The passionate and passionate dramaturgy of Mimmo Borrelli arrives on the stage of the Teatro Nuovo in Naples with the award-winning show Malacrescita, based on the tragedy La Madre: 'i figlie so' piezze 'i sfaccimma, which will be on stage from Friday 10 January 2020 at 21.00 pm (repeated until Sunday 12).
Presented by the Sciaveca Cultural Association, the production, performed and directed by Mimmo Borrelli, uses the music on stage by Antonio della Ragione, the props, elements and stage space by Luigi Ferrigno, the lighting design by Gennaro Di Colandrea.
With a language that is both literary and popular, inspired by the dialect of those Phlegraean fields where he is originally from, Borrelli “tells” the story of Maria Sibilla Ascione, daughter of a Camorrista and a Camorrista in love. She is a contemporary Medea, intoxicated by the fumes of the land of fires, and seeks revenge against a Jason who answers to the name of Francesco Schiavone Santokanne, an enterprising suburban bully determined and willing to do anything to help his rise to power, among the ranks of the Camorra clans.
The narrators of the tragedy's crazy, bloody plots are the children themselves, born from twin births, whom the mother does not kill but makes stupid, making them drunk instead of breastfeeding them, and whom she lets live, abandoning them like waste, like landfills watered by leachate.
The two twins, like dogs abandoned to the chain of memories, relive the events through verses, death rattles, nursery rhymes, recalling the moods, screams, and murmurs of their tormentor, in an obsessive daily theatre.
In the original text, Borrelli writes in a note, it is the surviving mother who narrates. Here, however, we reverse the point of view and thus the dramaturgy of the scene, imagining that all the protagonists of this story are now dead and the only survivors, agonistic jesters, disinherited, miserable, are precisely the two sons, the two idiots who dementedly relive the events, locked within the walls of a womb permeated with loneliness. The only game left is to bounce, amid the spasms of their degenerate imagination, off the precipice of an improvised tomb altar of bottles of tomatoes and wine erected in their mother's name: the tale itself, the placenta, the origin of their maldevelopment.
Borrelli's language spares nothing, it digs into the suffering bodies of the characters to bring to the surface all the filth, the monstrosities, the miasmas, but from that exhibited and bestial vulgarity unexpected poetic enchantments come to life.
EDITORIAL TEAM
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