Commedia dell'Arte, its Structure and Tradition: Antonio Fava in conversation with John Rudlin 9780367648565, 9781003126607

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Commedia dell’Arte, its Structure and Tradition

Commedia dell’Arte, its Structure and Tradition chronicles a series of discussions between two renowned experts in commedia dell’arte – master practitioners Antonio Fava and John Rudlin. These discussions were recorded during three recent visits by Fava to Rudlin’s rural retreat in south west France. They take in all of commedia dell’arte’s most striking and enduring elements – its masks, its scripts and scenarios, and most outstandingly, its cast of ­characters. Fava explores the role of each stock Commedia character and their subsequent incarnations in popular culture, as well as their roots in prominent figures of their time. The lively and wide-ranging conversations also take in methods of staging commedia dell’arte for contemporary audiences, the evolution of its gestures, and the collective nature of its theatre-making. This is an essential book for any student or practitioner of ­commedia dell’arte – provocative, expansive wisdom from the modern world’s foremost exponent of the craft. John Rudlin is the author of Commedia dell’Arte: An Actor’s Handbook and Commedia dell’Arte: A Handbook for Troupes. Antonio Fava is a world-renowned teacher, practitioner and scholar of commedia dell’arte, based in Reggio Emilia, Italy.

Arlecchino is on trial. Le Docteur presides. Pulcinella stands ominously behind the accused, dangling a large bunch of keys.

Commedia dell’Arte, its Structure and Tradition

Antonio Fava in Conversation with John Rudlin John Rudlin and Antonio Fava

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 John Rudlin and Antonio Fava The right of John Rudlin and Antonio Fava to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-64856-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-12660-7 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd. eResource: www.routledge.com/9780367648565

For Dina, Trish and theatre-makers and theatregoers everywhere

Contents

List of figures Preface Prologue

viii xi xiii

1 The mask

1

2 The personnages

6

3 Performance location

35

4 The scenarios

38

5 Collective creation

41

6 Gestural evolution

43

7 Closed forms

49

8 Multilingualism

52

9 Anachronism

54

Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga61 Appendix B: Il Pozzo66 Appendix C: The mystical mask69 Index 74

List of figures

Detail of an engraving of a scene from Colombine Avocat pour et ­contre in Le Théâtre Italien by Evaristo Gherardi, Brussels, 1697. The engravings were made by Gabriel Huquier between 1729 and 1731 and ­published as Théâtre Italien. Livre des Scènes Comiques inventés par Gillot. 1.1

1.2 1.3 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8

Grande Zanni mask, from left to right: natural leather recently made; natural leather darkened after several years of use; natural leather blackened by many years of use. Atelier Fava. This image can be seen in colour via the book’s eResource page www.routledge.com/9780367648565. 2 Pantalone dancing in an inn: 17th century engraving by unknown hand. 3 Pedrolino/Pierrot with back turned: engraving by Du Bosc, after Watteau, 18th century. 5 Brighella: 17th-century engraving. 8 Arlecchino: engraving by Mitelli, 17th century. 11 Il Magnifico: engraving by Joullain, in Riccoboni, Histoire du Théâtre Italien, 18th century. 13 Il Dottore: engraving by Joullain, in Riccoboni, Histoire du Théâtre Italien, 18th century. 17 Arlecchino disguised as a doctor. Engraving by Claude Gillot, 18th century. 20 A Bolognese Doctor. Lithograph, 19th century. 21 Angelo Constantini as Mezzettino. Acquatint by Yves Barret, 19th century. 22 Francesco Andreini: engraving by A. Fiedler after the fresco by Bernardino Poccetti, Church of the Santissima Annunziata, Florence, in Comici Italiani by Luigi Rasi, 19th century. 24

List of figures  ix 2.9

Antonio Fava as Il Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro. 2.10 Pulcinelli cooking maccaroni: etching by F.G. Shmidt from G.B. Tièpolo, 18th century. Grimaldi, Rome, 1899. 2.11 The last rites: Tartaglia as a notary at Pulcinella’s deathbed, after Ghezzi. in Pulcinella e il Personaggio del Napoletano in Commedia by Benedetto Croce. 6.1 Domenico Biancolelli as Arlecchino: engraving, 18th century. 9.1 Zanni skinheads: montage, Atelier Fava. A.1 Antonio Fava as Pulcinella. B.1 Antonio Fava as Pulcinella in Il Pozzo.

25 26 32 44 59 63 67

Engravings, acquatint and etching all from the Archivio FavaBuccino. Photographer: Marcello Fava.

Preface

‘It gets dark quite early in Reggio Emilia in August. The station taxi-driver looks at me disbelievingly when I give him the name of the student residence on the outskirts of town where I am supposed to be staying for the next four weeks while attending Antonio Fava’s summer course in commedia dell’arte. ‘Vacanza – chiuso – clo-zed’ he says, but still takes me there, hoping perhaps for a return fare to a cheap hotel. Sure enough, there isn’t a light on, but I pay him off courageously and am standing forlornly in the porch when suddenly a car pulls up, and a small, dark ball of energy (later to be identified as Dina Buccino, Antonio’s partner in life and work) says “quick, put your bags in here and jump in – we’re going to see Antonio perform!” At first sight, Reggio is not a very prepossessing town, especially when compared with the splendours of neighbouring Parma, Bologna, and Ferrara. Prosciutto crudo (the pig population is three times that of the human one), and Parmigiano Reggiano are what it is famous for. But behind the rather blank facades lie exquisite renaissance courtyards, and it was in one of those that Antonio was performing. The concert had already started and when we arrived and Antonio was providing comic interludes between madrigals. Dressed in a baggy white tunic, he was asleep – Zanni’s only relief from the primordial hunger that afflicts him – alternately snoring and farting. All at once, train-lag vanished, and it wasn’t dark any more: the irreverent elemental light of a Commedia lazzo, this was what I had come for… Next day, in intense heat and humidity, the course started. Immediately one realised why the original 16th-century masks were made of leather – they absorb your sweat. Not very hygienic, but very practical. And practical is what we had to be: forty of us from fourteen different countries, speaking eight different languages.’

xii Preface I wrote the above as the opening of my programme note for Antonio’s production of Love is a Drug for the Oxford Stage Company, which toured England in 1995. The note records the beginning of a dialogue which has continued up to the present day, with the following pages comprising a further episode. One of our subsequent encounters was when we shared a platform together at the international conference ‘Crossing Boundaries: Commedia dell’Arte Across Gender, Genre, and Geography’ in 2013 at the University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada. I remember then alluding to the Arab saying that a teacher is a candle that burns down so that others might see, and Antonio vehemently denying that this was the case with him. Then he later wrote to me to say that he was, however, scandalised by the systematic way in which some former students have ‘stolen’ his work. He said he felt ‘cloned, copied, plagiarised’, and that his teaching was often not even credited, the worst example is that of an American student emailing his notes on each day’s teaching for use in a simultaneous workshop back home. ‘And what do they go on to do?’ he continued, ‘they invent a sort of ‘commedia’ that has no other existence, is alien, idiotic, rotten at the core. The result is the humiliation and amateurisation of a great historical phenomenon which led to the creation of the modern professional actor. Ignored today by theatres everywhere in the world, Commedia thus pays a very dear dramatic price and finishes up in the hands of ignoramuses and incompetents. I have a whole encyclopedia in my head about what commedia dell’arte is and what it is not. If I took time just to write it out, it would run to several volumes. Obviously, there wouldn’t be any readers patient enough to take it all in, but it would be ideal if we could eventually condense it into a single ‘conversational’ book.’ These conversations document the recorded discussions we had at my home in Charente over three sessions lasting 2/3 days each between 2017 and June 2019. Our language was French, which I have subsequently translated into English, the lingua franca which Antonio believes is vital to future world-wide study and development of the form. The illustrations are from Antonio’s personal collection; most have never been published in an English edition. The endnotes have been added post hoc, as have the appendices. Translations and explanations in square brackets […] have also been added later by me, often in consultation with Antonio. John Rudlin

Prologue

JR: Here

we are, then, eventually. What is our aim in these conversations? AF:  To reconsider a kind of theatre that was once simply the theatre, found more entertaining than any other kind and which, in consequence, is being variously re-interpreted. In order to perform commedia dell’arte one has an obligation to study the form from its inception right up to the present day. I consider it to be a vocation. Such consideration, incidentally, does not entail being a slave to the past, but we’ll come on to that. Let’s begin with the name: commedia dell’arte is a term first used by the playwright Carlo Goldoni towards the end of the 18th century and it is open to misinterpretation. The word ‘commedia’ itself simply means ‘theatre’ – of all kinds, not just ‘comedy’, and the word ‘arte’ has nothing to do with ‘art’. The simplest translation would be ‘professional’. A more meaningful overall nomenclature would be the earlier ‘commedia mercenaria’, but ‘mercenary’ has unfortunate overtones in other languages: here it just meant that the plays were performed for money, i.e. professional. ‘Commedia improvvisa’ is another earlier term and one which it might be preferable to use today. JR:  In English, some scholars are now content to reduce the nomenclature to just ‘Commedia’. AF:  As shorthand possibly. For me the word ‘Commedia’ on its own would preferably be with reference to a particular scenario as performed. For the form as a whole I still prefer the whole phrase. Anyway, professional theatre is what we are talking about here, in a form that has changed and developed throughout its existence, but always on the basis of an underlying structure. It is that structure that I now want to insist upon. It is based on solid foundations with the following pillars: the mask; the personnages; performance

xiv Prologue location; the scenario; collective creation; gestural evolution; closed forms; multilingualism and, finally, anachronisms. JR:  Let’s begin at the beginning… AF:  In the beginning there were only zannis, and what they performed were called zannesca, comedie degli zanni, or zannata: zanni plays. JR:  How did they develop into the full form? AF:  1560 enter the woman: it is she that imposes the mask as an object on the fledging commedia dell’arte. And, if you invent Isabella, the role of the attractive young woman, you must also invite on stage Flavio, the handsome young man, who must not have his face covered either. The female servant, furthermore, was required to expose more than just her face. Who was left to wear the leather mask, then? The old, the stupid and the grotesque. In the baroque period there were definitively five Masks: the two old men, the Magnifico (Pantalone) and the Doctor; the two male servants (zannis) and the Captain, making, with the addition of the Lovers, a company of seven. The old, the young, the servants and the intruder. The Lovers could be reduplicated and there could also be a servetta – a female servant, making a troupe of nine. As time went by different actors changed the names in order to make a name for themselves, but the tipi fissi [fixed types] remained basically the same. Commedia dell’arte then dominated the European stage for more than two centuries, but the thing which nearly killed it off, like the huge meteorite which is supposed to have destroyed the habitat of the dinosaurs, was the French revolution. What happened in Europe at that moment was precisely the same sort of step-change: taste in art and all other cultural forms altered radically, first in France and then in monarchies throughout Europe whose aristocrats did not want to find themselves following their French counterparts to the scaffold. They preferred to change their constitutions. JR: So commedia dell’arte became a profession that one could no longer profess to. AF:  It was inevitably a victim. Until then patronage had been extended by royalty, by the aristocracy and even rich merchants to troupes to be disbursed amongst individuals by mutual agreement, after production and other costs had been met. In Italy the amounts offered reflected a certain rivalry between Dukes, who each wanted to boast of having the best company under their wing. The Duke of Mantua was particularly magnanimous. That’s how the Renaissance had developed: there were lots of little States whose

Prologue xv Dukes wanted to be the biggest, the best, the most beautiful. The intensity of competition was incredible, not only in the beaux arts, but also in the sciences. That is why the French revolution was such a disaster: all that smacked of the Ancien Régime was swept away by fear. Since la commedia dell’arte had always been protected and provided for by that régime, it now became necessary for audiences to distance themselves from it. The exception was in the South of Italy, where Pulcinella survived as he always has done. There were new themes for him to explore, but he retained the same identity. JR:  And, under various guises, commedia dell’arte also survived in the Parisian foires… but that’s another story. Let’s go on to examine your sense of structure, then.

1

The mask

AF:  As

an object the commedia dell’arte mask is a false countenance made of leather. It is commonly thought that it was black, ab origine, but this is not the case: it was of natural tan colour when new, only becoming blackened with use and age. In the olden days, performing in the open air or by candle-light, it might take two or three generations of wear for a mask to blacken totally. Furthermore, the mask-makers of the time did not have the means to introduce different colours. With today’s stage illumination by electricity, the darkening process is speeded up considerably, and one also needs to introduce some subtlety of tone. When I dye a mask that I have made, it is in anticipation of the hue that the leather would have adopted after 10 years or so. Incidentally, the comici dell’arte would never have requested a new mask to be made black: a lot of servants were slaves at the time, but black slaves had no place in commedia dell’arte. Ariane Mnouchkine was quite wrong to make such a supposition.1 Furthermore, there is no evidence whatsoever for the misapprehension going round present-day mask-makers that Brighella’s mask should be olive-green. Where the green supposition has come from I do not know, but it is the kind of theorisation with no historical basis in actual Commedia performance that I find unacceptable. (See Figure 1.1) JR:  I think there’s been a mistranslation somewhere along the line. ‘Olivatre’ in French when referring to facial complexion would perhaps be better rendered ‘sallow’ than ‘olivaceous’ in English. AF: Even olive-brown due to the natural tanning process, but not green. I repeat, as the leather ages, with temperature and sweat, the mask passes through all the colours by which a white European face is normally known. Green is not one of them. Commedia mask-makers never made fantastical masks.

2  The mask

Figure 1.1  Grande Zanni mask* *This image can be viewed in colour via the eResource link found in the preliminary pages of this edition www.routledge.com/9780367648565 and on the book’s webpage on Routledge.com. JR:  In

the 18th century Brighella did acquire green frogging on his costume… AF:  A green-faced Brighella is on my no-no list, and that’s that. JR:  I’m interested to discover what else you are going to put on your no-no list… AF: All in good time… It is not usually understood that the first mask to be found in commedia dell’arte was make-up, that of the infarinato, [literally ‘the enfloured one’, the white-faced fool]. His make-up was white2, heavily so, made popular again in the 19th century, particularly by the French Pierrots. In the early days of playing in the street in the broad light of day, actors wanted to show a face that was not their own: that of the character, not of the actor. The white face also more readily enabled women’s parts to be played by men, as was the tradition. (See Figure 1.2) JR:  Traces of the floured face can still be found in early cinema: the Keystone Cops, Fatty Arbuckle, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Stan Laurel, for example, Why? AF:  Because the principals needed to stand out from the crowd in both cases – the sunlit streets of the Italian carnivals and the film lots of Hollywood.

The mask  3

Figure 1.2  Pantalone dancing in an inn JR: And

early black-and-white one and two-reelers were filmed outdoors… AF: Yes. JR:  …Hollywood becoming the movie-making centre it did because of the exceptional quality of the light in the days before pollution. But why then did those white-faced comici dell’arte end up wearing the mask? AF:  The facial mask alone is not a sufficient disguise: the head needs to be considered as a whole: the wig or hat, facial hair, the chin below the half-mask line, the cheeks even in the case of the doctor’s quarter-mask. Today there is a whole line of theatrical investigation, altogether modern, specific to our times, which is based on the presumption that all you need is the mask and that if you put it on, and little else in terms of dressing head or body – are practically naked, in fact – it will dictate to you how your body should behave. I’ve seen this several times on the internet as street performance being practised in the name of commedia dell’arte; it makes about as much sense as promenading naked except for a pair of shoes.

4  The mask JR:  No-no list? AF: No-no list.

Inevitably, each time, the mask has been that of Arlecchino; the actors, also inevitably, are young, with handsome, good-looking bodies. But to take on a mask is a commitment for life, a professional commitment. What are these youngsters going to do when they grow older? JR:  They may be latter-day disciples of Etienne Decroux who worked in just a loincloth. AF: Ah, the tanga…. The most important disciples of Decroux are Eugenio Barba of Odin Teatr and Jerzy Grotowski who developed the idea of the corps plastique. But you can’t mix near nudity with a mask on with Decroux’s gestuality and Grotowski’s plasticity and claim the result to be commedia dell’arte. Commedia dell’arte is much more precise, much less elastic, much less individually expressive. It is a genre which exists within specific boundaries: when we recognise those boundaries, we know where we are. Form and content coincide. JR: In commedia dell’arte you have to work with constriction, not freedom. Pantalone’s Moroccan slippers, for example, have open backs and pointed toes, obliging him to shuffle and even dance in a particular way. (See Figure 1.2) AF:  And there’s also the fact that, in the expressive system of commedia dell’arte, a mask never takes its clothes off. The costume is part of the mask – in fact, the only non-masked part of the actor is his hands. These should never be brought into proximity with the mask for fear of betraying its lack of plasticity. Also, and it doesn’t matter whether the actor is masked or not, I find that one must never turn one’s back on the spectator or, if absolutely necessary, only rapidly: anything more than a fleeting glance at the back of the neck and the mask’s identity is lost. I notice in my collection of engravings, especially those of the 17th century, of Watteau and his school in particular, that occasionally Pierrot, for example, does turn his back. (See Figure 1.3) But on stage, rather than on canvas, one learns what I call the ‘principle’ of the masks. I prefer this word to ‘laws’ or ‘rules’ because it is something you learn through personal experience, not as behaviour imposed from without by society’s enforcers: police, priests, teachers and so on.

The mask  5

Figure 1.3  Pedrolino/Pierrot with back turned

Notes

1. The Théâtre du Soleil’s L’age d’Or (1975) featured a North African immigrant worker in Marseilles named Abdullah. He was based on Arlecchino. 2. Probably made by using rice flour which is finer and whiter than wheatmeal and is still used by Japanese Kabuki actors today. The English Pierrot troupes used zinc oxide – highly carcinogenic...

2

The personnages

JR:  What do you AF:  Occasionally

mean by a ‘personnage’? (for present purposes, and even though our intention is ultimately anglophone), there is a word which is better left, for clarity’s sake, in a romance tongue. The masks of the commedia dell’arte are known as tipi fissi (‘fixed types’), or personaggi in Italian, but the French personnage is to my mind more readily adoptable into English. JR:  Whereas the word ‘personage’ in English signifies someone of elevated status, and ‘personality’ defines individual character, for example, one of the dramatis personae of a particular play.1 AF:  Let’s stay with the French, then. Each personnage hailed from a different part of Italy and spoke in a different tongue. They can however, be grouped into families: Bergamese, Tuscan, Venetian, Bolognese, and then Neapolitan, the language of the south. I’ll begin with the northern families and the innamorati, the Lovers, since the inception of what is now called commedia dell’arte dates from their arrival.

Gli innamorati It’s important to recognise that the young lovers were not lovers, in fact, but adventurers – adventurers in love. How they were portrayed varied from company to company, although they moved from troupe to troupe as a pairing much more than other comici. They invariably spoke Tuscan since it was linguistically the most elegant, the language of the academies, and the literati. Since they acted without the mask, the question was always, how long they could go on convincing audiences that they were young lovers?

The personnages  7 JR:  Perhaps their make-up AF: Yes, to that extent, it

helped there? replaced the mask: it was always thickly applied and was based on the white face of the infarinato. Why white-face? Because it is an object half-way between mask and face, you could call it a mask that moves, capable of multiple variations. JR:  Stan Laurel rather than Buster Keaton, then… You used the phrase ‘young lovers’. When a larger troupe had two pairs, were the second pair usually older? AF: First of all, one must avoid considering the pairings as being first and second, as if one were more important than the other. Over the centuries, that did become the case, but in the origins of Commedia, its foundations, which are our most important reference point in trying understand how this kind of theatre works, they had equal status on stage. It might be better to call them the blue pair and the red pair. They are distinguished by the fact that one couple are ingénues and brimming over with love, an idealised love, which has marriage as its objective, whereas the other couple seeks amorous adventure, preferably clandestine and erotic. The first two are very young and dependent on their fathers, they are adolescents; the second is adult, independent, rather irresponsible. Some are already married, such as the woman who is the wife of an old man who is always, in all the plays, widowed from his first wife, who was the mother of his son or daughter. The second male might be a gambler whose addiction causes enormous problems. The male of the first pair is mentally fragile and given to foolishness, which has to be resolved in the happy ending. The intrigues of both pairs can be fuelled by madness, most often in the female, or by the quest of a rich and beautiful widow for stimulating company, sometimes even by the seeking of an assassination rather than an assignation. These give rise to comedic situations, and that is what the Commedia ‘system’ is based on putting the Lovers into various extreme situations, each of which offers both actors and spectators something to get their teeth into.

Zanni AF:  If

we go back beyond the arrival of the Lovers to the origins of commedia dell’arte, we find Zanni. He was not a mythical or fantastical personnage, but a reality: an immigrant. His name is a diminutive of ‘Giovanni’, the most common first name in the Po valley.

8  The personnages

Figure 2.1  Brighella JR:  Why

are there always two zannis in the developed form? What is the distinction between first and second Zanni? AF:  First Zanni is always there, a continual presence, whereas second Zanni comes and goes – something which is completely ignored by everyone who performs commedia dell’arte today. No-no list. First Zanni schemes and intrigues, second Zanni botches things up. Both are essential to the development of the plot. JR:  The most common first Zanni being Brighella? (See Figure 2.1) AF:  The frogging on his costume, which you mentioned earlier, is a sort of livery worn in Italy by those who worked in kitchens, especially the head chef. The costumes of the masks often made reference to clothing worn in real life; in the case of Brighella, as first Zanni, it shows that he has a metier, a real job, not a servile one – he may even own the business – and he never goes hungry, unlike second Zanni who is always half-starved.

The personnages  9 JR:  Is he always independent, then? AF:  He can be a servant when his services

are needed, usually by the Lovers, but he does not change costume for that. For the 150 years that commedia dell’arte dominated the world stage, actors did not want changes or development in their costume: what was desired was instant recognition of their personal personnage, the sort of recognition that we give today to serial cartoon characters such as Tom and Jerry or Wilee Coyote and the Roadrunner. When you see such characters on screen, you know what to expect, including surprises. What actors did change other than minor details, was the name of their personnage, making it specific to their own interpretation. Brighella is simply the best known among hundreds of variations – Beltrame, Mezzetino, Flautino, Gradellino, Traccagnino, Finocchio, Bagolino, Scapino, etc. JR:  Why is Brighella so malevolent? AF:  He isn’t, he isn’t evil. Amoral, perhaps, but he only does what is necessary. You won’t find a scenario where he takes pleasure in harming someone. JR:  Even Scapino? AF:  Ah, you’re thinking of Molière, that’s something different. Molière was formed by commedia dell’arte, but he did not practise it. His Scapin is not the Scapino invented by Francesco Gabrielli. There is a comic poem, written by an actor, Bartolomeo Bocchini,2 who sepcialised in a personnage he called Zan Muzzina, who hailed from Lombardy and lived in an imaginary country he called La Zagnara, using the definite article as in ‘La France’ or ‘L’Italie’. In the poem Il Trionfo di Scappino, written in a mixture of Northern dialects, it is inhabited solely by zannis and zannettas. Grub and sex are all they want and all they have. Scapino is made king because he is righteous. He tries to resolve all disputes. He is a good man. Bocchini based his Scapino character on the experience of working for many years with the Gabriellis – I’ll come on to them in a moment. The first known edition of the poem is from Modena in 1648, well before Molière’s Les Fourberies de Scapin. Molière has perhaps done commedia dell’arte a disservice by portraying Scapin as someone with a mean streak, out for revenge. JR:  Why then does Brighella/Scapino sometimes do awful things? AF:  Because, like Pulcinella, he is a survivor, and in order to survive, he has to protect himself. But he is not wicked, no: moral concerns have no place in commedia dell’arte, which is essentially secular. His name comes from the Lombard word ‘scapa’, to escape in English. He escapes from the consequences of his actions, but he is not a coward.

10  The personnages JR: So,

at a certain moment, Zanni divided himself into two: how, where, and when? AF:  At the end of the 17th going into the beginning of the 18th century, the Gabrielli family, father Giovanni and son Francesco, were very active, the father in particular being very inventive. They created a personnage they called Scapi in 1702/3 in Paris. The suffix ‘ino’ was added, not as a diminutive but, as is often the case in Italian, meaning ‘inhabitant of’. Although he was crafty in the extreme, Scapino needed a sidekick to do some of his dirty work for him. However, the Gabriellis didn’t use the terminology ‘first and second Zanni’, they called them ‘l’astuto’ or ‘il furbo’, the clever servant, and the stupid one, ‘sciocco’ [pronounced ‘shoko’] which is difficult to translate – more naive than stupid, ‘silly’ perhaps in English. JR: Foolish? AF: Ah, yes. But naive, not stupid, I don’t like to call a zanni stupid, because stupidity is limiting, whereas naivete has a certain dynamism. Anyway, he later becomes known as ‘second Zanni’. Second, Zanni has considerable experience of life, rural life, that is. He knows about plants and animals and is a hunter of great ability. For example, he can ensnare songbirds and make bamboo cages for them to sell at the market. In the days before the gramophone, people would pay good money to have music in their homes. In the commedia dell’arte Zanni finds himself as a migrant in an urban environment where his lack of urban savoir faire and illiteracy is a handicap, and he becomes a facchino, a porter of heavy loads. Nevertheless, he does not allow himself to become burdened by them: he remains resilient. He is an adult, a man of culture, just not the culture in which he finds himself. In my research, I have found more than three hundred names for him, but whether he is called Arlecchino or Truffaldino or Tabacchino or Traccagnino or by any derivative name, he is still second Zanni and his function remains the same, as do the patches on the costume. As I said about the first Zanni, the name changes reflect the change of actor, each one wanting to give a signature to their personal take on the role. In the hundreds of years of commedia dell’arte, he has been played by hundreds of actors, and that is why there are hundreds of names. We must, therefore, correct today’s prevailing idea that there is only one single second Zanni, the famous Arlecchino/Arlequin/Harlequin. (See Figure 2.2) JR:  No-no list? AF:  No-no list.

The personnages

11

Figure 2.2  Arlecchino

What I detest above all is ‘Harlequinism’, the idea that he is the ace which trumps all the other cards in the pack. To many people, Mozart is baroque music. In fact, his music is rococo, but that’s not the point. Likewise, to many people, Harlequin is commedia dell’arte. I am against the synthesising of culture around illustrious exponents. JR:  A definite no-no? AF: He has become a brand-name for everything you can think of from delivery vans to shopping centres like the one near you [Exeter] when we stayed with you in England. JR:  Even a rugby team. AF:  It cheapens not only him, but also the form to which he belongs, where he has his place but should not predominate. To an extent the same is true of Pulcinella, but he has to be forgiven because he spent so many years in isolation. Who today has heard of his variant Shcatozza (or Shcatotza, in Campanian pronounciation)? Most people don’t even realise that he and Arlecchino are second zannis and, when you have a second Zanni, that presupposes that there is a first. Together they become a

12  The personnages comedic machine, a dynamic duo. The first Zanni is the leader, the one who says ‘Let’s go’ and second Zanni is happy to follow. One understands the problem better than the other, but it is often number two who comes up with an idea of how to solve it. But once the idea is adopted, it creates another, larger difficulty, and so on. We call this the panettone effect. JR: When you cook panettone [an Italian sweet bread, originally from Milan, now a Christmas treat] in the oven it gets bigger and bigger… AF:  But finally there has to be a simple solution – you eat it! JR:  Laurel and Hardy again: in The Music Box, having delivered the piano (finally) up seemingly never-ending steps, they discover there is a road which goes round leading to the front door. AF:  So, with the introduction of the two zanni system, the commedia dell’arte structure was complete, and there was no reason to change it for a 100 years until in Un Servitor di due Padroni [A Servant of Two Masters], Carlo Goldoni called the second Zanni ‘Truffaldino’ because that was the name that Antonio Sacchi used for his Zanni. Because it was Sacchi, who asked him to write a play rather than a scenario3, Goldoni the playwright gave Truffaldino a little more licence and continuity of presence than would normally be allowed the second Zanni, a little more freedom to do as he pleased, effectively rolling the two zannis back into one.4 JR:  However, the general belief amongst people who have not actually read the play is that the role is Arlecchino’s: this is because Marcello Moretti played him as such in the omnipotent 1947 Piccolo Teatro di Milano revival.

La servetta AF: 

‘Zagna’ was the original female counterpart of Zanni in the zannesca plays. ‘She’ was played by men, infarinato, with grotesque padding in gender specific places, and often wearing a headscarf (See Figure 1.2). When the zannis became masked ‘she’ did likewise, wearing one that was similar or even identical. Then, with the arrival of actresses on stage, came la Fantesca – a rather simple peasant girl whose charms were, however, real. The name is simply an older word for ‘female servant’. Next, around 1580–90, the servetta drove them both, masked and unmasked, off stage. In the La Scala scenarios la servetta is Colombina, the girlfriend of Pedrolino who is first Zanni, and she is still a little naive. In the Casa Marciano scenarios, however, which are a little later in date

The personnages

13

(or at least date of reference since La Scala was writing retrospectively) she becomes Rosetta. Sometimes Rosetta is attached by the scenario to second Zanni Pulcinella, sometimes to first Zanni, Coviello. No matter: she is smarter than both of them and has become in fact the most intelligent personnage in the commedia dell’arte. So much so that when a plotline couples her with second Zanni, she assumes the function of first Zanni.

Il Magnifico AF:  The

Magnifico (See Figure 2.3) most often goes under the name of Pantalone, but again there were others, Stefanello, for example. Venetians pronounced his name ‘Pantalon’, as in ‘San Pantalon’, but since commedia dell’arte is a secular form it doesn’t do to insist. As with Brighella’s supposed malevolence, too much can be made of his meanness and his prurience. Commedia dell’arte is not about sending him to hell for being a self-made man who wants to hang on to his money and/or for being an old man who has trouble

Figure 2.3  Il Magnifico

14  The personnages with his libido. He’s willing to spend his money, but only on the latter, and Brighella, for example, is happy to take it from him in exchange for some dodgy potion… At that moment, Pantalone is not a miser: he will pay as much as necessary to be successful in bed with a beautiful woman. So he is duped, but he is not stupid. JR:  He just wants to relive his youth? To go back to the dawn when the night is closing in? AF:  Yes, and if he is willing to pay for that, commedia dell’arte will not condemn him. JR: A thing that has always puzzled me is when and how did the Magnifico with such thunderous thighs become the enfeebled old Venetian merchant Pantalone? AF: Well, for a start, Pantalone is not a Venetian creation, he was invented at the very beginning for the zannesca, when all the interactions that zannis could provide had been used up and more personnages were needed. And since the zannis were servants, the first new personnages to make their appearance were their masters: the Magnifico and the Doctor. ‘Magnifico’ simply signifies a rich man, and is a generic term, a personnage, a capitalist who is then defined by specific names such as Pantalone, Pancrazio, Zanobio or Stefanello . The great popularity of the name ‘Pantalone’ does not make this Venetian variant different or special. Just as Arlecchino is one of the very numerous names for second Zanni, Pantalone is one of the numerous names for the Magnifico. All those names tell us where they come from: Pantalone comes from Venice and he speaks Venetian. His name has two etymological possibilities: ‘Pianta-il-Leone’ – to plant the lion stamp on goods passing through la Serenissima, the Republic of Venice, especially from the Orient, or a contraction of ‘Pantaleone’, a very common name in Venice in the mid 16th century. He is old, is Pantalone, but he is not feeble. He has the inconveniences of old age, obviously, but he does not have the physical weakness that would make him a ‘poor old man’. On the contrary, he represents the kind of man who does not accept the ageing process and does things which at his age he should not do. In particular, he absolutely wants to re-marry with a very young woman. And that’s typical of the Magnifico, wherever he hails from. But it is true that the iconographic evidence shows very often a personnage who is well-muscled, then sometimes an old bourgeois and, more rarely, a little old man. All these representations are tied in with the epoch when they were made. Let me explain: what is consistent throughout, with only minor changes, such as

The personnages   15 Moroccan slippers for clogs, is the image of the same old boy in the same costume, one that perhaps changed the least in the whole history of Commedia. A big black jacket is practically enveloping him but for the front which remains open to reveal a red shirt, long red breeches which are sometimes red, sometimes not, on his head a sort of fez which, with the Moorish slippers on his feet, mean that both ends tell us of his commercial relations with the Orient. On his belt, there is often a money bag and a dagger. JR:  And a very pointed goatee beard. AF:  The real changes are in his physique. In the first epoch, we see a very sprightly old man, strong, muscly, with thighs to make a young man envious. This epoch did not last long, but it coincided with the painting and drawing of the human body under the influence of Michaelangelo. The Trauznitz5 Pantalone, for example, is reminiscent, physically, of the Sistine Chapel; it has the same style, could almost be by the same hand – offering the same idea of the human form triumphant in its flesh, bones and musculature, whatever the age of the subject. In the Baroque period big changes happened: pitiless reality, old age is old age, very different from youthfulness, and that difference had to be depicted. But this old man, Pantalone, is still a master, he is rich, he gives orders and has plenty of energy, so though we see an old man, he is a very active one. And that is the definitive historical image of him. Much later, in the epoch which we might call ‘Goldonian’, he becomes very old, but still lucid and master of any given situation. When he loses control of a situation it is not because of his age, but because of the decisions, he makes, involving others who are not normally content to be pushed around by an old man and who, since they are in the majority, are able to organise a response which wins out in the end. JR:  So it’s a no-no to play Pantalone as a ‘poor old man’. AF:  That’s something he can do for himself when necessary, however. He can play the poor old man, the ‘old dodder’ with ‘one foot in the grave’, when it might help him to get his way, without actually being any of that. Old does not mean ill. It’s just a stage of life, and he is very, very well. JR:  It seems to me that. As time has gone by, you have insisted more and more on the humanity of the masks and less and less on their grotesque qualities. AF:  Yes, and there was a very good example of that in my production Love is a Drug for the Oxford Stage Company.6 Pantalone was played by Andrew Frame, a very good actor – but then they were

16  The personnages all very good actors. One particular scene brought out exactly that human quality in his performance of the mask: Flaminia, the Lover in the play, takes a drug, rather like Juliet, it makes her seem as if she is dead. Immediately afterwards, the scene is a cemetery and Flaminia’s tomb is open. Pantalone arrives in tears, in despair because his daughter is dead. The scenario indicates that he then severely reproaches her, then gives her a piece of his mind, then works himself into a rage over her behaviour. The progression as performed was really fantastic: the father grieving for the death of his daughter, then remembering what she was like when she was little, then what a wonderful girl she was, before finally becoming the father who bawls his daughter out in front of her sepulchre for something she should not have done. The scene provoked an intense emotion, both in the actor and in the audience, but Pantalone’s comportment, his manner of speaking, his gesticulation, everything which makes the personnage what it is, remained appropriate to the mask. Funny yet profoundly moving at the same time – a perfect example of the paradox of the human condition.

Il Dottore AF:  Il Dottore Gratiano delle Cotiche, JR:  … meaning ‘pork rind’. AF: Gratiano was the name of the

plural of cotica…

founder of the University of Bologna, the oldest in the world. When the comici dell’arte wanted to create Il Dottore, they made him a native of that city as being the most cultured in Italy. But it was also the number one for gastronomy: a reputation which it still holds today. The point, which is worth insisting upon, is that it was not the individual city states which contributed a local type to the commedia dell’arte, but the actors who made the attribution for each personnage. Since there was no national language, they made sure that each mask spoke in a tongue that was appropriate to its characteristics. But having said that, Bolognese speech was perhaps the most understood, the closest to universal comprehension. Look out, however: Gratiano’s name in Bolognese sounds very similar to a slang word meaning ‘cod’. JR:  So, as well as being Doctor Pork-rind, he is also a cod Doctor. AF:  Yes, and let’s not forget the gourmet connection as well. He is old, he is rich. He is a widower. He is father to one of the Lovers. He can fall in love with a young woman, just like the other old man, Il Magnifico, who is also rich and also a widower. The actor playing the Doctor

The personnages   17 wore and wears (the costume has changed little through the ages) a large black cape and a big hat of the same colour – originally the attire of an intellectual. He can wear a large belt round his midriff, or rather pot belly, often with a white handkerchief attached. Often he carries a big book which contains the truth about everything, but which can also be used as a weapon. (See Figure 2.4) The important thing to remember is that he thinks he is important: an absolute authority both on legal matters and the consumption of food. That authority extends to his relationship with his son – he never has any doubt advising him over his troubles. JR:  One thinks of Polonius… AF:  There are other names: ‘Balanzone’, for example, the scales that are the symbol of justice, but also signify scientific precision. He affects, therefore, to be scrupulous in his judgements and opinions, which is evidently far from the case. Another name: Furbizòun in Bolgnaise dialect. Forbicione when pronounced in Italian. ‘Big Scissors’ in English, meaning that he separates everything out so that each part is made clear. Another: ‘Plusquamperfetcus’ – Latin for ‘more than perfect’. As usual, there are many others

Figure 2.4  Il Dottore Gratiano

18  The personnages but, with one exception, they are all from Bologna. The exception is Neapolitan because Naples needed to enjoy its own language in order to confirm its status as the capital of the South. So it invented its own variant Doctor: ‘Formizoun Spacca Strummolo: Formizoun [big forbici – scissors] plus Spacca [from the verb spaccare meaning ‘to cut’] in the sense of splitting a hair in four, thus indicating someone who demands absolute precision in word and deed, like a lawyer, for example. What he splits in Neapolitan isn’t a hair, however, but a spinning top, similarly cut into four. JR:  A spinning top? Why? AF: Because it represents the whirlwind of life where everything changes. He wants to stop the top and dissect it. Anyway, he’s the only Doctor who speaks anything but Bolognese – unless there are Sicilian or Piedmontese ones that I haven’t heard about! JR:  But the fun in parodying a Bolognese doctor would have been lost in translation when the comici dell’arte became, for example, les comediens du Roi in France? AF: The personnage made its appearance relatively early in the Commedia system, necessitated by certain dramatic conflicts – amorous ones, for example, as in master and servant both being after the same sexy servant girl. The authority of the Doctor is not only expressed in his age and status – which characterise him as a master – but through his preferred method of pretentious knowledge. He knows everything, he is a ‘tuttologo’, an ‘everythingologist’ (my attempt at an English translation!). So he uses a wide assortment of languages and an exaggerated, ostentatious vocabulary. The basis is both juristic and notarial, since together they make up his profession, being at once both a Doctor of Law and a Notary. Then he adds some Latin, some Ancient Greek, then other languages au choix. He generates long lists, usually in order to treat a subject from A to Z; he delivers his sproloquio [bullshit tirade] with enthusiasm and scientific passion, but above all with authority. Everything is spoken with a great sonority that comes from the language of origin, the Bolognaise, which is predominant as an accent and has a musicality which is immediately recognisable throughout Italy, and also from his ‘Bolognisation’ of other languages. The effect is always extremely comical, even in very serious situations: for example, when he uses his overbearing authoritativeness to oblige his daughter to marry an old man. In exporting the Doctor to Europe through their tours, the Italian actors adapted all that sonority into the appropriate native tongue. Not a particularly difficult thing to do since there were already

The personnages   19 several languages present in his sproloquio. The native tongue, which the actor would have to learn if he was not already familiar with it, took the place of Bolognaise, seeking wherever possible to use an uneducated terminology which would betray to an audience that the Doctor was not the great savant that he pretended to be. When I play the Doctor in France I make use of a lot of Italianised gallicisms or Frenchified Italianisms, And the same in Spanish and in English. It still works! JR:  But, as I understand it, he became Le Pédant in France – younger, less ridiculous? AF:  There is a difference between the traditional Dottore and the versions of him offered up by the Italians in Paris. Il Dottore is a man of Law, definitively. But the ‘Parisians’ manipulated him according to the piece to be performed – and often their plays ‘à l’italienne’ were written by French authors and adjusted for French audiences. ‘Italianess’ became more and more clichéd, and gradually moved away from the traditional. Gherardi, for example, played him sometimes as a medical Docteur, sometimes as an avocat [solicitor], very different from the second vecchio [old man] traditionally paired with Pantalone. For these reasons, in my opinion, this phase of commedia dell’arte should be considered localised and timebound. JR: And often when he became a medical doctor it was not really him, but another mask dressed up for the purposes of the plot – as in Molière’s Le Médecin Volant, for example. Moliere played Sganarelle, an Arlequin type, as a cod doctor. (See Figure 2.5) AF:  The Italians in Paris were in fact, a two-fer: they played Commedia pure, and when they did that they mixed languages, as they did elsewhere, even in Italy. More of that when we get to multilingualism. The local tongue, in this case, French, predominated, but their system was plurilinguistic. Il Dottore was no exception, though he exaggerated at times. And then there was the other manner of playing, the literary one, that of comedy conceived and written before being performed, in verse, in that alexandrine verse7 which once possessed poetry in the French language, especially during the baroque period. One finds an interesting example of this duality in the theatre of Domenico Biancolelli: his Scenario is a collection of canovacci that he played in Paris with his company, and in them, we find perfect examples of Commedia in its original form. But one can also study in his Nouveau Théâtre Italien some pieces from his repertoire which are written in alexandrine verse, in an elevated language where everyone speaks in the same style. Even Arlequin

20  The personnages

Figure 2.5  Arlecchino disguised as a doctor

speaks in such a manner. The Doctor of the Scenario, however, is definitely ours: he participates in the lazzi and gets fully involved in the disasters which the Commedia plots throw up. The Doctor of the ‘regular’ plays is a pedant, ponderous as you have to be when you inhabit the alexandrine world. In fact, the French Doctor called Le Pédant is much closer to the commedia erudita than to Il Dottore of the commedia dell’arte. JR:  He appears towards the end of Le Médecin Volant and, as a real lawyer, using real Latin, and censures the medical methods of the cod Sganarelle. JR:  What about his mask? You’ve already mentioned it is a quarter not a half mask like all the others. AF:  Yes, the mask used by the actor who plays the Doctor is smaller than the other Commedia masks: just a nose and a forehead, which is often a simple band that holds the nose on. The reduced form can be explained by the double necessity of (1) being comical, droll, to be laughed at, and (2) a lightness in wearing which permits the actor to use part of the face, particularly around the eyes, thus helping him to establish his authority over the other masks.

The personnages JR:  I’m

21

going to persist about the French connection: if the identity of the Doctor slipped through culture contact, other masks were either created or gained in stature in France: Scaramouche and Mezzetin for example? AF:  Yes, both actors became particularly celebrated in France – or rather in Paris. The French capital offered great opportunities to the Italian actors who were given theatres, money and protection – all of which they well merited. There were, however, two periods: first, the beginnings when Commedia was introduced and became known immediately as ‘Comédie Italienne’, but without gaining a firm footing. That was still in the 16th century, the century of creation, of comedic invention, the age dominated by the great actor, or, even more, the great actress. The Andreini dominated in an age that really was golden. Another name which was paramount in this period was that of Tristano Martinelli, who named his zanni ‘Arlequin’ to please a foreign public (and for that reason alone). Then came the second period when the ‘emigres’ arrived in Paris and founded their companies: Tibierio Fiorilli, a Neapolitan who had invented Scaramuccia

Figure 2.6  A Bolognese Dottore

22  The personnages in Naples, Frenchified him with great success as Scaramouche in Paris, where he made a permanent home, making only occasional returns to his beloved Naples. Angelo Constatini wrote a biography of Fiorilli entitled ‘La Vie de Scaramouche’. Nothing, absolutely nothing in it is true, except the spirit in which it is written, which gives the reader a good idea of the personnage of Scaramouche. JR:  Which is? AF:  A mixture of First Zanni and a low-life Captain. Very flexible in his contribution to the scenario. A terrible liar with whirlwind energy. Dressed entirely in black, white face infarinato, with a painted-on moustache, a bit like Groucho Marx. The personnage never gained the universality of Pulcinella as it was so very much linked to the personality of its inventor, and it is, for this reason, I don’t much like to include him in my work, although I did once experiment with a group of older actors, all playing him in a sort of ‘Scaramuchiata’. Constantini created for himself the personnage of Mezzetino: white-faced, a singer and musician, refined, rather soppy, perfect

Figure 2.7  Angelo Constantini as Mezzettino

The personnages   23 for the paintings of Watteau. The name, Mezetino, or Mezeti, is Bergamasque and comes from an original which was played in the mask. Constantini transformed it into an infarinato. Who became definitively Mezzetin in France. JR:  By the time the Italians were relegated to the Parisian fairs he had become outrageously camp and given to cross-dressing, The personnage most transformed in Paris, though, by a succession of actors, was: Pedrolino who became Pierrot… AF: In the fifty scenarios of Flaminio Scala’s ‘Teatro delle favole rappresentative’ the dominant servant-intriguer is Pedrolino. Arlecchino appears in the collection in print for the first time, but only as a minor figure, as Il Capitano’s spalla [go-fer]. Scala was an old man when he wrote and published the Teatro in 1611, after the end of his career on stage, though he remained active as director and manager of the Confidenti. What he transcribed was the repertoire of the glory years of Commedia, already grown-up but still very young, the period of the triumph of the Gelosi in Europe. And, as I said, Pedrolino figures as the principal hatcher of intrigues, very cunning, very dynamic. Was he played in a mask? Or was he already white-faced? We still don’t know. There are no images of the Scala personnages, though we can possibly deduce some of them from the rare images which ‘perhaps’ show the Gelosi in action. It is still a mystery as to whether Scala was a member of the Gelosi or not, but it is certain that he knew them and that Isabella and Francesco Andreini are recognisable in several of the scenarios. By the time he arrived in Paris with the other personnages, Pedrolino was certainly white-faced, defined, classic, ready to be part of the great success of the Comédie Italienne. Again, it’s the story of a name that was insignificant, to begin with becoming important by chance, almost by accident due to the success of a few greatly talented actors. Like Scaramuccia and Mezzetino, Pedrolino’s name became Frenchified as Pierrot [Little Peter]. However, it was not only the name that evolved in France: important changes were made to the original. He became naive, solitary, silent, long before Debureau made him into the mime artist we know today.8 Pierrot found himself cast as the dupe, rather than being Pedrolino the duper. Let’s go back then to Scala’s Pedrolino: whether played in the mask or not, he is part of the classical commedia dell’arte. Why did he become white-faced? I think one reason was that actors knew

24  The personnages very well that in antiquity the white mask was for women and very young people. Pedrolino took up the idea, and everything became white – even his mind (his soul if you like). He developed a sort of child-like presence, rather feminine, which afforded him an elegance that the other masks could not begin to aspire to, rustic, ugly and scruffy as they were. Pedrolino has class, but that class does not stop him being an enfant terrible as the first Zanni.

Il Bravo AF: 

Typically the Captain is a foreigner, most often a Spaniard. There are various theories about how he came into the commedia dell’arte – borrowed from Plautus’ Miles Gloriosus, for example. However, that’s not the case: he was everywhere for real in post-Renaissance Italy, in the street, in administrative positions, etc. The correct name for this personnage is ‘The Bravo’, an imposter as convinced of his prowess as a lover as of his invincibility as a warrior. When Francesco Andreini played the Captain, he did so without the mask, as an amorous adventurer.

Figure 2.8  Francesco Andreini as Il Capitano Spavento da Vall’ Inferna

The personnages

25

JR: 

There’s a great variety, however in the masks that you have created for the Captain – I particularly like ‘Saltafossa’, the jumped-up little pipsqueak. I’m having difficulty, though, with the new one that you gave me recently because it reminds me of Donald Trump and I can’t get his posturings out of my mind. AF:  It’s a great error to make reference in commedia dell’arte to a living person, or even a dead one. For instance, sometimes I find it necessary to let one of my assistants take over rehearsal while I attend to another scene. One time I had finished what I was doing and was just leaving the building when I heard my assistant instructing an actor to play the Captain as if he was Mussolini. Well, I didn’t interrupt because that’s not something that you do. But later I reproached him with being completely con, as we say in French. ‘Oh, but it’s difficult to avoid that’ was his response. ‘No, it isn’t difficult’ I replied, ‘just ignore it. The commedia dell’arte never makes allusion to a historical or living person, and certainly not to the inventor of fascism’. He continued to protest, and then I became a dictator and told him to stop it at once… no-no list.

Figure 2.9  A  ntonio Fava as Il Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro

26  The personnages JR: Tell

me about your Capitano – I know the answer, but for the record? AF:  Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro? He’s the Capitano invented by Giulio Cesare Croce,9 a Bolognaise poet of great vivacity, whose comic novel featuring Bertoldo is still a point of reference in Italian popular culture. He wrote many plays in Commedia style including the short, but exquisite verse play Le Tremende Bravure del Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro and his servant Frisetto. This play is a forerunner of Don Quixote and, in my opinion, Cervantes who had been living in Italy, saw it performed and afterwards took it as a model. JR: And you first discovered the play with the help of the Italian department at Exeter University where you were giving a workshop to second-year Drama students. AF: Si. JR:  Once back in Italy you performed it with Pietro Mossa as Zanni. AF:  Si, si.

Figure 2.10  Pulcinelli cooking macaroni

The personnages   27

Pulcinella AF:  He

was invented, or rather developed, by the actor Silvio Fiorillo around the turn of the 16th and 17th centuries. The Northern second Zanni personnages did not go down well in Naples because no-one understood Bergamese. Fiorillo wrote the first scripted Commedia play, La Lucilla Costante,10 in which the name Pulcinella appeared for the first time – in print at least. He speaks a very ancient Neapolitan which is very beautiful, but very hard even for native Neapolitans to understand today. However, the evolution of the name did not change the basic existence of the character. In the 16th century, he was known as Pascariello, then after Fiorillo’s great success using the name Pulcinella, Pascariello was downgraded into being an old man, finally, in the 18th century, becoming white-faced, in a black costume and functioning as a sort of public notary. JR:  Though it’s sometimes said that Pulcinella was based on a real, local character.11 AF:  The opposite is the case: he was conceived in the theatre and then spread out into the countryside by many interpreters as a folk figure, not the other way round. He was popular because he was very human, very droll, very sympathetic. He remains so today: for example, a well-known pizzeria chain has him eating his favourite macaroni as its logo. JR:  And this is the personnage which you have inherited? AF:  Yes, my father, Tomaso was a Pulcinella, although he never performed in a theatre. He played in villages in the countryside around Crotone in Calabria in the mask and costume of Pulcinella, but which he called ‘Puricinedda’, strumming a guitar that he beat for rhythm, enlivening local festivals with lazzi, songs, serenades, and comical sketches. Contrast this living heritage with a paper delivered at a conference I went to recently where an anthropologist presented some documents and film clips which purported to show the folklore origins of Pulcinella. Academic theorising which had nothing to do with commedia dell’arte. No-no list. JR:  Where does the name ‘Pulcinella’ come from then? AF: ‘Pulcino pollo’. As with all names in commedia dell’arte it has a precise origin and signification: he is a plucked chicken. In Italian, we call someone who is put upon all the time a pollo. Omen nomen: his destiny is in his name because in scenario after scenario he is ultimately the victim and well and truly plucked.

28  The personnages JR:  Did you say all names? AF:  Yes, take the servette,

for example – Corallina, Colombina, etc. Their names are always indicative of two qualities: prettiness and preciousness. JR:  Tell us about your plucked chicken shows. AF:  I call my shows pulcinellate [plural of pulcinellata], and I call the whole development of them my Pulcinella Saga. It’s a long story – maybe we should put that in an appendix? JR:  We’ll do that. Something of a one-man show whenever I’ve seen one. What would a full company Pulcinella Commedia be like? AF:  Le Disgazie di Pulcinella12 [The Misfortunes of Pulcinella] is an example of his personnage in full action. In it, Pulcinella is someone who pretends to be rich. At the beginning his arrival is awaited at the Doctor’s house where a marriage has been arranged with the daughter – let’s call her Isabella, but it’s the personnage which matters, not the name. Her real love is not present. So far Pulcinella’s courtship has taken place solely by correspondence and, very unusually in commedia dell’arte, his letters are now read out on stage, proving that, although he is not illiterate, he is an ignoramus. The scenario writer has him write in a mixture of Neapolitan dialect and Italian, which is quite risible. He insists that he is rich, that he is a merchant in pumice – a sort of very light stone that one finds on the beach which can be used for cleaning the skin. Today you have to buy it, but at that time it was lying around everywhere at the seaside. So that’s the kind of merchant we are waiting for. The Lover arrives before Pulcinella and, since he is a student from a nearby town and not known to the Doctor, is mistaken for Pulcinella. He is feted, and a banquet begins in his honour. Pulcinella arrives outside and hears what is going on inside and can’t believe his ears when he hears his name being bandied about. Eventually, he meets Rosetta, the servetta, and marries her instead – a case of the most stupid person in commedia dell’arte getting together with the most intelligent, but that is permissible since they are of the same class. So, he is not rich – in fact, he is poverty-stricken. Likewise he is often thought to be a glutton, but this is not the case either: when he falls on food and devours it, it is because he has not eaten for days and is famished. JR:  What do you make of Domenico Tiepolo’s drawings of Pulcinella? AF:  The Divertimenti per li ragazzi? The title gives it away – amusements for children. Tiepolo was drawing from Carnival and creating a whole imaginary world for children, not recording something that he had seen on stage. A lot of individual people disguised

The personnages   29 themselves for Carnival by dressing up as commedia dell’arte figures – that doesn’t mean that they performed plays together. Commedia and Carnival should not be confused. Carnival makes use of whatever it likes – today, for example, caricatures of politicians. JR:  What other Southern personnages were there?

Pasquariello AF: In

the South, Pasquale was a very popular name, similar to Giovanni (Zanni) in the North. As I mentioned just now, Pasquariello pre-dates and is a prototype of Pulcinella. Fiorilli adopted his appearance, although the humpback was more an artistic addition than a practical one – an image that was suited to paintings, but an encumbrance on stage. I tried it once, never again. After the advent of the masked Pulcinella, Pasquariello became infarinato, white-faced, but dressed entirely in black. He was not a servant but had a metier, that of a public writer, the scribe for the illiterate, handwriting letters and official documents. A man of letters, therefore, an intellectual.

Coviello AF: He’s

usually a servant, but like other Southern personnages, his role can change, often to that of a Captain or, more rarely, a father. Whatever, the personnage remains the same: he is always first Zanni, usually with Pulcinella as second – and he always makes a dupe of him. There’s a Neapolitan expression ‘fare iacovielle’ – to compliment someone. First Zanni often does so, but for Coviello, it’s always a strategy: he’s a dangerous man to know. He’ll gain your confidence but beware: his intrigues are terrible. Images of him are very rare, but he was definitely masked, with a bulbous ‘baroque’ nose. A musician par excellence, skilled on a variety of instruments, always the one to organise and accompany a serenade.

Cola His name is an abbreviation of Colafronio, and again, he can have various functions, for example, as the Southern equivalent of Il Magnifico, or a servant as first or second Zanni, depending on the scenario. Sometimes he is just an old man or a parent. Da sé. [Meaning ‘on his or her own’, usually to be found in the character list of a scenario].

30  The personnages Normally status, metier, relationship(s) are given as in ‘Pantalone, father of; Flavio in love with’, etc. Servants are always attributed to their masters unless they have no specific boss, in which case they are down as Da sé. Cola can be independent of the plotline, but still, get involved in intrigues.

Giangurgulo AF: 

…is usually thought of as a Captain in the North, but he is a more elastic figure in the Southern scenarios. He can, for example, be second Zanni, sometimes even a father or just an old man, since the Magnifico is essentially Venetian and had no existence as a type in the South. He is very acrobatic, pretends to be Spanish, but in fact, his speech is half Calabrese. Interestingly, the more I look into old engravings and paintings, the more I realise that Cesare Molinari was right to say that Il Capitano did not wear a mask. The sole exception seems to be Giangurgulo, whose mask, like that of the Doctor, covered just his forehead and his nose, whose phallic allusion is fairly evident…

Bajazzo [pronounced Bayatzo] AF  …is

the cunning servant in the Southern tradition, a Calabresian from Naples. Conceived as an infarinato, his name was originally Bajazzu in Calabrese, then Bajazzo, then Baiazzo, then Baiaccio, Paiaccio then, definitively, Pagliaccio at the end of the classical Comedia period, the end of the 18th going into the 19th century. Eventually, he became the Clown of the circus ring and is still called by the same names such as Paillasse, Pallaso, etc. in Latin languages, but always with pejorative overtones, becoming today an insult. It has disappeared in modern French, however, where it has nothing to do with the word ‘paille’ [straw]. In Calabrese ‘bajazzu’ means ‘mocker’, ‘trickster’, thus in Commedia ‘one who sets up and carries out intrigues’.

Tartaglia JR:  … is a minor figure, but I suppose we have to mention him? AF:  We must however, distinguish between given, established facts

and the inventions of certain authors and artists. Carlo Gozzi, for example, has a personnage called ‘Tartaglia’ who has nothing whatsoever

The personnages

31

to do with the traditional Mask. Gozzi did a lot of good, challenging the disrespect of Goldoni, but his Tartaglia is just a name and has none of the given attributes of the inherited personnage. JR:  Which are? AF:  He’s an old man, a sort of mishmash between Pantalone and the Doctor. There are never three of them: Tartaglia always replaces one or the other in a Commedia. He is called on when needed for a specific role, usually that of the notary when the scenario does not call for a complete set of characteristics. Because he stammers, he is capable of introducing ambiguity into a scene leading to complications in the plot. But it is usually for one scene only, otherwise, the impediment becomes tiresome. A verbal lazzo is called a bisguizzo in commedia dell’arte parlance – another lost word which I am trying to put back into circulation. Tartaglia’s stutterings are often scatological; he might say, for example, to his daughter Isabella: ‘Vai a ca-ca’. She would be shocked as he insisted over and again until he finally managed to come out with ‘a casa’, i.e. into the house. Because he belongs to the Neapolitan family, Pulcinella is often his servant, on hand with his scuscella [cudgel] to give him a whack on the back, then the bum, then the belly (whack, whack, whack – the rule of three), in order to force a word out and finish the bisguizzo. What do you do with Tartaglia? You bring him on and then get him off when the joke is over. However, the best way to play him is not to stutter all the time, but only on certain syllables. You struggle several times over to deliver a word which contains one of these then, suddenly, a synonym pops out which sounds completely different. Played that way Tartaglia is capable of having a more extended role. JR:  Michael Palin uses this technique in A Fish Called Wanda. AF:  I love that film, but I’ve only seen it dubbed in Italian. I think I’ve got the DVD, so I’ll try the original. Another solution is to get Tartaglia to write down what he wants to say: that way, he has no problems with fluency! JR:  He does have problems with his eyesight, though and wears thicklensed glasses all the time. Isn’t it cruel to mock the afflicted? I’m thinking of Fawlty Towers, another inspiration from John Cleese. AF:  I love that series. JR: …Two scatty old ladies, the deaf major, a daft waiter from Barcelona who doesn’t speak much English – why is it always the afflicted that get laughed at?

32  The personnages

Figure 2.11  The last rites: Tartaglia as a notary at Pulcinella’s deathbed AF:  Farce

is like that: it always picks on those who are less fortunate than ourselves. Laughter is how we protect ourselves from their afflictions. JR: It’s also xenophobic: when the series was broadcast in Spain, Manuel was turned into an Italian. AF:  I don’t doubt it. There is an aquatint by the 18th-century artist Pier Leone Ghezzi depicting the death of Pulcinella. He is on his deathbed with the family standing all around. Tartaglia is beside him, writing down his last will and testament. Like Pulcinella, Tartaglia had a certain independent existence outside the commedia dell’arte. In the Neapolitan area, he was the notary who was notorious not so much for stammering as constantly repeating himself and using the same phrases over and over again. One of those roles, therefore, that permitted an actor to earn a living solo. JR:  What about female masks: how did they differ in the South? AF:  There were three. Firstly:

Rosetta In the Casa Marciano scenarios she is usually Pulcinella’s wife. Hardly mentioned elsewhere, she is La Pacchiana, a Signora but not a wealthy one. Although a servant, and of low class, she is a force of nature

The personnages   33 to be reckoned with. A strong, exuberant woman, totally independent, definitely wearing the trousers in Pulcinella’s house. She speaks Neapolitan but can pretend to be a great lady by giving herself airs.

Zezza AF: 

…can also be Pulcinella’s wife, in contrast to Rosetta her peasant origins are obvious. She can be played with or without the mask.

Olivetta AF:  …is

as typically southern as the name suggests, although she has many different ones, as did all the female servants. However, in some traditions there are names which are used more than others: she is a kind of Colombina, and the latter’s name is in fact used more and more in the 18th century when appearing with Pulcinella. So, Zezza, Rosetta and Olivetta are the wifely trinity of Pulcinella. JR:  Vive la difference!

Notes

1. All of which stem from the Latin word ‘persona’, which translates as ‘a mask or visor;’ hence ‘the person, part or character played by an actor’. 2. Born Bologna 1604, died between 1648 and 1653, in Bergama or Venice: actor, poet, painter and comedian. 3. JR: Antonio and I may have to agree to differ here: ‘To be accurate, the original script was a Commedia dell’Arte scenario, but when Goldoni came to write out the play in full for publication, he deviated little, if at all, from the original unscripted production. So it is true to say that the text we have today is imbued with Sacchi’s performance.’ Holme, Timothy, A Servant of Two Masters, the life and times of Carlo Goldoni, Jupiter Books, London, 1976, p. 76. Goldoni considered Sacchi to be the Italian David Garrick. 4. This ‘promotion’ of Arlecchino was first made by Dominico Biancolleli, known as ‘Dominique’ in Paris in the mid 18th century. ’Biancolelli achieved the fusion of the two Bergamasque clowns. His Arlequin looked like Arlecchino, practised all the traditional lazzi, played the same role: but he behaved with the bold cunning of Brighella. Brighella’s mind entered Arlecchino’s body. […] This Arlequin was a wit and philosopher, a mighty rogue with curious moments of dejection that drew his audience closely to him’. Nicklaus, Thelma, Harlequin Phoenix, Bodley Head, London, 1956, p.76. And the Calendrier Historique des Theatres for 1751 states that ‘formerly Arlecchino had always been a dullard’ but Dominique sought to introduce some wit into the role. And gave to the character of Arlequin a complexion different from that of the old Zanni.’ The role of Pierrot was subsequently developed at the Comédie-Italienne to replace the second Zanni role.

34  The personnages 5. Fresco on the staircase of Trausnitz Castle, Landshut, Bavaria. 6. 1995, based on the Flaminio La Scala scenario La Creduta Morta [The Lady who was believed Dead] 7. 12 syllable iambic couplets, rhyming alternately with masculine and feminine endings. 8. Paris 1826. 9. Born San Giovanni in Persiceto 1550, died Bologna, 1609. 10. Written in 1609, first published in 1632 after the death of the author. On the title page the personnage is actually given as ‘Policinella’. 11. ‘In the eighteenth century the philologist Galliani tells a story to relate Pulcinella to the country people. He says that a band of strolling players entered into a battle of wits with some peasants who were gathering grapes near Acerra in the Terra di Lavoro. The peasants had the better of the encounter, thanks to the exertions of one of their number called Puccio d’Aniello. This fellow had a caricature of a face – a long nose, and a complexion burnt black by the sun. The players invited him to join their troupe; he did so and became a great success. Thus, Galliani says, Puccio d’Aniello became Pulcinella, and his mask, name and character passed into the repertory of the Neapolitan commedia dell’arte. It is a good story, bur deficient in authority, and its value lies in symbolising that Pulcinella drew his inspiration from the Neapolitan people.’ Stead, John Philip, Mr. Punch, Evans, London, 1950, p. 18. 12. From the Casa Marciano collection, scenario expanded and published alone in 1824.

3

Performance location

AF:  Where

to play? Well, I think that choice leads to the most common error made today, one which is informed by a kind of neo-romanticism in those who aspire to become actors. That is to say that one performs where destiny provides, or the wind blows you. This principle, if one can call it that, has nothing to do with the kind of theatre that can be called commedia dell’arte. Definitely, no-no listed! Before becoming a genre, something which took time – it didn’t happen straight away – commedia dell’arte was a brutally commercial proposition, a product for sale. It had to please; otherwise, it wasn’t saleable. And today, if it’s not saleable, if you can’t please the majority of people with it, you have no market. And if you have no market, then people don’t know of your existence, and you have no chance to please them. You need a system which will bring both sides into organised contact, and the question of place is crucial to that systematisation. As I’ve said already, the first plays, known as zannata or zannesca, existed before the advent of the commedia dell’arte proper with the coming of the actress. The Comedy of the Zannis, if we can call it that, had to find its spectators where they already were. But they also had the other option: themselves to propose playing somewhere where they might be accepted, somewhere where their theatrical ideas would be welcomed. Those Zanni actors were known as ‘professors’ at the time – professore dell’arte, professors of their art… JR: English Punch and Judy showmen are still known by that title today… AF:  …Ah, the burattini, yes. So, there were two methods of gaining an audience: you could go somewhere, like a market, and there were plenty throughout Italy even before the 1530s, places of convergence in towns and villages, where thousands of people would already be present, and there present yourselves in a manner

36  Performance location in which was immediately obvious to the passing crowd, using music, dance and short extracts. But that wasn’t the show; it was a parade advertising the show which was necessary when most people could not read posters – in fact, there were no posters. And that show would not take place any old where: you did it where you were going to be best seen, where you were going to play to the best effect and where the audience was going to be able to enjoy you the most, preferably an enclosed space where collecting money would be the most efficient. One should not confuse the various extant etchings of charlatans and mountebanks on little stages in a crowded marketplace, selling snakebite via the agency of one or two Commedia figures, with full performances by legitimate professional companies. The second method they used involved approaching the aristocrats where they were to be found, that is to say in their palaces, where there were also to be found spaces already voluntarily adapted for such purposes by such people. Later on, in the 19th century every town would have its purpose-built theatre-cum-opera house, the one in my home town of Reggio Emilia is dated 1857 for example. And they were always sold out. There were boxes for the aristocracy, certainly, but also places for the common folk. It was a commercial necessity to be democratic: they had to know what to sell to whom, and how to sell it – all of which which is bad news for the neo-Romantics of today. JR:  For them ‘marketing’ is a dirty word… AF:  Ah, yes, English is now the language for all commercial transactions. These buildings were also workshops – if a company needed new scenery, it would be made for them. Most scenes were painted, but there were also machines constructed. Some inventions are still in use today. For example, if a boat were called for, then a real one would be made, scaled down to the proportions of the theatre. In the wings, machinists would then operate a system of rollers to make it go up and down. JR:  In the Theatre Royal in Bristol (where I once worked) there is still a thunder run – a wooden channel which goes around the inner walls. Cannonballs would be rolled down it during storm scenes, making the whole building shake, along with canvas clad barrels with sand in them operated by a crank handle to simulate the sound of wind… AF:  In Reggio Emilia – one of the most beautiful theatres in the world – they used fibres for wind, and there are also mechanical effects

Performance location  37 for rain and thunder. The special effects of the day. Today we have technology… JR:  The Bristol technicians were ex-sailors, used to rigging, pulleys, etc. AF:  That makes sense: in the Coliseum in Rome, for example, there was a complex system of sails which could be drawn out to create shade on days when the sun would have been too bright for the spectators. This system was also manned by old sailors. JR:  But Reggio is a long way from the sea? AF:  Ah, the machinists there and in the countless theatres throughout Italy, were not sailors, they were architects and engineers. JR:  Coming up to date, today you only perform in theatres? AF:  Let’s say rather only in places that are well organised for performance purposes, which was the original requirement of the comici dell’arte when there were no theatres as such. Today we must fight against the supposition that we are gypsies, travellers blown by the wind, performing wherever fortune takes us. As I said, I call that ‘neo-Romanticism’, and that’s not new, it’s what you get in Gautier’s novel Capitaine Fracasse,1 for example.

Note

1. 1863. In impoverished despair, the young Baron de Sigognac has decided to die in the Bergerac castle of his ancestors, attended by his last faithful servant, his aged fencing master. A troupe of strolling players get their cart stuck outside in torrential rain, and he offers them such shelter as he can before deciding to throw in his lot with them as they make their way North. In love with the beautiful Isabella he uses his swordsmanship to defend her honour against the dastardly Duc de Valombreuse. When Matamoros, the Capitano of the troupe dies, he takes over as Le Capitaine Fracasse, taking part in their success when they finally reach Paris.

4

The scenarios

JR:  ‘Scenarios’ – is that the correct plural? AF:  In very strict literary Italian it should be scenarii

with two i’s, or a circumflex over a single one since any word ending in ‘io’ demands a double ‘i’ plural. Also, the word is pronounced ‘shaynario’ in Italian, not ‘saynario’. In modern parlance, however, we tend to say simply ‘scenari’, which I’m not very fond of. JR:  Since, as you said, we are going to end up being anglophone, let’s go with one ‘scenario’ and two or more ‘scenarios’. AF:  A scenario, as you would expect, means a series of scenes. They were not numbered, but down the left-hand side of the page would be noted the personnages present at the beginning of the scene. Sometimes you get in quello [at this moment] written in the margin and the addition of a further name, which simply means that such and such a personnage has joined the others on stage. Sometimes a lazzo is indicated by the name, though we don’t always know what business it refers to, or the scenario might say, for example, ‘The Dentist enters but Pantalone does not want his tooth pulled – lazzi’. All we know is that in the northern version, Arlecchino played the dentist, in the southern it was Pulcinella. The acts were numbered: comedies were in three acts, pastorals in four and operas rarely less than five. In performance, each act normally lasted about one hour, which means that the shortest form of commedia dell’arte was around three hours plus entractes of music, dance etc., which were necessary in order to maintain the spectators’ attention. Audiences were not sophisticated; they needed something to hold on to whilst waiting for the action to begin again. Today we have more discipline in our intervals! With the Oxford Stage Company’s Love is a Drug, admittedly, we used

The scenarios  39 two rather than three acts, but that’s because today’s audiences aren’t used to lasting out for three. As to the scenario on which the performance is based, there’s something interesting to be seen more clearly in the Neapolitan Casa Marciano collection than in that of the better known Il Teatro delle favole rappresentive by Flamino Scala. ‘Casa Marciano’, by the way, is the name of a mansion that belonged to a Count, not the name of the author of the collection, who is unknown. The scenarios are written on three pages, the first act being about a page and a half long, the second, one page and the third just half a page. But the playing time for each act would have been the same. Why? In my experience, based on research and actual performance, the first act needs more explication: even an audience with an experience of the genre needs information about the who, what, where, etc., in any given scenario. Everything relevant to the storyline has to be revealed and its significance understood, and also any extra characters need to be properly introduced. If you have a five-minute scene of a thief conducting a robbery, for example, you need to know why it is taking place – and be prepared for the consequences later on. The second act develops all that, the third also, but the scenario leaves much more space available towards the end for the invention of dramatic spectacle. This is very important because the spectacular does not happen just like that, it needs to develop through the creation of curiosity and intrigue during act two to the point where it can explode dramatically in act three and so on through to the happy ending. At the beginning you need the back story and then the story – the interaction between the characters – and, at the end, the dramatic spectacle which emerges from those foundations. The last section is a happy ending when everyone gets engaged to be married. Who gets who depends on the scenario: in one Rosetta, as I’ve already said, may get engaged to Pulcinella, in the next play she might partner Coviello. JR:  What is the difference between a scenario and a canovaccio? AF:  Sometimes the two words are perfectly synonymous, but at others, canovaccio has a specific sense; for example, if you and I were two zannis preparing a certain scene with lazzi to be inserted at a certain moment of the comedy, we would call it our ‘canva’, that is to say, a text without words. This silent form was what went on to become the French and English pantomime.

40  The scenarios JR: 

I may have got it wrong, then – I’ve always assumed that a canovaccio was what was played in the street where there would be no scenery, only a canvas backdrop, a shorter piece also than a three-act scenario played in a hall with specially constructed scenery. AF:  Other forms can have a canovaccio – farce, for example, but there was only one commedia dell’arte, and you performed it wherever could, indoors or out. Today one has the choice.

5

AF: 

Collective creation

The early companies were not democracies – the term had not yet even been invented. But they were ensembles, and anyone from the youngest to the most experienced could propose a theme and, perhaps, write down a few suggested scenes. The company would then improvise around the theme, and then someone (and it was usually the same person, the one with the most literary bent) would write out the full scenario. This might be the leader, the capo comico, but not necessarily. JR:  Even if the company were named after him or her? AF:  The companies were rarely named after their ‘star’ performer, preferring to take names which put them on a footing with the literary academies. They were real ensembles, cooperating in everything they did. If their public preferred one performer to another, however, who could stop them? Today my company is not named after me, but called Ars Comica, with its own logo [ArscomicA] and separate identity. Previously it was Il Teatro del Vicolo. Even if I were a Hollywood star (heaven forbid) this would remain the case when applying for institutional funding for a project: it is the project which matters, not the identity of the capocomico. My daughter, Marcella, who is a professional photographer and in charge of our publicity, does not agree and insists that we should use my name. JR:  I’m think of Jacques Copeau and the Copiaux… AF:  Why not the Favolini? The Broadbeans? In certain parts of Italy that is rather rude – I don’t think we’d want to be known as the Little Phalluses… JR: Apparently, car manufacturing companies have this problem naming new models – any word you can think of turns out to be obscene somewhere in the world. Anyway, I’m going to provoke you now… AF:  Good, I love being provoked…

42  Collective creation JR: 

Do you always practice what you preach? As well as mask-making, performing, teaching, playing the flute, etc. you also have an idea of yourself as a writer – I know, for example, that you are writing your first novel at the moment. Now, the dramaturgical process which you are proposing as the model for Commedia structure begins with an idea which is improvised by the company in rehearsal, then fashioned into a scenario which would have become the basis for performance with lazzi and other set routines are thrown in. But for your shows today, after respecting everyone’s contribution, you become a playwright and write out the dialogue which you then hand back to the actors as a play text to be rehearsed, with you as director – capocomico at least. AF:  I think of myself more as a conductor. All the actors in my company have the same thing required of them: to be equal in their inventiveness. However, one often discovers that their level of contribution is not always the same. Even good performers on stage can find the creative rehearsal process problematical. My job is to even things up so that the outcome is homogenised. Our Commedia is informed by tradition, it comes from collective, concerted improvisation, but in order to achieve artistic consistency. I have to develop the raw material before handing it back to the company in scenario form, with some written dialogue where the quality of language is important. Then we improvise again, but with me, as I said, as a sort of conductor, after which I go away again and write the final version, improving those parts which are not up to the level of others. In the final version, there is little room for improvisation, but then there never was anyway. The production process is not the product. The final test comes in front of an audience. One should never improvise in front of an audience. Or only very occasionally, perhaps. There are moments that occur, but you have to be really careful not to fall into a hole and let down the tone that has been established. You have to follow the rules, especially of remaining on the theme, staying coherent, not changing the characteristics of your personnage. Above all, do not interact with the audience – that’s a total no-no. A spectator does not have a role whereas you do. When have you spent so long perfecting it, why cross swords with someone who does not even have one? JR:  So for you, a Commedia is a performance which has been improvised and finally scripted, not an improvised performance? AF:  Today, it has to be like that; otherwise we would be letting our audiences down with something of less than professional standard.

6

Gestural evolution

AF:  Commedia dell’arte depends JR:  Why not just ‘gestures’? AF: Development from a basic

a great deal on gestural clarity.

position into a movement on stage happens a lot more in commedia dell’arte than in other theatrical genres, as well as there being historical developments. JR: So let’s take Zanni, for example. You propose several different walks for him, and ports de bras (if we can import that term), and of the hands, even, in the case of Arlecchino. His manner of crying, for example. AF: Different gestures were developed by different actors. As you know, I detest Arlecchino being singled out for special attention. Gestures evolve, they change, they get more elaborate, but it is the interpretation of the gesture which matters. JR:  How do you arrive at that interpretation? AF:  Sometimes the work I do is like cartoon animation – I have a precise idea of a starting point which comes from one of the innumerable images available from paintings, etchings, etc., no matter whether of Arlecchino, Zanni or, obviously, Pulcinella, and that gives me the beginning of a series of intermediary points before arriving at another fixed position. These used to be drawn by the principal cartoonist’s assistants, but today it’s all done by technology. No matter, the principle is the same. I do the work of putting in all the intermediary points between one image and the next. Necessarily this involves a fundamental understanding of how the human body works. Then there are the descriptions written by witnesses. Often those who didn’t appreciate what they saw are more useful than those who did: they tend to go into more detail in order to justify their criticisms! JR:  How do you pass on your discoveries to others?

44  Gestural evolution AF: I

always begin my work with students, or actors who have already had some training from me, with normality. What is a given masks’s daily, untroubled routine? It sits, stands up, walks, maybe stretches out in order to sleep and, if absolutely necessary, it runs. That can be exceptional, however, running through fear, for example. In standing one must realise that commedia dell’arte dislikes immobility. So, you are standing up, but you must move. How do you do it? You usually put your weight on one foot, but then, as a result of some stimulus or other, transfer it to the other one, quickly or slowly depending on circumstance. But you are not yourself, at home, but on stage, wearing a mask. The transfer takes place from a dramatic impulse, often with a movement of the head and neck, which is transferred into the body as a whole. Walking is not every day, either: it is past of the great Commedia show! You are standing, and you want to begin to move. How do you do it? You begin from a basic position, and you move one foot then transfer your weight to it. Again, you can’t do it as you yourself would normally do it at home. You are part of a spectacle,

Figure 6.1  Domenico Biancolelli as Arlecchino: engraving

Gestural evolution  45 the great spectacle of human society, and you must, therefore, do it spectacularly. How many ways do we normally walk? One. Perhaps a bit more slowly or quickly, but just the one. In a Commedia, walking is according to circumstance – it is night, it is day, you are in a hurry, you are feeling calm, there can be many different demands on the way you walk, and they may even change during a single action. The same goes for running, the same for sleeping. Zanni does not have a bed to sleep in, for example, he sleeps in doorways, in parks, wherever he can find, like a cat. Just as you would do if you found yourself in his situation. That’s his reality, his universality. The problem today is that the masks are looked on as having magical powers, whereas originally they were just objects necessary to the development of a system of characterisation. One must not forget that originally there were no women on stage – even the female servant was played by a man. Therefore, it was necessary to disguise his gender and for him to perform femininity in an exaggerated manner as defined by mask or make-up. Today the masks have become revered and their historicity clouded in magic and mystery. But the mask of a merchant, for example, is simply that – and it should make you walk like a merchant, not like a magical-mystery merchant. I have seen on video a gestural interpretation of Pantalone as an absolute abstraction. Yes, we have inherited a traditional costume and a mask which give rise to a gestuality which can be said to resemble a ritual dance. But why develop that into a system of stylised movement for merely aesthetic reasons? Why do this or that with one’s hands, with one’s arms, why make such gestures, often whilst saying things which have no relation to them? Commedia dell’arte has a structure – I’ll say it again – a structure in three acts during which characters interact and become implicated in each other’s stories over a period of time, and without that dramaturgy, all that is left is simply a kind of aesthetic nonsense posturing. Furthermore, commedia dell’arte is fast; it depends on a certain rapidity. The fashion for slow-motion today is a ‘No, no’. JR:  No, slo-mo? AF:  I can see why it appeals to actors, but it would be the wrong kind of inheritance from cartoon films. JR:  No VHS-style rewinds either then? AF:  That would be amusing, but an anachronism: we’ll come on to that. One must not sacrifice style for the sake of being funny. There is another kind of playing on which one finds a certain insistence

46  Gestural evolution today, based on the idea of the diabolical. As soon as the diabolical appears, you lose a whole series of personnages that cannot be treated in a diabolical manner, the Lovers, for example, are too human in their sentimentality, even the Doctor can no longer participate in the Commedia because he has fleshly, bon viveur, appetites. But, according to this theory, Pantalone, the zannis, Il Capitano, can all be treated as having the devil in them. JR:  I’ve never come across that: more explanation, please. AF: Oh, yes, there are books about it. One that in my opinion is the origin of a veritable fashion for the diabolical is by Fausto Nicolini: Vita di Arlecchino.1 In the chapter on the origins of the name, he founds a new religious ideology: the Devil in Commedia. It is of course on – guess who? - Arlecchino that Nicolini bases his theory. For him, everything else stems from this terrible little devil, including the insistence that Pulcinella is another manifestation. Other historians insist on the same thing: before it was Arlecchino, now it’s Pulcinella. Another ‘diabolist’ is someone I know personally, the anthropologist, Domenico Scafoglio, who wrote Pulcinella along with another anthropologist, Luigi M. Lombardi Satriani.2 In it, the two wise men state clearly that ‘Pulcinella is the Devil’: in fact, that is precisely the title of chapter three. It all comes from the idea that the mask is not an expression of the personnage, but of something ulterior to it, a magical power. If you want to intensify a character’s identity on stage, then you put on the mask. However these academic seekers after truth are not satisfied with that: the intensification of theatricality is not enough for them, they want the mask to signify something other – the something which one sees, for example, in the short film The Wholly Family,3 directed by Terry Gilliam. JR:  I’ve seen it: an American couple are on holiday in Naples with their 10-year-old son. They lose him in the crowd – in fact, he has gone back to a stall where he was mesmerised by a carved figure of Pulcinella. The stallholder tells him that in order to bring luck, he must steal it. He does so and, after being sent to bed without dinner by his parents for so doing, he has a nightmare where he is tormented in an underworld by multiple Pulcinellas who offer him food and then take it away before he can eat it. AF:  As you say, it is the child’s dream, but the imagery corresponds with ideas dating from well before Gilliam. And these ideas concern a subterranean world where the telluric forces are Commedia masks. An Italian film that I find very beautiful also is a musical in the form of a Neapolitan song entitled Carosello Napoletano.4

Gestural evolution  47 It contains a long scene consecrated to Pulcinella which also has a nightmare dimension. I say that Pulcinella was up to that point a paysan who would never have had anything to do with religion, a good sort, a bit simple-minded perhaps, but astute in other ways. What on earth has such a figure got to do with portraying the Devil? I’ll say it again: none of that exists in the theatrical life of Pulcinella. Obviously, Gilliam was inspired by Carosello Napoletano for the infernal allusion. So, what we have here is actually, perhaps, a modern phenomenon, a parallel tradition to that of the theatre. Pulcinella is a total creation, perfectly theatrical, non-realistic in style and form, but altogether real in his human and social entity who, for some reason, has been used as an image to advertise brands of food. The fact that the pasta in question and the film in question are both of very high quality does not mean that they have anything to do with commedia dell’arte, a form which is abundantly documented, especially through its scenarios, and which never offers anything to substantiate these theories. But anthropologists love everything subterranean, historians are always on the lookout for something which might give a different interpretation, and actors love to feel that they are the ‘damned’. They really do think that the Catholic Church persecuted them, but it is not true. Attacked them polemically, yes, tried to suppress their art, yes, persecuted them, no: their personnages were not devils. JR:  Going back to Arlecchino, what about the suggestion then that the bump on the forehead of his mask is the vestige of a devil’s horn? AF:  No, no. I’ve written an article entitled ‘The Mystical Mask’ which includes a discussion of the reality of that bump. JR:  Another appendix, perhaps? AF: Good idea, I’ll send it to you. Let me explain further why Arlecchino cannot be a devil. Commedia is a post-Renaissance form, not a medieval one. No research that I know of has been able to connect Arlecchino to the Middle Ages. At the time when Martinelli adopted his name, he chose to do so because it was well-known throughout Europe, and corresponded with a sensation that ‘something droll will come from this personnage’. The culture of the devil had been over for a considerable time: he had dwindled into a kind of dwarf who turned wine into vinegar and other such pranks. In Martinelli’s time, the Renaissance had rediscovered the original mythological figures, Satyrs, Fauns, etc. from the pre-Christian era, which had been used in the medieval period

48  Gestural evolution to create imagery for the devil. Their return in the seicento was not frightening on the contrary, their beauty was much favoured by Renaissance artists. JR:  Moving on, should we include vocalisation under ‘gesture’? AF: Everyone on stage in commedia dell’arte has a specific voice, a working voice. Zanni is obviously working class, and his speech and vocabulary are the evidence of it. But Pantalone also has worked himself up from nothing and gives his origins away when he speaks. For this reason, the actor should find a voice for him from within his own natural range, not squawk like a strangled chicken.5 Actors learn from me the correct positions and gestures for the personage they are going to play, and that, when they begin to vocalise, they must not abuse their vocal cords. If that happens, one must say ‘No’. JR:  No no!

Notes

1. Riccardo Ricciardi Editore, Milano-Napoli, 1958. 2. Leonardo Editore, Milano, 1990. 3. Shot in Naples in 2011, sponsored by spaghetti manufacturers Garofalo. Available on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFHqbc8xsAw. Italian version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUEy6R5RAQE. 4. Ettore Giannini, Roma, 1954. 5. Dominique, for example, had a malformation of the larynx which gave his voice a kind of guttural squawk. Subsequent Arlequins felt constrained to imitate it, and its reproduction may even be the origin of the swazzle or ‘call’ still used today by Punch and Judy Professors to give Mr. Punch his distinctive sound whist avoiding vocal strain.

7

JR: 

Closed forms

This was a new concept to me before I read your book, The Comic Mask in the Commedia dell’arte, where it was translated as ‘set’ forms. I feel a better translation would be ‘set pieces’ – such as serenades? AF:  It’s an expression which comes from grand opera, where we find what is called forma machiusa. Right up until the Romantic era (when everything changed), there was for several centuries a musical system whereby, let’s say, an aria would be original, musically independent and self-contained; it would exist in its own right, closed off, like a song. The same bracketing went for a duet. That is the forma chiusa style: each morsel begins, develops and then, when it is finished, the moment is over, and you get on with something else. In the Romantic epoch, on the other hand, a musical theme would recur throughout the piece, with variations, sometimes right to the end. Likewise, in commedia dell’arte there are closed forms which are particular to the genre. For example, each personnage has the possibility of a solo (the word ‘monologue’ is unknown in the commedia dell’arte), the most well-known being the bravura of the Captain. When I play him (always as Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro) I have several bravure [boastful outpourings] in my repertoire to choose from according to the situation. Zanni can have a fantastical made-up speech to cover up his ignorance, often confusing the time-sequence of events, for example, which becomes comical to an audience that knows the truth of the matter. Then there is the tirade of reproach from Pantalone, who always blames everything on everyone but himself, especially the younger generation. The Lovers, when left alone, can have emotional outbursts, often bordering on madness or suicide The servetta is frequently charged with delivering

50  Closed forms the prologue where she can exercise her charms by way of greeting the audience. Finally, there’s the great sproloquio from the Doctor, which, as I have already mentioned, displays his supposed knowledge of every subject under the sun, and through which he attempts to gain control of everyone and everything… There can also be set-piece duets, especially for the Lovers, known as contrasti. Or, in my company, I might say to the actor playing the Captain, ‘Prepare a dialogue where you are talking to Bagatino about your horse, and Bagatino is talking to you about Isabella. Obviously, you don’t understand each other, and the contrasto must grow heated based on the mistake – Isabella would never have four legs, for example.’ So they must avoid saying the thing which would reveal the misapprehension: they must remain in the ambiguity and develop the dialogue accordingly. That is called parlare in ambiguo – when two masks think they are talking about the same thing, but they are not. We the spectators know they are at cross purposes, and that’s what makes us laugh. Such a prepared scene can be played just for laughs, like a lazzo, or the malentendu can have a serious effect on the development of the plot. It is still a duet, though, just as the Captain’s bravura is an aria, and they are both closed forms. JR:  Other closed forms? AF:  Music, serenades, as you said, burle – JR:  Burle? AF:  Practical jokes. Pedrolino is the main exponent, always deliberately getting into mischief at someone’s expense. JR: Dance? AF:  Of course. JR:  What sort? AF: The comici dell’arte didn’t use traditional folk dance forms. For example, if the Lovers had a dance, it would not be the tarantella, which used to be danced till utter exhaustion – although you can imagine a couple of zannis doing just that. There was a dance which came before the tarantella– the sfessania. That’s what you see in the engravings of Jacques Callot, a walking dance. Classical dance, which became ballet in France, was also avoided: it was one of the accomplishments expected of an aristocrat, and when they employed a commedia dell’arte troupe to entertain them they didn’t want to see something they could do equally well if not better themselves. JR:  A word on the literary elements? Borrowings from Petrach, for example?

Closed forms  51 AF: 

Mainly allusive rather than copied in lock stock and barrel. When Francesco Andreini created bravure for his Capitano Spavento da Valle Inferna, he did so in a literary style: that is to say, they were written to be read, but on stage he would adapt according to circumstance – one performance, for example, being of an extraordinary obscenity. When you publish you write accordingly, what goes on stage is another matter.

8

Multilingualism

JR:  One

of the first things one learns about commedia dell’arte is that before unification in the 19th century, Italy, although a geographical entity, was divided into city-states, each speaking a different language. Each of the masks hailed from one of those regions, as we would now call them, and spoke the language of their origin… AF: … and when their performances became their profession, the comici dell’arte had to find a way of earning a living throughout the year, not just on high days and holidays. And not just for one year but, hopefully, for their entire working life. Staying in one place to perform soon exhausted audience potential, so you had to go elsewhere, and that’s how touring came about. Eventually pan-European, the first tours were regional and the discovery that was made straight-away, though its necessity was already understood, was that changing towns meant changing language. Some dependencies were vast and contained local dialect variants, but everyone would understand the language of their own principal city. So, when Zanni spoke the language of Bergamo, then all the valleys and the vast plain of what is effectively the pre-Alps would understand him. But when the company descended to Mantua, his native tongue was no use any more. No good in Bologna, nor again in Venice. You were free to go wherever you liked, but the problem was to make yourself understood: in Florence people spoke almost pure Latin, for example – the language in which the Lovers spoke to one another, in the same way, that the first and second Zannis conversed in Bergamese. Individual masks continued to speak in their own tongue, and the burden of linguistic communication fell on whichever was best understood in a particular place. Once tours extended to the rest of Europe – something which came about surprisingly quickly – one or two of the actors would take it upon themselves to learn the new language.

Multilingualism 53 So, by the second half of the 17th-century multilingualism was established as an essential stylistic element and has remained so. Today, whenever I travel abroad, which I do a lot, either alone or as a maximum of two or three, since no-one wants to pay for culture any more, and funding is disappearing, and culture along with it – the apocalypse is nigh – I try to use one of the languages which I speak: Italian, French, English, Spanish, Catalan (and I’m also making an effort with Portuguese and have a familiarity with Neapolitan, Venetian and Calabrese). So, wherever I am, I insert some speech which is in an appropriate language for my audience. An exception is Turkish, which is a language I am not about to learn, though I do try to use a few words which I have picked up. JR:  When full casting does exist today, it is often based on actors of different nationalities getting together. AF:  Yes, and on my courses in Italy, for example, I have students who come from all parts of the world, and, through necessity, we therefore, have the ideal conditions in which to study the stylistic effects of multilingualism. JR:  Are there times when multilingualism makes comprehension too difficult for an audience? AF:  No, it is part of the richness of a total comedic language. It can, however, make difficulties for the performer. On Love is a Drug we benefited from the services of a translator. She took it upon herself to write a monologue for Flaminia which turned out to be in very stilted English. The actress came to me and said she couldn’t work with it since it was totally out of character. I suggested she didn’t speak it but think it through in a way which left her speechless. This worked superbly in performance, becoming a real tour de force for the actor.

9

Anachronism

AF:  You

are familiar with the town of Reggio Emilia, where I live: it has a 19th-century municipal theatre. There is also what we call the ‘brothel tower’ dating from the 12th century; in the park there are Roman remains, in good condition, from the second and third centuries, and archaeological excavations have revealed foundations from the original settlement, dating from the second century b.c. Then there are several beautiful palaces, dating from the 18th century, as well as modern construction made possible by the destruction which took place during the Second World War, not to mention some very recent new buildings. So, we are talking about twenty-two or twenty-three centuries of the same town, aspects of which you are hardly aware as you walk around today, but which are there to be appreciated if you want to. The same is true of commedia dell’arte: I have all those centuries of development available to put into a piece if I want to. What I can’t and won’t put in is what came before, in the middle ages, for example, and as for the future, even the immediate future, since I don’t know what it consists of, I can’t use that either. JR:  How do you approach staging a so-called classic then? What modernisations are permissible? AF:  I am not one for adapting or modernising a classic. Why not? Do I not have the right, not to say the capacity, to improve Shakespeare, Molière, Goldoni? When I do present a classic, be it by a big name, a modest one or even an unknown, but in any case, a piece that belongs to the world of the Past, of History, of Tradition, I respect this past world, the historical perspective, and the tradition to which it belongs. On the other hand, the Big Tradition of the Commedia Improvvisa, gives me the authority to respect tradition while at the same time creating something new. The Commedia Improvvisa

Anachronism 55 bases itself on outlines that form a very solid and effective structure, that has lasted centuries (I count five from the early zannesca during the first three decades of the 16th century up to the present day). As I have explained, this structure is based on the scenario – a coherent sequence of scenes – that become a detailed comedy, by means of the actors using what I call the improvisation writing method by which the play becomes complete and finalised and ready to be shown to the public. This is the technique that I use today to realise my Commedias. I am therefore faithful, very strictly faithful to the tradition; nevertheless, my pieces are conceived now, in the days in which we live. They are modern. Voilà. I am modern for the simple reason one is alive now; I am also modern because I make use of the technical means of the theatres in which we perform. Yes, in theatres! Not in the street, not in open-air locations or public places with only passers-by for an audience. In such conditions it would be impossible to develop the art of the actor, to interpret a personnage actively as part of a modern dramaturgical elaboration. Also, in theatres, I am able to use lighting and amplified sound to create effects which underpin the coherence of the play. Since I perform today, I use today’s technical means. And, far as language is concerned, I use the language that people speak today, in the way that they speak it. In brief, if I do a Classic, any modernisations or adaptations will be the ones imposed by current conditions: electric light and recorded sound making for enhanced effects within a dramatic situation, as well as a linguistic intervention when the language would be incomprehensible to speakers of today, but always remaining within the intention of the author and in his era and his world. When I create a Commedia piece myself, it’s easy! I can do whatever I want because I know that in myself I am limited by respecting the historico-traditional structure; I belong at the same time to history, to the tradition, and to our era. I could, If I wanted, make a Commedia which was altogether modernised. In my Zanni Skinhead experiment, the actors were doing some interesting things, but I have stopped the work for the moment because there’s something not quite right about him being an anachronism among the other masks. The whole context needs modernising whilst still, of course, respecting the structure and norms of traditional commedia dell’arte. I don’t want to betray the form, that’s not me, but one can, however, invent and experiment: the doors are open at my place! Completely modernising it, however, is a tricky business. Let’s say Zanni has a problem with

56 Anachronism his foot: he takes his shoe off to have a look, and a telephone rings, so he puts his shoe to his ear to ask his foot how it is feeling. It’s a logical lazzo and therefore permissible, but if Zanni ever uses the word ‘telephone’, or, even worse, uses an actual instrument, he has traduced all my vocabulary – all my traditional values are gone for nothing. In creating Zanni Skinhead, he was given a semi-military, semi tramp-like costume with pockets everywhere. He searched them continually for his cell-phone which was ringing, but never found it. JR:  Producing the real anachronism would kill the joke. AF: Exactly. JR:  But what about traditional ‘accessoires’? In English ‘properties’. ‘Props’ for short. Personal props. Hand props. The batocio, for example, the slapstick – which became Harlequin’s magic wand in England, capable of fantastic transformations – I believe it was originally a cattle prod. AF: Eh? JR: Yes, it was used by farmers to make cows move on towards milking by slapping them on the backside. What we now call a slapstick. AF:  Ah! OK, OK! Today it’s a stick with a battery in the handle which gives a shock. One could always experiment, I suppose… JR:  That would be an anachronism if you like! AF:  No, I’m joking: you have to stay with the old image. When a servant appears on stage with a batocio – he doesn’t always carry it, but when he does – it is a prop which belongs to him, part of his identity and must be used as such, with all the art of commedia dell’arte. The science of commedia dell’arte, in fact, not the aesthetic principle, but the science of knowing how to use such an object. JR:  But why did Zanni, arriving in Venice from the countryside where his stick did have a purpose, still need it in the city? AF:  In the heyday of commedia dell’arte, the 17th and 18th centuries, the law was not absolute: it all depended on your status in society. At the time nearly everyone carried a weapon, especially the men. Zanni carried a batocio because, poor as he was, he too had to have a weapon, and that was all that was available to him. Unfortunately, his comical means of self-defence was often turned against him. JR:  But by the time the English Mr Punch gets hold of it, the slapstick is almost a weapon of mass destruction: it gives him a lawless power even greater than death and the devil himself.

Anachronism 57 AF:  But

it was not always used to hit someone, it could also be a useful thing to have in your hand when you had a moment to fill on stage. For example, you could be scratching yourself with it when – there’s a fly and clack! JR:  Or you can use it to show that you were on fire down below… AF:  Commedia dell’arte is never ashamed to descend into obscenity, but always in an innocent kind of way, otherwise it would be vulgar. JR:  Women had no such weapons, either in commedia dell’arte or in the society it portrayed. Things are rather different today! Do we put the then into now or the now into then? AF:  Privileged women could do things which were forbidden to the lower classes. Even today, the weapon of preference for women is poison rather than the épée. It’s not that they were mentally ill in the 17/18th centuries, so much as that they were forbidden to carry arms. One shouldn’t suppose, however, that Isabella, for example, did not know how to use an épée since the Lovers, both male and female, trained together. She also knew how to use a dagger. There are quite a few scenarios in which someone gets killed, and the murderer was as likely to be her as him. JR:  But the most common accessory for the female lover was the fan, a sexual weapon if ever there was one. I’ve got a little present for you here [hands him a sheet entitled The Language of Fans]. I’m not sure of its provenance. It says that the first organised fan language appeared in Spain and consisted of 55 movements corresponding to certain meanings which could be used when strict conventions of behaviour made interpersonal conversation impossible. In England (and probably France – there is no mention of Italy) the number is reduced to 33: Carrying in right hand in front of face ∼ Follow me Carrying in the left hand in front of face ∼ Desirous of acquaintance Placing a fan on left ear ∼ I wish to be rid of you Drawing across forehead ∼ You have changed Twirling in left hand ∼ We are being watched Carrying in right hand ∼ You are too willing Drawing through the hand ∼ I hate you Twirling in the right hand ∼ I love another Drawing across the cheek ∼ I love you Presented shut ∼ Do you love me? Drawing across the eyes ∼ I am sorry Touching tip with finger ∼ I wish to speak to you

58 Anachronism Letting fan rest on right cheek ∼ Yes Letting fan rest on left cheek ∼ No Open and shut ∼ You are cruel Dropping fan ∼ We will be friends Fanning slowly ∼ I am married Fanning quickly ∼ I am engaged With handle to lips ∼ Kiss me Pressing half-open fan to lips ∼ You may kiss me Open wide ∼ Wait for me Carrying open in left hand ∼ Come and talk to me Place behind head ∼ Don’t forget me With little finger extended ∼ Goodbye Shut fan held to the heart ∼ You have won my love Shut fan resting on right eye ∼ When may I be allowed to see you? Part open, showing a number of stick ∼ At what hour? Waving and touching unfolded fan ∼ I always long to be near thee Threaten with shut fan ∼ Do not be so imprudent Gazing pensively at shut fan ∼ Why do you misunderstand me? Clasping hands under open fan ∼ Forgive me I pray you Covering left ear with fan open ∼ Do not betray our secret Shut the fully opened fan very slowly ∼ I promise to marry you Is there any accoutrement we can give a female actor today to carry openly that could have such significance? AF:  In my Zanni Skinhead experiment, we also had a female Skinhead – he and she were inseparable, so, it was difficult to afford her a gender-separate identity. Today, with equal rights, etc., the sexes are converging, and we could hardly have her wear a skirt to show that she was female; she had the same tattoos, the same piercings as her male counterpart, and any accessory was likely to be personal rather than universal for that personnage. (See Figure 9.1) JR:  How about costume? AF: As I said, the costume is part of the mask. No change, therefore, though about a year ago I was working with a company in Ecuador on a classic scenario and I designed a classic costume for the Captain which they could not relate to, so we made it out of modern military camouflage material, whilst keeping the cut and style of the original. That worked very well. JR:  Scenic design? AF:  Harmony in design is everything: you don’t make a drawing where one of the elements sticks out as being temporally inappropriate. I’m not very fond of a lot of so-called modern art because

Anachronism 59

Figure 9.1  Male and female Zanni Skinhead masks

it conceals a lack of technical ability, of proper classical training. An artist of the last century that I greatly admire, however, is Giorgio de Chirico, who does include everyday objects in classical architectural settings in a manner which seems surreal but is in fact harmonious and appropriate. JR:  You recently said to me that you are finding fewer and fewer possibilities for putting together Commedias and are relying more and more, as a professional, on teaching and workshops, often outside Italy – in countries like Australia, for example, where there is great enthusiasm for the tradition. AF:  That tradition should, however, never be definitive, and one needs to avoid the temptation to present it as such in the new world. It needs to move on, to change and renew itself; otherwise it is traditionalism, mere historical perspective. JR:  How will commedia dell’arte move on then, if it is not to become an anachronism in itself? AF:  All I can do is to cite my greatest musical influence, Giuseppe Verdi, who said, when he was an old man, that if we could only go backwards, we would actually progress. He said it because he perceived a contemporary loss of control in keeping musical genres distinct,

60 Anachronism not especially because the music was modernising itself. I am the same: I don’t want to be retrospective in outlook, but I do want to restore the performance of Commedias to how they should be on stage, and any progress I have made towards that has been through looking backwards, through research and reconstruction (which has been necessary since today’s technological means of recording did not previously exist). What is now needed is something that did once exist, and that is a school, a systematised means of transmission from generation to generation – which automatically includes evolution. It is not a question of copying what is already a copy, such as in the Japanese Noh schools, where everything is supposedly preserved as it was centuries ago; no, commedia dell’arte was, and should be, passed on from actor to actor. But within that process, there should be a code which one does not modify because there is nothing to be gained from modifying it. JR;  The code of commedia improvvisa transmitted by comici dell’arte? AF:  As I have said, improvisation is a way of writing, not of performing. If you improvise in front of an audience, the quality suddenly goes down, enormously so. I know there are people who do that – the audience suggest a theme, and they improvise on it and get applauded for their inventiveness when they have finished, but even they have underlying codes and systems, just no fixed personnages. As a result, however, commedia dell’arte has become infected with the idea that it can be made up, off the cuff, as something spontaneous. Those who come to my school I invite to study the form in a manner which is profound and raisonné, but then, when they have left, and I see their work, as I sometimes do, it is superficial and frivolous. It turns out that all they wanted to know was where to put their feet and what to do with their hands. What they were after was a quick formula, the equivalent of fast food. I don’t teach fast food; I teach haute cuisine. JR:  But based on cuisine classique? AF:  Bien sur! JR:  To mix metaphors, that sounds like where we came in. The future is not looking good then, in our age of instant communication? AF:  No, frankly, I don’t see a great future for a great art which is noble, full of poetry and richness of expression: noble but at the same time popular. I heard a radio programme recently where they were discussing Italian politics, and in order to convey what a stupid mess they are in, the presenter called them a commedia dell’arte… JR:  Let’s not end on a down note – I’m minded that we are also collaborating on a book provisionally entitled Vive Commedia!

Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga

My family moved to the north four years after the end of the war (I was born in our southern village, however!), and my father Tommaso abandoned the mask, since the world of Pulcinella, or rather Puricinedda, no longer existed for him. He was very hospitable, though, and every Sunday he would have several friends round for what we called our ‘ball’. Dances included the mazurka, the waltz, the tango and the ‘slow’. I was the disc jockey, with various 45 EPs at my disposal and an elementary gramophone. He fooled around, something he did really well, making everyone laugh with conjuring tricks, jokes, macchiette (comic characters in the Neapolitan tradition) and – his tour de force – the outrageous comical stories with cynical, even tragic undertones. These tales live on, modernised, in my own shows. The sketch of Il Pozzo [The Well] which I perform comes directly from him. When he told a story, it was really special. But my father was no longer a Pulcinella! Why did he never say anything to me about all that? After he died, my mother then told me that he had not wanted me to know about his history as Puricinedda, because he was ashamed of it. How awful. But there is no doubt that he was once a Pulcinella. My own Pulcinella Saga begins in the early eighties. My mother told me then that when I performed, I reminded her of my father. That was when I made my big discovery: the discovery of my father as Pulcinella. Strange, but true: according to my mother, I now had grown up to resemble him when I was on stage (I always played comedy at this time: I was very young and acted in a Dario Fo company that did cabaret – satirical and strongly politicised). Apparently, my demeanour was like his when he played Pulcinella … those were her very words. Later she told me all about him: Tommaso had been the Pulcinella of the countryside around the commune of Scandale, and it was his job to embody the spirit of an event (usually a community

62  Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga festival) by intervening anywhere that might be necessary in order to maintain the festive atmosphere. And he did it in the costume and masks and mannerisms of voice and language and lazzi of Pulcinella. My mother told me all about his achievements in that area. And when I asked her where his masks came from, there was a new revelation: she used to make his masks herself – in velvet! So, all that culminated in my decision to take Commedia, or rather Pulcinella, as the definitive point of reference for all of my future work. The world of commedia dell’arte was revealed to me through it, and I saw why everything otherwise seemed false, poorly done, without a soul. Pulcinella became, and remains, the standard-bearer for all my productions and interpretations. Invented in France, developed in Italy, the play An Verre de Bosciolé Sivvuple was the piece that contained, in primitive form, the starting point of my Pulcinella Saga – written like that it looks odd, seemingly French but incorrect. In fact, it was a transliteration of the French ‘un verre de Beaujolais s’il vous plait’ into the pronunciation of someone from the south of Italy. That someone was my personnage: an Italian émigré in France, who goes into a bar and reminisces, theatrically re-enacting what life was like in his village before he left. Inevitably his memories lead to a reincarnation of Pulcinella, the Pulcinella of that village, who told stories in a strongly histrionic manner, terrible histories, full of violence, but very droll in the telling. And it was at this moment in the piece that I introduced Tommaso the Pulcinella, with one of his narratives, The Well – which remains in my repertoire to this day and that I insert into all the pieces in which I play Pulcinella. It is a very powerful story which enables me to monitor my progress as I develop the piece year after year. Returning to Italy in the eighties, after three years in France, I reflected on the ‘Commedia’ I had seen in Paris, and to be frank, I was rather doubtful of its the quality, especially of its authenticity. With the exception of a few theatres, performances were somewhat bizarre since (a) Arlequin got himself everywhere; (b) the other personnages tended to be alien inventions that I not could not recognise either stylistically or historically, or traditionally; (c) the acting was nervy, practically hysterical, and (d) totally lacking in reality. The colours of the costumes were also without any convention or homogeneity. Something was not right, and I set myself the task of finding an answer to my doubts and the very odd impression that ‘Commedia à la française’ had given me. The first outcome, clear and fundamental, was that commedia dell’arte is very human, whereas the Parisian manner of doing it had been totally dehumanized.

Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga  63 So, after the Bosciolé, it was the moment to be decisive and create Pulcinellate, pieces which featured Pulcinella as the principal personnage, beginning with The Well (See Figure A.1). Then came The Life, Death and Resurrection of Pulcinella, Pulcinella’s War, Pulcinellata Nera and Pulcinella Furioso.

Pulcellinata versions and variations •

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Vita Morte e Resurrezione di Pulcinella. The first version, 1994, with Patrizia Garofalo, a dramatic actress of the Neapolitan type, a decidedly comedic talent, a natural female Pulcinella. A marionette, a sort of child-Pulcinella, provided a third personnage on stage. This solution was abandoned after this first version of the series because of the ‘stylistic deviation’ imposed by the presence of the puppet and its manipulation. The music was simply Pulcinella singing live whilst accompanying himself on guitar. Second version: Lisa Zuccoli, an actress of the dreamy type, otherworldly, a diaphanous untouchable beauty. The scene of unrequited love made its way into this version and remained for all subsequent ones: the beautiful Catherinea loves the handsome Sylvester (who does not appear); Pulcinella loves Catherinea but

Figure A.1  Antonio Fava as Pulcinella

64  Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga

•

•

•

• •

is rejected by her. Another scene, destined to remain in all versions and their variants, is that of Pulcinella in despair, invoking death – who duly arrives in the person of Signora Fosca (literally the Dark Lady). The Well came near the end, preceding the final mystical scene, Pulcinella’s Prayer, also destined to remain in all succeeding versions. Music: singing and guitar again. Version three: Anghela Alò. This version confirmed the previous one. The difference, which was an important one, lay in the personality of the actress, the co-protagonist of the actor-Pulcinella, who brought greater strength to the interrelation between the female personnages (Catherina, Zezza, Fosca) and Pulcinella: she was ‘earthy’ by nature, somewhat hard-nosed, direct, exuberant, good-looking in a statuesque, Mediterranean kind of way. The music was played by a pianist, on stage, at his piano. He accompanied the songs and played atmospherically during several dramatic moments. Version four: Merve Engin, Turkish actress, an extraordinary performer, good audience rapport, very direct and always efficient. For international tours, there was an English version, with other languages as necessary: Italian, Neapolitan, Bolognaise, Turkish. Live music. Version five: Ursula Volkmann, German actress-musician, resident in Italy. A special musical version with piano on stage, and passages with the actress playing her personnages as a pianist-musician in full view. A version of great beauty offering very intense atmospheres, especially in The Well. The music in my plays is always original and rigorously classical in the genre, or in the academic model of the 18th century, or the popular style of the traditional songs of the Italian south. Version six: The actress wasn’t right for it, and the version had a short run … Version seven: The return of Merve Engin, my preferred female performer, with the ad hoc title of Pulcinella’s War. The title was new for marketing reasons and because we had added an amorous dispute which had overtones of war: Pulcinella, in despairing love for Zezza – who has left him – decides to commit suicide, but as he is preparing to take his own life, war breaks out. At the front, he encounters the beautiful, indeed the very beautiful, Captainess. Love explodes, flaming forth even more than the war itself. But war has its own demands: one has to struggle, to fight and die heroically! So, Pulcinella, too much the realist to be an idealist, seeing how the land lies, leaves his very beautiful Captainess

Appendix A: The Pulcinella Saga  65

•

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•

•

because ‘it is better to be a living deserter than a dead hero’. And so he runs away. Version eight: Cecilia Di Donato. The piece is poetically complete. No more war. The form has become definitive. Cecilia is marvellous and sings divinely. The music is recorded in complete instrumental versions, except for those songs which are sung live by Pulcinella accompanying himself again on guitar. Version nine: with the title Pulcinella Speechless. Annina Gieré. Pulcinella is struck dumb through love and from fright, from euphoria and from his encounter with death. Fosca, The Dark Lady, is still there and also the scene of The Well, which in this piece celebrates twenty-five years on stage. Variant, in comedic form – The Damnation of Policinella: Luisa Galfano. The situation is rather special: the encounter of Pulcinella and the Madonna. Yes, commedia dell’arte is a secular form, and Pulcinella is no exception, but Pulcinella is the expression of a particular people in cultural terms, and that people is Neapolitan, i.e. a ‘kingdom’ which corresponds today to the entire south of the country. Pulcinella cannot stop himself from calling on the ‘Maronna’ the Virgin, when he is in distress, which is to say, all the time. And, in The Damnation, Pulcinella invokes Maronna, and she makes her appearance. The personnage is presented as a good mother, a little severe, who deals with her infant somewhat oppressively. That works, and the piece remains secular and popular devotion (which cannot be ignored when it comes to popular culture in the south) is confirmed. Variant in dramatic form – The Slave of Pulcinella: Cecilia Di Donato. Pulcinella, exasperated by forty years of working for a boss who never pays him, kidnaps his employer’s daughter in order to sell her. But he can’t bring himself to do it … he keeps her, as a slave, for himself, with the intention of finally ‘selling’ her to her lover. It has a substantial musical content, which I wrote myself, played by a brass quintet. The work is somewhat different from the preceding pulcinellate for two reasons: whilst the comedic form is retained, the situation and the style of performing are tragic. I don’t like the term ‘tragicomical’, and I’ve created the word ‘melocomical’, which suits it very well. The other reason this pulcinellata is different from the preceding ones in the absence of the scene of the well. A piece with no future, however, since, although very beautiful, one of my best works, it ends badly with Pulcinella in despair and a beautiful girl irreversibly upset. An audience doesn’t want that when there’s a comic mask on stage.

Appendix B: Il Pozzo

The scenario of The Well in its latest form at the time of publication: 1 Pulcinella enters, very excited by the idea that he is going to tell a story to an audience. This excitement is expressed by him making a rhythmical introduction. He elaborates this rhythm in song and dance, based on the phrase ‘Zìnghete zìnghete’: Zìnghete zìnghete Zìnghete zìnghete zà Io sugnu Puricinedda Lu patruni di la città E cchi voli chi voli abballari Viniti viniti viniti cchà!

2 3

4 5

[Calabrese: Zìnghete, etc., I am the top man in this town – anyone who wants a dance should come and join me]. Pulcinella says he is going to tell a story which took place in the distant past, with some lazzi thrown in. He says that this story happened in the south of his country and he demonstrates using his right leg as a visual aid to the geography of his country; then he uses the whole of his body as representing Europe, and even beyond (See Figure B.1). Finally he shows the exact location of his village, where the story comes from, which corresponds with the position of the callus on the sole of his foot. He goes on to present the two principals of the story, saying, first of all, that it concerns a very old woman and a man, also very old: he demonstrates what they are like. The man and the woman have been married for fifty years, and they have not spoken to each other for the last thirty of them. And it is at this moment in their ‘dialogue’ that this terrible story begins.

Appendix B: Il Pozzo  67

Figure B.1  Antonio Fava as Pulcinella in Il Pozzo

6 The woman is busy with her knitting. The man, who is completely gaga, is comatose, shaking and drooling, apparently unaware of what is going on around him. 7 The woman, looking all round in a habitual sort of way, sees her husband, as if for the first time. 8 She has a sort of reflex action on seeing her husband. At last, she says something to him; ‘Piducchiusu’, then ‘Pouilleux’. 9 He, as if woken by this sound that he has not heard for so long, looks around, sees his wife and asks her if she spoke. 10 She says something like ‘No. Nothing…’, then she repeats ‘Pouilleux’. 11 This is the central point of the scene and the most elaborated. They are both insistent: he provokes her by saying things like ‘Repeat that if you dare’, she by replying with variations on the theme. It’s the most varied sequence concerning the rapport between the two old people. Theatrically their communication with each other is very strong, in human terms, it is non-existent. That divergence underlies the entire scene very strongly. 12 Finally, after a protracted series of lazzi, the man says to the woman: ‘If you repeat that insult again, “Iu atthìa th’ammazzhu”…’ 13 Pulcinella tries to explain the language of his birthplace to the audience, but he can’t manage it: he says he is too uneducated to do so, but he can give the task over to his actor, who is a genius…

68  Appendix B: Il Pozzo 14 Taking off the mask, the actor-genius gives a lecture on the impossibility of exact translation, and the ‘th’ammazzhu’ of the man in the story becomes the basis of a linguistic exercise in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and, finally, in Calabrese, which he considers to be the most deadly difficult language of all. 15 The actor-genius re-dons the mask, becomes Pulcinella again, and the story recommences immediately: 16 ‘If you repeat that insult again, Iu atthìa th’ammazzhu…’. The woman does everything she can to avoid repeating the insult, but a force greater than herself brings the phrase ‘piducchiusu’ to her lips again. 17 The man has no choice but to give a blow to his wife’s head. She falls down, unconscious, he picks her up, indicates where the door is, and goes out carrying his wife on his shoulders. He comes to the well. 18 He pictures the shape of the well and puts his wife down on edge. He picks up a [pebble and gives it a name in every language he can think of (bisguizzi or verbal lazzi), then he drops the pebble down the well. A long lazzo to show that well is very deep. 19 When the pebble finally reaches the bottom, the man drops his wife down after it (more lazzi on the theme of how deep it is). Onomatopoeia of her arriving in the water. The man shows he is using the well rope to hold on to her. 20 The woman wakes up. The man bends over and shouts down: ‘Chi sugnu iu’? (‘What am I?’). The story-teller indicates the level of the water, which is up to her knees. The woman replies as if an echo: ‘Piducchiusu usu usu usu …!’ 21 The man dunks her further into the water, which is now up to her waist. He says: ‘Chi sugnu iu’? The woman repeats the insult, varying the rhythm. 22 The man lowers her further. The water is up to her neck. He asks the question again, and her response is the same. 23 He lowers her further. She is completely submerged. The man, with desperation in his voice, asks the question again. 24 The woman in the water gargles an answer as best she can: it is incomprehensible, but it is obvious that she is repeating the same thing. But, in order to make herself clear, she frees her hands and arms from the water and mimes the gesture of looking for a flea, which she finds and catches between her fingertips. She puts it on the thumbnail of the other hand and crushes it between both thumbnails. She indicates to the man at the top of the well that he will share the same fate as the flea… then she dies. THE END

Appendix C: The mystical mask

In my experience of the teaching of theatre and in the training of actors for the theatre, I find myself continually confronted with the introduction by students of elements stemming from their previous activities which get in the way of beginning work on the development of my methods. Let me explain myself: actors who prepare to study the Commedia dell’arte at my school are never inexperienced in dramatic art, having already had various kinds of theatrical education. They will have a certain level of professional competence, which gives them an initial understanding of what Commedia is. This provides a student with aptitudes that can immediately be applied from day one of their work with me: it is useful to have them as a support, especially in the first improvisations, where the encounter with new methods can lead to uncertainty. This introduction of ‘other’ into my methodology provides me, in fact, with a sort of observation post from which to review the perceptions and working habits, techniques and traditions that appertain to the Commedia, as revealed by the practices and points of view of others. One of the most frequent of these practices stems from the attitude of the actor towards the mask, apparent as behaviour stemming from, for example, veneration, adoration, even fear; ritualistic formulas; activities and beliefs that one might not hesitate to define as superstition. The actor takes the mask into his/her hands, religiously, as one might say, and looks at it; the mask in its turn seems to look at the actor; the actor appears to be concentrated on the mask, and vice versa. Fair enough if you think so. But often actors who, as a species, are kitted out with goodwill by their training, play the game, and, if they don’t ‘experience’ anything, tend to dissimulate, rather than

70  Appendix C: The mystical mask asking themselves in what way things have gone wrong, rather than asking themselves if this mystical practice is not rather a mysticism, an attractive con trick. When then I see that an actor who, having put on the mask, is predisposed to use it, that is to say to perform, I find myself observing some strange rite: putting the mask on, presenting one’s back to the audience, concentrating on deep breathing and – at last! – performing. Now, for a sensible chap like me, all this messing about is, at the very least, a waste of useful time (always supposing that that time would have been used productively). And, even worse, it is a deviation from all that Commedia stands for as a genre, and of the actor as a theatre professional, and of having some fun (yes, we are talking about fun here!) Naturally that is not all there is to it. It has to be coupled with the rules that – it goes without saying – one must respect: it is that respect which is owing to the masks. Before saying anything more, I must state first that: Respect for the mask, just like the respect for anything else that makes up a dramatic performance, is something due, absolutely, and not a subject for discussion. Personally, I gain sustenance from having the greatest respect for everything which stems from the work, from its intelligence, its creativity, its sense of engagement. I gain sustenance from the masks and therefore respect them, never mistreating them, because they should appear on stage in perfect condition, because they have stood the test of time, and because respecting the masks in this manner respects all who have performed in them, and all who have committed their lives to make them. In the same manner and for the same reasons I have: Respect for shoes, for all costume parts, for head-coverings, for all equipment, for every prop, for all parts of the scenography, for the musical instruments from the Stradivari to the Putipù. I take sustenance from all that and for anything else that might appear on stage, the same respect from colleagues that sustains me myself. I myself, I fabricate my masks, the ones that I use in stage, that I provide my actors with and that I make available to some students from my school. I would not be able to do that without respect and love for the fruit of my engagement, of my work, of my study and research: something would be missing! I do not know, therefore, what type of respect I should ask for myself from the mystics of the masks. Why would I ever have – in

Appendix C: The mystical mask  71 virtue of this inexplicable idea of respect – to apply both to myself and others, a rule of behaviour in respect of the masks like: ‘Never insert your fingers in the eyes of a mask’? Candidly, I think that this sort of thing is an invention of those who have other things to do than perform before the public, of those who ‘teach’ because they do not offer themselves any other opportunity and, therefore, come up with something which is pure invention. Look, I am inserting a finger in the eyehole of the mask. Would I do this on stage? No! Of course not, since when I am on stage, and I put on the mask, the eye of the mask is also my eye! But also because in Commedia, when carried out correctly and in respect of all the rules, it is not permitted to touch the mask with the hands when on stage, during the action, in full view of the audience; and the reason for this prohibition is a practical one: the hands can inadvertently dislodge the mask, flip it up, or produce ridiculous sounds like an empty box. Aesthetically speaking, there would be a clash between the finished form which is the mask, and the unique physical truth that the actor is proposing to the audience by the use of hands – a combination to be avoided, therefore. Poetically speaking, when laying hands on the mask-face, such as when drying tears, do not try to make contact, but make broad strokes around the face. Such motives are certainly not mystical! And then, if on the stage, I should attempt to obey such imprecations, in particular, that I should never put my fingers in the eyes of the mask? Huh, you can bet I will have done it in every other place in the theatre – since it is theatres we are talking about – where the spectators cannot see me, for example in my dressing room or in the wings. And then? Who is offended? The duty fireman? He doesn’t give a damn! Some of my colleagues? Apart from the fact that my colleague is not aware of it happening, having other things to do and to think about rather than monitoring me and where I put my fingers while waiting to go back on stage. They are my fingers – when all is said and done – and when I am not on stage, I’ll put them where I like. But … you want to see … ommioddio! … You want to see proof that I have offended the mask!? … But come, come, come…! I, Antonio Fava, I made the mask. I use them, and I make use of them. Understand me: often I do push my fingers in, for different reasons, as, e.g., to support a mask if I should want to move it from one place to another, and I can assure whoever has the patience to read this, that none of my masks has ever been offended by this action.

72  Appendix C: The mystical mask The fact is that the leather of which it is made comes from an inert piece of a dead animal; the fact is that the shape that I confer on it is the result of a historical ability-filologico-artistic-manual and not as a humble craftsman of risible things. It goes without saying that I do not want any special reaction myself from the masks, no. And do you want to know something? In the many years that I have been making masks – and I have made a thousand – never one of my masks reacted in any way at all. A few years ago an actor, while improvising, had the misfortune to step on a mask that had been imprudently left on the ground by another actor who was doing something in the wings, and, instead of taking the mask with him by pushing it up on to his head, he left it where it could be trodden on. Obviously, that Coviello did not come out of it very well. However, I was able to fix it, because leather has a certain elasticity, a good resilience, to use a current phrase, and because certain deformations are, in effect, repairable. By whom? By the artist-craftsman that made the mask and who now, with those same hands (and fingers) restores it. And so it was. I do not seem to remember any shouts of pain from the mask, nor some reaction of a spiritual sensibility, nor dark energies freed by such blasphemy, nor an evil eye being cast on the performers, or the show. So far, so good. Now, here is something that the mystics of Commedia masks do not think about: in the light of such mysticism, what about the nonmasked characters – how should actors interpret them? That includes the first and Second Lovers, the Servetta and the Infarinati, not to mention the numerous Captains that the history of Commedia brings us who performed without masks? Isabella Andreini (a name that thrills, the greatest name in the course of the whole five centuries of the existence of the commedia dell’arte) never put on a mask in all her professional life, nor did Francesco Andreini when performing his Capitano Spavento da Valle Inferna. If masks do possess transcendental forces, then the bare-faced characters would have to be excepted, confined therefore to the mundane side of the action and their task would seemingly become impossible, thankless even, as a colourless supporting cast! The comici dell’Arte would have been really cutting up, if it was decided by a company that two-thirds of them should go unmasked! Equal opportunities for faces! So then, the mystical, transcendental mask endowed with a force all its own and absolutely capable of vengeance if it not treated with the due caution (watch where you put your fingers, my friends!), is a

Appendix C: The mystical mask  73 sacrosanct con-trick, a fake technique, a stupid invention that instead of helping actors frightens them, intimidates them, mortifies them and, naturally, keeps them in ignorance, because such theories are barriers that separate them from a correct understanding of the matter in hand. The commedia dell’arte has nothing to do with it, and it has nothing to do with commedia dell’arte. Ladies and gentlemen, companions of the stage, you are adult: You know therefore that Father Christmas does not exist. That children do not grow under cabbages. The commedia dell’arte mask is not a religion. The commedia dell’arte mask is not a mistico-religious symbol. The commedia dell’arte mask is not a fetish. The commedia dell’arte mask does not contain forces of transcendental energy. The commedia dell’arte mask does not transmit waves of any type. The commedia dell’arte mask works well when an actor knows how to make it work well. The commedia dell’arte mask works still better if it is artistic and artisanly beautiful and well made by knowing, well-co-ordinated fingers. It can be an objet d’art and have a lot of value. Commedia dell’arte makes use of a hand-made article in leather, which we call a mask, to intensify or to determine the characterisation of some, and only some, of the many characters that appear on its stage. It is therefore, a professional tool of high artistic dignity and artisanal, like everything that appears to an audience on the stage during a theatrical representation. Everything that the spectator sees and hears during a theatrical representation has, that is to say should have, the same artistic dignity. Augh.

Index

Andreini, Francesco 23, 24, 51, 72 Andreini, Isabella 72 Antonio Sacchi 27 Arlecchino 4, 5n1, 10, 11, 12, 14, 23, 33n4, 38 43, 46, 47 Arlequin 10, 19, 21, 33n4, 62 Ars Comica 41 Bagatino 50 Bagolino 9 Bocchini, Bartolomeo 9 Beltrame 9 Bergamasque 23 Bergamo 52 Biancolelli, Domenico (‘Dominique’) 19, 48 bisguizzo (plural bisguizzi) 31, 68 Bologna 52 bravura (plural bravure) 34 Brighella 1–2, 8, 9, 14, 33n4 Buccino, Dina 10 burle 50 Calabrese 30 Calabria 27 Callot, Jacques 50 Capitaine Fracasse 37 Capitano 23, 26, 37, 46, 49 Capitano Spavento da Valle Inferna 51, 72 Captain 22, 30, 50, 72 Carnival 43, 44 Carosello Napoletano 46 Casa Marciano scenarios 12, 32, 39 Cervantes 41 de Chirico, Giorgio 59

Cleese, John 31 Colombina 12, 28, 33 Comédie Italienne 21, 23 The Comic Mask in the Commedia dell’arte 49 comici dell’arte 6, 18 Commedia erudita 20 Commedia improvvisa 13, 54, 60 Confidenti 23 contrasti 50 Copeau, Jacques 41 Corallina 28 Costantini, Angelo 22, 22 La Creduta Morta 34 Croce, Giulio Cesare 26 Crotone 27 Debureau, Jean-Gaspard 23 Le Disgazie di Pulcinella 28 Doctor 28, 31, 33, 46 Don Quixote 26 Il Dottore 16–21 Exeter 11 Exeter University 26 la Fantesca 12 Fava, Marcella 41 Fava, Tommaso 42, 76 Fawlty Towers 31 Finocchio 9 Fiorilli, Tiberio 37 Fiorillo, Silvio 44 A Fish Called Wanda 31 Flaminia 16, 53 Flavio 30

Index 75 Fo, Dario 61 Les Fourberies de Scapin 9 Frame, Andrew 31 Gabrielli, Francesco 9, 10 Gautier 37 Gelosi 23 Gherardi, Evaristo 19 Gilliam,Terry 46 Goldoni, Carlo 12, 33 Gozzi, Carlo 30 Gradellino 9 Harlequin 10 Hollywood 41 Infarinato (plural infarinati) 7, 12, 23 innamorati 6 Isabella 26, 40, 57 Juliet 16 Keaton, Buster 2 L’age d’Or 20 Laurel, Stan 2, 7 Laurel and Hardy 12 lazzi 23, 42, 62 lazzo 50 Lombardi Satriani, Luigi M. 46 Lombardy 9 Love is a Drug 53 Lovers 6, 7, 9, 14, 16, 46, 49, 50, 52, 57, 72 La Lucilla Costante 27 Il Magnifico 13, 14, 16, 29, 30 Mantua 52 Marx, Groucho 22 Le Médecin Volant 20 Molinari, Cesare 30 Moretti, Marcello 14 Martinelli, Tristano 21, 47 Mezzetin 21, 23 Mezzetino 9, 22, 22, 23 Michaelangelo 15 Miles Gloriosus 24 Modena 9 Molière 9, 19

Mossa, Pietro 36 Mozart 11 Mr Punch 56 The Music Box 12 Mussolini 25 Naples 22, 46 Neapolitan 27, 33 Nicolini, Fausto 46 Nouveau Théâtre Italien 19 La Pacchiana 32 Paillasse 30 Pallaso 30 Pancrazio 14 Pantalone 8, 30, 31, 38, 45, 46, 48, 49 Paris 19, 23, 26, 52 Pascariello 27 Le Pédant 34 Pedrolino 12, 23, 24, 50 Petrach 50 Piccolo Teatro di Milano 12 Pierrot 5, 12, 23, 24 Pierrot 23, 33 Plautus 24 Polonius 16 Pulcinella 9, 11, 13, 15, 22, 27, 28, 28, 31–3, 38, 39, 43, 46–7 Punch and Judy 48 Reggio Emilia 10, 46, 54 Rosetta 13 Sacchi, Antonio 12, 33 Scafoglio, Domenico 46 la Scala, Flaminio 12, 13, 23, 34n6, 39 Scapin 9 Scapino 9 Scaramouche 21 Scaramuccia 23 A Servant of Two Masters 27 Un Servitor di due Padroni 27 servetta (plural servette) 12, 28, 72 sfessania 50 Sganarelle 20 Sistine Chapel 15 sproloquio 18, 19, 50 Stefanello 13

76 Index tarantella 50 Il Teatro delle favole rappresentative 23, 39, 49 Il Teatro del Vicolo 41 Théâtre du Soleil 5n1 Tiepolo, Domenico 28 Tom and Jerry 9 Il Trionfo di Scappino 9 Traccagnino 9 Trauznitz 25 Le Tremende Bravure del Capitano Bellerofonte Scarabombardone da Rocca di Ferro 26, 49 Tristano Martinelli 21 Truffaldino 12 Trump, Donald 25 University of Bologna 16

Venice 14, 52 Verdi, Giuseppe 62 An Verre de Bosciolé Sivvuple 62 La Vie de Scaramouche 22 Watteau, Antoine 19, 38 The Wholly Family 46 Wilee Coyote and the Roadrunner 9 Zagna 12 La Zagnara 9 Zan Muzzina 9 Zannesca 14 Zanni 10–3, 21, 24, 26, 27, 29, 30, 33n4, 35, 43, 45, 48, 49, 52, 55, 56 Zanni Skinhead 55, 56, 58 Zanobio 15