Ok! La teoria è andata. Non resta che misurarsi con la pratica. Così, la settimana dopo la lezione, sono di nuovo al Piccolo Teatro Studio per uno show directed by Peter Brook. The play that I called Sizwe Banzi est mort . It is in French. But the subs are illuminated in white on black display is there to protect and watch over the non-French speakers. I'm sitting on the floor on a cushion. Among others, I can just to cross your legs. Many seem to be doing yoga, and wriggle a lot, although I do not know the names of all the positions they assume. The blessed are the stands, and their eyes are fixed on nothing. I'm going to switch off their mobile friendly and pre-recorded female voice in an elegant Italian counsels us to take out cell phones and various technologies. The play thus begins. The lights dim, and the story is that Styles. Styles is a man black - the color of the skin of the actors is crucial in this story, and that black has no chance of passing, and in the course of events, but it is the pure sign of the difference, and the system of discrimination that backfires Styles has phobia humanity hidden beneath that color, and Styles learns at his own expense. Styles is a black man who works at a Ford factory and spends all day at Ford, and Ford there to understand what it means to the end harassment, even if he has the vocabulary and education is little that is . Of course, harassment, for us viewers, it is almost an understatement. But Styles, who tells in first person, this story unfolds with lightness and irony - and you're there to laugh, and the audience watches as sganascia laughter, one after another, and there's that slapping themselves on the legs and reward with explosive laughter and unison the story of that poor man who becomes an ass like the Ford, while after the laughing is the recoil guilt and feel that - even if you laugh with Styles and Styles of - have a bitter taste, and there's no way to avoid this medicine. After all, Styles, is one who knows her: at the first opportunity to leave Ford and, with the savings of years at Ford, buy a camera store. And customers go from there, and Styles would frame their dreams in those photographs, only one, when one day Robert is to cross the door of his shop. Robert is the second protagonist of the play. Robert's story is even more dramatic and emotionally disturbing to hear. The drama lies in the fact that Robert is Robert, but Sizwe Banzi: a black man, without documents, who works where he can, always hiding, because if you catch him back in South Africa, its land, and find the street to beg for pennies with all his large family. Sizwe Banzi is big, big, and the despair it darkens, and one night he goes for the desperation pass in a bar and gets drunk, and staggers out when he does the ever urgent need to pee, drunk and without notice, then piss on something that will prove to be a corpse, another black man lying on the ground - (cut plot and a otherwise the character would be long) - and sees Banzi, searches his pockets, is this document made out to Robert, and though a thousand torments & & inner dilemmas Very difficult to say take those documents, makes them his own, plus the name and identity of Sizwe Banzi finally disappear when Sizwe Banzi becomes Robert, a black man with documents. The tragedy here, too, emerges from the laughter, and recoil from the guilt of laughter is the worst thing ever. However, the effort to do is: imagine as Peter Brook has staged this story. Styles, Robert, the two actors who provide the flesh to the characters, are immersed in an area completely bare. In empty theater, anything to give the impression of a traditional set. Only cartoon, two sacks, a stick, stools made from boxes, frames of iron with two wheels to make them move, a shoe. That's it. But the absence, the disappearance of the world, only takes a few seconds. Because the actors through words, gestures and precise as sharp, and the skill with which have their own body, fleshing out quickly the scene, the damage thickness, make it alive and vibrant. It is empty around, but it's a very empty and chaotic full real . And we viewers in the desert of the room, with only two actors in front of a backdrop and gone, we are like the actors, with our whole body. The imagination is revved up: reviewing and gestures, words, tone of those words, the accuracy of movements, rebuild - without ever having views - factories, cities, roads, and there in the middle , (we are here just for this), we meet Robert and Styles, and more until we break them off the applause is not empathy. Sure, there's something capital in this way of making theater. The test is the force with which everything is vivid and well laid out in memory. I try to understand. And, from the desert of the theater, there are two figures . On the one hand, Peter Brook: trying to tell a story without telling you all about that history gives you time, the pace of events, but first removes the space and the reality of events. And on the other, the viewer: that on the track of the time, setting in motion an incredible amount of neurons, reconstructs the space of that history, and sees, and sees it as if we lived in the middle, trying directly 'horror of that history, all the despair - the climax of the play is when Banzi trips over the corpse, but what the two actors actually called corpse is a shoe, a shoe and brown undone, and the viewer is in desperate while re-establishing neuronal tumult of the shoe features and horror of a corpse and cold in the middle of the road. Then I look at this way of making theater a double responsibility: the responsibility of those who orchestrate and decides to tell that story with rigor (Peter Brook), and the responsibility of those who have perfectly reconstruct the history of space to feel the full pain and dismay (the consumers). There is very little step in this theatrical form: to find all reality, its horrors, is a collective duty, and this happens regularly at every performance.
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