“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
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