocontinuelivingandtolivebetter.Thespellisbroken,wearebackinthefineold

Teatro Bonci, built some decades before Belda was born – a monument to bourgeois pride and

optimism.Inoursuperficialyearsoftechnologicalprideandpessimism,theinexplicabletransgression

wehavewitnessedisthegreatshock,perhapstheultimate,thattheatrecanstillgive.Weruboureyes

and wonder what we have seen. Great theatre in any case, but what was this 'altered state',* this

diabolical grace, so scary and so audacious? I experienced the phenomenonmany years ago,when

Thomas Thieme as Richard III in Perceval’s “Battles!” achieved a statewhichwas no longer of this

world.Whatcausesthisstateandwhatitelicitsweprefernottoknowtoowell.Itmaybenoaccident

that after the first performances ErmannaMontanariwas struck by an unusually strong nosebleed,

almostunstoppable,inwhichshelostthreelitresofblood.

*Englishinoriginal