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Authors: Ottavio Cappellani
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passions sincere? Nope.
Cagnotto thinks of Richard Gere. In Pretty Woman , overwhelmed by the uncomplicated affection of that ex-prostitute who is going
around with his credit card insulting shop clerks, and repenting of his onetime arrogance, he tells his coworker, as he piles one glass upon another, “Hey, when I was a kid I liked blocks.”
There you go, Cagnotto feels something like that.
Cagnotto curses Art even as he blesses Bobo’s authentic feelings. He thinks of how he was as an adolescent, when the simplicity of a line of verse could work its way into his heart, keeping time with his hopes.
And then?
The anxiety to say something new has alienated him from that state of grace.
Ambitions, jealousy, backstabbing: the theater thrives on the opposite.
The more lofty the ideals onstage, the baser the sentiments behind the scenes.
To pan a work because it is by a rival, to praise someone else to win favors, to declare that congenital idiots are masters. To waste time on empty words. To bow once to the public, once to the critics, and once to the powers that be. Is this all that is left of the young Cagnotto?
Cagnotto swerves to avoid a pedestrian.
Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice the insults flying.
He remembers lines of verse, a poem, words scrawled by an innocent soul.
What crime was he about to commit?
My God.
Cagnotto is driving erratically, true to his thoughts.
All that avant-garde and experimental theater, just to cop fame and success, so he could spend his nights with malevolent strangers?
Is this where he wants to take Bobo?
Is this what he wants to teach him?
How to become alienated and lose the innate illumination of the truth?
Cagnotto slams on the brake. A kid on a scooter points with both hands at his prick, as if to say, Dickhead, you suck .
And in the name of what? A concept of the theater that even he, to be honest, has yet to understand.
No.
If there is a true path here, it is that of the master who bows to the apprentice, admiring the freshness of his thinking.
Yes.
It is to Bobo’s thinking that he should now attend. He will take it in hand, like a little bird, a tender young hostage to the beauty of nature. And he will nurture that thought so that it will bud, flower, express itself, and explode with all its delicate power.
Cagnotto wets his lips, shifting into top gear.
That’s what he will do.
Back to the days of innocence.
Cagnotto will uproot the weeds of modernity that are suffocating the garden (maybe it is still thriving!) of his inspiration.
He must get back to the classics.
Yes, the classics.
No doubt about that.
Absolutely.
Metaphorically (and not just metaphorically before he had signed a contract with the region to finance his productions) the underground Cagnotto had spit, pissed, and vomited on the classics.
“Oh, how I love anew these people who are called common”—who was that quote from? Goethe? Cagnotto can’t remember.
Yes, the common people.
Oh, what damage had been done to the classics by the avant-garde, the ranting when they should have been speaking to the common people. Had theater been born to address the elite?
No, never.
Shakespeare. Who did Shakespeare write for? For whores, thieves, and delinquents.
And Greek theater? The people ate peanuts watching Greek theater. Well, maybe not peanuts because peanuts hadn’t been invented yet, but they were munching on something.
Certainly, the interpretations of the classics needed to be rethought, brought back to the original letter and spirit. It will be necessary to reinvent a language and gestures that are plain and genuine, that will bring the message of the theater to ordinary folk.
He parks the BMW X5 on the sidewalk without even braking. He waves at the bread man who’s smoking a cigarette in the doorway of the bakery.
He runs to his own building.
He rings the bell.
Then he realizes he is downstairs and grabs the keys in his pocket with a smile on his face.
He’s got
Cagnotto thinks of Richard Gere. In Pretty Woman , overwhelmed by the uncomplicated affection of that ex-prostitute who is going
around with his credit card insulting shop clerks, and repenting of his onetime arrogance, he tells his coworker, as he piles one glass upon another, “Hey, when I was a kid I liked blocks.”
There you go, Cagnotto feels something like that.
Cagnotto curses Art even as he blesses Bobo’s authentic feelings. He thinks of how he was as an adolescent, when the simplicity of a line of verse could work its way into his heart, keeping time with his hopes.
And then?
The anxiety to say something new has alienated him from that state of grace.
Ambitions, jealousy, backstabbing: the theater thrives on the opposite.
The more lofty the ideals onstage, the baser the sentiments behind the scenes.
To pan a work because it is by a rival, to praise someone else to win favors, to declare that congenital idiots are masters. To waste time on empty words. To bow once to the public, once to the critics, and once to the powers that be. Is this all that is left of the young Cagnotto?
Cagnotto swerves to avoid a pedestrian.
Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice the insults flying.
He remembers lines of verse, a poem, words scrawled by an innocent soul.
What crime was he about to commit?
My God.
Cagnotto is driving erratically, true to his thoughts.
All that avant-garde and experimental theater, just to cop fame and success, so he could spend his nights with malevolent strangers?
Is this where he wants to take Bobo?
Is this what he wants to teach him?
How to become alienated and lose the innate illumination of the truth?
Cagnotto slams on the brake. A kid on a scooter points with both hands at his prick, as if to say, Dickhead, you suck .
And in the name of what? A concept of the theater that even he, to be honest, has yet to understand.
No.
If there is a true path here, it is that of the master who bows to the apprentice, admiring the freshness of his thinking.
Yes.
It is to Bobo’s thinking that he should now attend. He will take it in hand, like a little bird, a tender young hostage to the beauty of nature. And he will nurture that thought so that it will bud, flower, express itself, and explode with all its delicate power.
Cagnotto wets his lips, shifting into top gear.
That’s what he will do.
Back to the days of innocence.
Cagnotto will uproot the weeds of modernity that are suffocating the garden (maybe it is still thriving!) of his inspiration.
He must get back to the classics.
Yes, the classics.
No doubt about that.
Absolutely.
Metaphorically (and not just metaphorically before he had signed a contract with the region to finance his productions) the underground Cagnotto had spit, pissed, and vomited on the classics.
“Oh, how I love anew these people who are called common”—who was that quote from? Goethe? Cagnotto can’t remember.
Yes, the common people.
Oh, what damage had been done to the classics by the avant-garde, the ranting when they should have been speaking to the common people. Had theater been born to address the elite?
No, never.
Shakespeare. Who did Shakespeare write for? For whores, thieves, and delinquents.
And Greek theater? The people ate peanuts watching Greek theater. Well, maybe not peanuts because peanuts hadn’t been invented yet, but they were munching on something.
Certainly, the interpretations of the classics needed to be rethought, brought back to the original letter and spirit. It will be necessary to reinvent a language and gestures that are plain and genuine, that will bring the message of the theater to ordinary folk.
He parks the BMW X5 on the sidewalk without even braking. He waves at the bread man who’s smoking a cigarette in the doorway of the bakery.
He runs to his own building.
He rings the bell.
Then he realizes he is downstairs and grabs the keys in his pocket with a smile on his face.
He’s got
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