POCILGA de Pier Paolo Pasolini Tradução e encenação | John Romão
Com | Albano Jerónimo, Ana Bustorff, André Reis, Cláudio da Silva, João Lagarto, John Romão, Mariana Tengner Barros, Guilherme Moura / Miguel da Cunha, Paulo Pinto / Miguel Loureiro, Pedro Lacerda, Wesley Barros e com a participação de figurantes Cenografia | F. Ribeiro com John Romão Desenho de luz | José Álvaro Correia Música | Nicolai Sarbib Espaço sonoro | João Bento Figurinos | Carolina Queirós Machado Apoio aos figurinos | Rita Lopes Alves Assistência em digressão | Solange Freitas Direção técnica | Carlos Ramos Produção executiva | Stage One Coprodução | Colectivo 84, Culturgest, Teatro Virgínia, Teatro Viriato, TNSJ Registo vídeo e montagem | João Gambino Espetáculo coproduzido no âmbito da rede 5 Sentidos O Colectivo 84 é apoiado pelo Governo de Portugal / Secretaria de Estado da Cultura - DG Artes
15 a 17 Janeiro 2015: Culturgest (Lisboa) 22 Janeiro 2015: TAGV (Coimbra) 20 Junho 2015: Teatro Virgínia (Torres Novas) 27 Junho 2015: Teatro Viriato (Viseu) 3 a 12 Julho 2015: Teatro Nacional São João (Porto)
We believe what changes opinion, changes narrative, changes momentum, are words. Words crafted from genuinely big ideas, delivered through deft structure by inspirational women and men, wherever a meaningful audience can be found.
By exploring some of the world’s most vital speeches we want to remember what leadership sounds like, through speeches which have carved a path through our history by changing hearts and minds.
MACBETH She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
"Grada Kilomba's book 'Plantation Memories. Episodes of Everyday Racism' has exposed the violence and trauma of racism through its incisive language and profound writing. This staged reading is a compilation of episodes exploring everyday racism in the form of short psychoanalytical stories. It offers a strong and moving insight into the experience of racism, alienation, and transformation, through the different characters." Theater Ballhaus Naunynstrasse
"Com uma escrita profunda e uma linguagem cortante e eloquente, Grada Kilomba expõe a violência e o trauma do racismo no seu livro' "Plantation Memories. Episódios de Racismo Diário." Esta leitura cênica traz o livro ao palco, através de uma compilação de episódios que exploram o racismo diário em forma de histórias psicanalíticas curtas. Oferecendo uma visão forte e comovente, através das diferentes personagens. " Teatro Ballhaus Naunynstrasse
Written and Directed by / Escrito e Dirigido por Grada Kilomba
Performance Martha Fessehatzion Moses Leo Michael Edode Ojake Araba Walton Sara-Hiruth Zewde
Camera Zé de Paiva Kathleen Kunath Thabo Thindi
Grada Kilomba é uma escritora, teórica, e artista interdisciplinar portuguesa residente em Berlim. O seu trabalho baseia-se na memória, trauma, raça e gênero, e foi traduzido em várias línguas e publicados em inúmeras antologias internacionais, bem como encenado internacionalmente. O seu trabalho é especialmente conhecido por criar um espaço híbrido onde as fronteiras entre as linguagens académicas e artísticas se confinam, usando uma variedade de formatos desde a escrita à encenação dos seus textos, assim como instalações de video e performance, criando o que ela chama de "Performing Knowledge.” Grada Kilomba tem apresentado o seu trabalho em renomeados espaços de exibição, teatro, e academia, como o Vienna Secession Museum, Brussels Bozar Museum, London Maritime Museum, Centro International de Artes José de Guimarães, Kampnagel House, Oslo Literature House, Maxim Gorki Theater, Berliner Festspiel Haus, Ballhaus Naunynstrasse, Theater Münchner Kammerspiel, University of Stockholm, University of Amsterdam, University of London, University of Accra, Universidade do Rio de Janeiro, Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna, among others. Grada Kilomba tem ensinado em diversas universidades internacionais, tendo sido por último Professora de Estudos de Gênero e Estudos Pós-Coloniais, na Universidade de Humboldt, em Berlim. Actualmente, Grada Kilomba é curadora no Teatro Maxim Gorki, em Berlim, onde está a desenvolver uma série de Artist Talks e Post-colonialismo. http://gradakilomba.com
Escrito e Dirigido por Grada Kilomba
Performance por Martha Fessehatzion Moses Leo Michael Edode Ojake Araba Walton Sara-Hiruth Zewde
Música por GEISBABA
Camera por Zé de Paiva Kathleen Kunath Thabo Thindi
It’s the middle of the night. And the sky is glowing like mad radioactive red. And if you squint, you could maybe see the moon through a thick layer of cigarette smoke and airplane exhaust that covers the entire city like mosquito net that won’t let the angels in.
And if you look up high enough you could see me-standing on the edge of a eighty seven story building.
And up there-a place for gargoyles and broken clock towers that have stayed still and dead for maybe like a hundred years-up there is me.
And I’m freakin Batman.
And I gots Bat-mobiles and Bat-a-rangs and freakin Bat-caves like for real, and all it takes is a broom closet or a back room or a fire escape and Danny’s hand-me-down jeans are gone.
And my navy blue polo shirt? –
The one that looks kinda good on me but has a hole on it near the butt from when it got snagged on the chain linked fence behind Arturo’s but it isn’t even a big deal cause I tuck that part in and its like all good? –
-that blue polo shirt? –
- It’s gone too. And I get like, like transformation-al.
And nobody pulls out a belt and whips Batman for talking back –
-Or for not talking back –
And nobody calls Batman simple –
- Or stupid –
- Or skinny –
- And nobody fires Batman’s brother from the Eastern Taxi Company ‘cause they was making cutbacks, neither, ‘cause they got nothing but respect, and not like afraid-respect. Just like respect-respect. ‘Cause nobody’s afraid of you.
Cause Batman doesn’t mean nobody harm.
Cause all Batman really wants to do is save people and maybe pay Abuela’s bills one day and die happy and maybe get like mad famous. For real.
…And kill the Joker.
Tonight, like most nights, I’m all alone. And I’m watching…And I’m waiting…
Like a eagle. Or like a –no, yea, like a eagle.
And my cape is flappin’ in the wind (‘cause it’s freakin’ long), and my pointy ears are on, and that mask that covers like half my face is on too, and I got like bulletproof stuff all in my chest so no one could hurt me and nobody – nobody – is gonna come between Batman,
From where I am I could hear everything.
Somewhere in the city there’s a old lady picking Styrofoam leftovers up outta a trash can and she’s putting a piece of sesame chicken someone spit out into her own mouth.
And somewhere there’s a doctor with a whack haircut in a black lab coat trying to find a cure for the diseases that are gonna make us all extinct for real one day.
And somewhere there’s a man, a man in a janitor’s uniform, stumbling home drunck and dizzy after spending half his paycheck on forty-ounce bottles of twist-off beer and the other half on a four hour visit to some lady’s house on a street where the lights have all been shot out by people who’d rather do what they do, in this city, in the dark.
And half a block away from JanitorMan there’s a group of good-for-nothings who don’t know no better waiting to beat JanitorMan with rusted bicycle chains and imitation Lousiville Sluggers, and if they don’t find a cent on him – which they won’t – they’ll just pound at him till the muscles in their arms start burning, till there’s no more teeth to crack out.
But they don’t count on me.
They don’t count on no dark night (with a stomach full of grocery store brand macaroni-and-cheese and cut up Vienna sausages),
Cause they’d rather believe I don’t exist,
And from eighty-seven stories up I could hear one of the good-for-nothings say “Gimmethecash” real fast (like that) just “Gimmethefuckingcash” and I see JAnitorMan mumble something in drunk language and turn pale and from eighty-seven stories up I could hear his stomach trying to hurl its way out of his Dickies.
So I swoop down like and fast and I’m like darkness. I’m like SWOOSH –
- And I throw a Bat-a-rang at the one naked lightbulb –
- And they’re all like “whoa-motherfucker-who-just-turned-out-the-lights?” –
(Silence. The BOY breathes, re-enacting their fear)
“What’s that over there?” –
- “Gimme whatchou got old man” –
- “Did anybody hear that?!” –
- “No, really” –
- “There ain’t. No. Bat.” –
But then –
- One out of three good-for-nothings gets it to the head!
And number Two swings blindly into the dark cape before him but before his fist hits anything I grab a trash can lid and –
-- Right into the gut, and number One comes back with a jump-kick but I know judo-karate too so I’m like –
-- Twice –
-- but before I can do any more damage suddenly we all hear a CLIC – CLIC –
And suddenly everything gets quiet
And the one good-for-nothing left standing grips a handgun and aims straight up, like he’s holding Jesus hostage, like he’s threatening maybe to blow a hole in the moon.
And the good-for-nothing who got it to the head who tried to jump=kick me and the other good-for-nothing who got it in the gut is both scrambling back away from the dark figure before him.
And the drunk man the JanitorMan is huddled in a corner, praying to Saint Anthony ‘cause that’s the only one he could remember.
And there’s me,
Eyes glowing white, cape blowing softly in the wind.
Bulletporoof chest heaving. My heart beating right through it in a Morse code for “fuck with me, just once, come on, just try.”
And the one good-for-nothing left standing, the one with the handgun, he laughs he lowers his arm, and he points it at me and gives the moon a break, and he aims it right between my pointy ears, like goalposts and he’s special teams.
And JanitorMan is still calling Saint Anthony but he ain’t pickin’ up,
And for a second it seems like…maybe I’m gonna lose.
SHOO – SHOO! FUACATA! –
--“Don’t kill me man!” –
--Wrist CRACK –
--Skin – meets – acid –
And he’s on the floor. And I’m standing over him. And I got the gun in MY hands now. And I hate guns, I hate holding ‘em cause I’m Batman, and –
ASTERICKS: Batman don’t like guns ‘cause his parents got iced by guns a long time ago – but for just a second, my eyes glow white, and I hold this thing, for I could speak to the good-for-nothing in a language he maybe understands,
…CLIC – CLIC…
And the good-for-nothings become good-for-disappearing into whatever toxic-waste-chemical-sludge-shit-hole they crawled out of.
And it’s just me and JanitorMan.
And I pick him up.
And I wipe sweat and cheap perfume off his forehead.
And he begs me not to hurt him and I grab him tight by his JanitorMan shirt collar and I pull him to my face, and he’s taller than me, but the cape helps so he listens when I look him straight in the eyes and I say two words to him:
And he does, checking behind his shoulder every ten feet.
And I SWOOSH from building to building on his way there, ‘cause I know where he lives. And I watch his hands where he lives. And I watch his hands tremble as he pulls out his keychain and opens the door to his building.
And I’m back in bed before he even walks in through the front door.
And I hear him turn on the faucet and pour himself a glass of warm tap water
And he puts the glass back in the sink.
And I hear his footsteps,
And they get slower as they get to my room.
And he creaks my door open like mad slow.
And he takes a step in, which he never does.
And he’s staring off into nowhere, his face the color of sidewalks in summer, and I act like I’m just waking up, and I say,
“What’s up, Pop?”
And JanitorMan says nothing to me.
But I see, in the dark, I see his arms go limp and his head turns back, like towards me, and he lifts it for I could see his face,
For I could see his eyes,
And his cheeks is dripping but not with sweat.
And he just stands there, breathing, like he remembers my eyes glowing white.
Like he remembers my bulletproof chest.
Like he remembers he’s my pop.
And for a long time I don’t say nothing.
And he turns around, hand on the doorknob, and he ain’t looking up my way but I hear him mumble two words to me.
Uma pensão, na costa do Pacífico. Um antigo pastor no limiar de um colapso nervoso. Uma viúva, Maxine, é quem se ocupa do hotel. E surge uma pintora que tenta vender os seus quadros, enquanto passeia o avô moribundo de hotel em hotel, sem dinheiro. E uma iguana presa que se vai soltar naquela noite. É a redenção.
Encenação: Jorge Silva Melo; Tradução: Dulce Fernandes; Interpretação: Nuno Lopes (Lawrence Shannon), Maria João Luís (Maxine Faulk), Isabel Muñoz Cardoso (Judith Fellowes), Joana Bárcia (Hannah Jelkes), Pedro Carraca (Hank Prosner), Tiago Matias (Jake Latta), João Meireles (Herr Fahrenkopf), Vânia Rodrigues (Hilda), Pedro Gabriel Marques (Pancho), Catarina Wallenstein (Charlotte Goodall), Américo Silva (Nonno), João Delgado (Pedro), Bruno Xavier (Wolfgang), Ana Amaral (Frau Fahrenkopf); Cenografia e figurinos: Rita Lopes Alves; Luz: Pedro Domingos; Som: André Pires; Coordenação técnica: João Cachulo; Assistência de encenação: Nuno Gonçalo Rodrigues e Bernardo Alves; Produção: João Meireles
Coprodução: Artistas Unidos, Teatro Nacional São João e São Luiz Teatro Municipal
So smile the heavens upon this holy act, That after hours with sorrow chide us not!
Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight: Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare; It is enough I may but call her mine.
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Here comes the lady: O, so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint: A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Good even to my ghostly confessor.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagined happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till holy church incorporate two in one.