Romeo Castelucci – primarily renowned for the singularity of his aesthetic vision developed over the last four decades – is not usually described as a political theatre-maker. Even when in 2017 he made Democracy in America, inspired by Alexis de Tocqueville’s 19th century ethnographic study of the same title, Castelucci insisted it was not a political performance.
At first glance this version of Jean Racine’s 17th century classic is similarly devoid of political meaning. The play itself opens at the point when the emperor Vespasian has died leaving his son Titus in a position to ascend to the throne. Titus has been happily in love with the Queen of Palestine, Bérénice, but the people of Rome do not want a foreign queen, so Titus’ personal dilemma between love and duty is swiftly decided in favour of the latter. He sends his friend Antiochus to break the news of the end of the affair to Bérénice. But Antiochus is known to be in love with Bérénice too, causing her to distrust the news and deepen her denial. There are no deaths, intrigue or unfortunate circumstances in Racine’s play, the tragic ending is only contained in a peaceful separation between all three parties. The overall effect of the play’s tragic pathos is ascribed by critics mostly to the poet’s handling of its verse.
In Castelucci’s adaptation there is no dialogue of any kind either; it is drenched in sonic atmosphere, instead, courtesy of Scott Gibbons’ original score. The director reapportions all verbal poetry of Racine’s to the French star Isabelle Huppert whom he perceives as the ‘synecdoche of the art of theatre’, effectively turning the play into a monologue with movement-based intervals. The remaining 13 or 14 male performers are deployed in a series of choreographed sequences intended as deliberate semantic juxtapositions between the oral and the corporeal, the feminine and the masculine – and, eventually, the oriental and the occidental too.
Dancers Cheikh Kébé and Giovanni Armando Romano, introduced in a duet, represent the other two male leads, while the remaining 12 members of the chorus (in Gothenburg there were 11), intended as ‘the presence of twelve local persons’, form part of some evocative, at times dazzling and at times disturbing, stage imagery that reaches into post-Roman darker crevices of the Western civilization as well.
I watched the piece in French with Swedish surtitles (the absence of English was a slight surprise at an international festival), so I might have missed the finer detail of Racine’s lyricism. Nonetheless, Castelucci’s own stage poetry more than made up for it even when his metaphors were puzzling rather than accessible (Bérénice hugging a standlone raditor, for example).
The action mostly unfolds within a large box made of suspended cloths, with a transparent screen hanging between the audience and the actors until almost the very end. As expected, Huppert as the title character is exceedingly compelling and charismatic enough to overcome any physical barrier. However, her growing isolation, her desolate waiting towards the end, and her final cri de coeur directed at the audience (after the transparent fourth wall has been lifted) cannot but be interpreted as political in essence.
Castelucci may not like me saying this, but for me this was one of the finest artistic responses to Palestine under siege I have seen in the last two years.
This post was written by the author in their personal capacity.The opinions expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of The Theatre Times, their staff or collaborators.
This post was written by Duška Radosavljević.
The views expressed here belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect our views and opinions.