by Dario Fo
Halt! I see the readers’ eyes glazing over. So for pity’s sake, let us at once change register; and here follows the tale in a more simple, straightforward language. ‘A long time ago, an old man lived here in Porto … every word is true, I’m no charlatan with a baggage of yarns to spin. This old man had warned the inhabitants of Rocca di Caldé, which is just above the quarry at the port, that a crack had opened in the mountain and the village was sliding down towards the foot of the cliff. “Hey, watch out,” they shouted to the peasants and fishermen who lived lower down, “it’s caving in … get out of there!”
‘“Come on! Who says? Take it easy! The ground’s not moving.” And the people in Rocca laughed the whole thing off, made a joke of it: “Smart lot, them, eh? They want us out of here so they can get their hands on our lands and houses.”
‘And so they went on pruning the vines, sowing the fields, getting married, happily making love. They could feel the rock moving under the foundations of the houses … but they were not unduly concerned. “Normal process of settlement,” they reassured each other. A great section of rock broke off and crashed into the lake. “Look out, you’ve got your feet in the water!” they yelled from along the coast. “What are you talking about? It’s only overflow water from the fountains.” And so, bit by bit, inexorably the whole town slid down until it tumbled into the lake.
‘Splash, splash, plop, plop … houses, men, women, two horses, three donkeys … Unperturbed, the priest continued hearing a nun’s confession … “ego te absolvo … animus … sancti” … plooooop … Amen … Splaaaash! The tower went under, the belfry with the church bells disappeared … ding, dang, dong … plop! Even today,’ continued Caldera, ‘if you peep over the tip of the rock which still sticks out above the surface of the lake, and if at that precise moment there is a thunder and lightning storm and the flashes light up the bed of the lake … incredible!… underneath you can just make out the sunken town with its houses and streets still intact and you’ll see them, the inhabitants of old Caldé, still moving about as if it were a live crib … and they’re still repeating, quite unperturbed: “Nothing’s happened.” The fish swim in front of their eyes and even get into their ears, but there they are still: “Nothing to be afraid of … it’s only a new kind of fish that has learned to fly. Certainly, it’s a bit more damp nowadays than it used to be,” they comment, and apart from that they go on with their daily lives without a shadow of concern about the disaster that has occurred.’
When I am on stage, I gladly and readily make use of this approach and technique for developing a story, not with the same themes but with similar situations and above all with a similar atmosphere: for instance, in the fabliau inspired by the texts of The Butterfly Mouse rediscovered by Rossana Brusegan, or in the apologue that I based on Lucius and the Ass by Lucian of Samosata, the adventure of the poet who goes in search of the impossible and arrives at a town in Thessalia inhabited by magicians and wizards. Each time I recount this metaphysical, hyperclassical fable, what is the image I seek to project? I am certainly not attempting to imagine to myself, or to make people imagine, the Hellespont, Samos or Thessalia. I am firmly rooted in my native place, in its streets, alongside Lombard rivers, among the woods which are familiar to me: the mountains, skies, waters are always those of the place where I listened to my first stories. It may be that it does not all come out clearly enough, but my universe of images is there. Similarly, when I talk of the Provencal mountains in Obscene Fables, of Javan Petro, of Icarus insulting his father Dedalus, even when I bring on stage the Chinese tiger and Tibet with its rivers and its vast caverns, or even in the despairing outburst of Medea or in the flight on the magic chariot, I never move far from the lake, the valleys and the rivers where I was born.
But I often tear myself away from the memory of these ‘tales’ to plunge into the texts of medieval codices and poets, a testimony of our more ancient roots, and each time I discover, not without some smug satisfaction, that there, in those writings, lie the roots of every fable I ever learned from my storytellers. Fables which are never pedantically reproduced but conveyed for our times with the ironic rhythms of a modernity which is, to put it mildly, astounding. Let one example suffice. It is the tale of a great hunting expedition, a wild, mythical hunt which took place year after year in the same valley. The hero of this great epic was presented from the outset astride his motor-bicycle, kitted out like a medieval knight. The hunter greets his friends and announces that this will be the final combat. One of the two must succumb that day: him or his prey. But who is this awesome prey? A snail!
But pause a moment. We are not talking about some run-of-the-mill, slithery mollusc. No, we are dealing with an epic, gigantic slug of the dimensions of a hippopotamus, a horrendous beast, a leftover from the Mesozoic age, which goes charging fiercely about in the three valleys between the slopes of Muceno and the forests of Musadino. The hunt was scheduled for the days when the chestnut trees were in bloom; scents to raise the spirits of any hunter and give him heart for the fight wafted abroad the length and breadth of the valley. So, off our hero set on his motorbike, rifle and spear at the ready, intent on seizing this snail which had escaped him for years both because of its extraordinary speed of movement and zigzagging abilities, and because of the slimy sludge the animal left in its wake as it fled. ‘There it is! Damnation! You’re dribbling your filthy mess right on the curve!’ The warrior brakes, wobbles, slides and rolls, but this time he manages to induce the snail to speed up beyond its abilities, so that it takes a tumble and rolls into a ditch. It’s done for. The hunter descends into the trench, sliding on his buttocks down the slope … he slays the still-breathing beast, chops it to pieces, loads his catch onto the motorbike, which groans under the weight of snail-flesh, and returns home. The whole town has good eating, or more precisely good gorging, for a whole week: enough portions of snail to make you sick!
Today I realise that this could have been a tale from Rabelais.
CHAPTER 9
The Discovery of the Body
I was no more than fourteen and I enjoyed a certain reputation among the many boys in Valtravaglia who put themselves forward as story-tellers. At that time, as I said a while ago, I had no idea of the ancient origin of those fables. I was repeating techniques and situations which had illustrious origins, blithely convinced they were the exclusive product of my fellow villagers.
I’ve already said that the travelling salesman, the fisherman, the billiards player, my grandfather Bristìn himself never dived straight into a story, but found some external pretext to let themselves be drawn into telling the tale, under the pretence that it was all happening in spite of themselves. Only many years later did I discover that getting into a subject by ‘cannoning off another ball’, as though by accident, was an established practice among commedia dell’arte actors from the time of the first Harlequin (Tristano Martinelli) right up to the classical Pulcinella of the Neapolitan songs. This was my first great lesson, the stamp of the true narrator: the opening of the tale must come about as though by chance.
I often use the same mechanism today to get shows underway, that is, I invent situations or pretexts which permit me to chat to the audience while the lights are still on in the auditorium. These can be quite elementary devices, such as: ‘You’re late. We were getting worried, take a seat. That lady there … yes, you … I saw you smoking furtively … that’s right, she’s crouching down under her own armpits … and she’s puffing like mad … she’s going to go up in flames!’ I invent other pretexts, speaking out loud to the wings, to the stage-hands, electricians or sound engineers. ‘Could you tone down that spot light. That echo’s coming back again,’ then I turn to the audience, ‘Don’t you think there’s a kind of boom in my voice … a ricochet?’ Everything can be used to smash down the fourth wall, anything to get over the cliché of ‘let’s see if you can make me laugh … let’s just see if you’re all you’re cracked up to be’.
I also start off with a
comment on something in the news that everybody will be familiar with. I often launch straight in: ‘Seen today’s papers? According to the headlines…’ The intention is to disorientate the audience who have turned up expecting to see a play or listen to a story, maybe one taken from the ancient Greek narrators. Instead I wrong-foot them and start babbling about a recent, contemporary event: ‘Just before I came on, I heard on the television that the sea water in the Adriatic is so pure that it’s drinkable … all that gunge is not actually poisonous … research in Japan has shown that it’s full of nutrients, so they have been feeding it to their turkeys, who are very keen on it. A German scientist has found it’s a wonderful remedy for diseases of the skin … better than mud baths. In Riccione, they’ve set up a recuperation centre with baths filled with the gunge. The Germans are flocking in.’
* * *
But let us get back to Lake Maggiore. Performers could not have failed to include a place like the village of the mezarat, with its intense nightlife, in their schedules, and every week there was a visit from a different touring company. There was a theatre in Porto Valtravaglia, and another three in nearby towns (Caldé, Muceno and Musadino). In summer, acrobats and puppet shows also came to town.
From time to time I put on shows of my own for my schoolmates. I repeated the stories told by Magnan, Braces and Dighelnò, with some variations or adaptations of my own. Almost without being aware of it, I was acquiring a command of the trade and building up a small but dedicated following. Having people to listen and come along when you perform is the first and essential condition. If the person performing does not savour the effervescence which spectators bring, or that involvement with other people produced by shared laughter, there is no point in him even thinking of becoming an actor. Spectators suggest to you rhythms, timing and harmonies; they make clear to you the lines to cut, or that it is useless persevering with a particular situation.
The audience has always, at every stage, been my litmus test. If you are capable of listening to them, the stalls can direct you as well as any great maestro could, but no good will come from allowing yourself to be flattered or carried away, for the audience can then become like a wild horse out to unsaddle you.
Personally, I have never attended any school or academy, except for painting … but I have had many masters, some in spite of themselves. I firmly believe that the problem is not so much accepting teaching, as assimilating the trade from masters. It is by ‘cohabiting’ with the master that the pupil ‘grasps’: he does not ‘learn’, but ‘thieves’ the trade.
How does one teach the actor’s art?
As in every profession, the master, if you follow him with great attention, will reveal his secrets, and if you succeed in making them yours, well and good … otherwise, there’s nothing to be done. I certainly have thieved shamelessly, in the first place from the story-tellers on the lake, who imparted their lessons with a lightness of touch and without appearing to do so. The mezarat fable-tellers always taught me to be patient and open with beginners.
And so I today teach my pupils in the style of a conjurer who shows every time how his tricks are done, including the difference between gesturing and gesticulating. Gesticulating means movement without control, at random. The art of the gesture, on the contrary, implies great control of your own gestures, total awareness of the movement of each limb, from hands to chest, to feet, all with great economy and harmony.
I did not find it easy to acquire agility and speed of reflex on stage. I have had as masters in mime such figures as Jacques Lecoq and Etienne Decroux, but I have to admit that I came to these masters with invaluable previous training thanks to the numerous punch-ups in which I was often involved with boys of my own age at the lakeside. Boxing matches, brawls, kickings and knees to the groin were the order of the day in the Valtravaglia.
I came from a quiet town where displays of strength and aggression were very rare, but when I got to Porto I found myself battered about by those uncouth ruffians. Being shy and completely without any aggressive inclination, I invariably ended up on the ground, covered in bruises.
‘When are you going to stop letting yourself be beaten about like a mattress?’ Knocked black and blue by all and sundry, especially by Manassa and Mangina, I found myself, to make matters worse, mocked and reproached by my father. ‘Learn to stick up for yourself! Do you want me coming along to protect you, as though you were some little girl with a runny nose? Get off your backside and learn how to dodge blows, to block punches and look after yourself.’ ‘And who’s going to teach me?’ ‘If you go to Luino, there’s a boxing school.’
I went along. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I want to train!’ When I took off my coat and stood there all puny and lanky, the trainer burst out laughing uproariously. He nearly wet himself. ‘Come and see the next boxing champion! Away you go and present yourself to the fencing class. Maybe they’ll take you on. It might help make you a bit more agile … and learn at least how to get out of the way of punches.’
But alas! the rapier and sword-fencing classes were full.
They took me on for the sabre course, mainly I think to make up the numbers. It was not a very successful course, indeed there were only four people on it. The sabre master was of Sicilian origin, and would not hear of us using ‘irons’ in the first months; nothing but bare hands. ‘Duelling is an affair requiring cut and thrust by the hand, the arm, the chest, the hips and legs, and above all the brain. The sword will be the extension of the hand. You must learn all the positions by heart so that you can execute them with your eyes shut.’
After a couple of months of that discipline, like a gun-slinger exiting from a saloon, I presented myself at the quayside, the invariable arena for encounters, and there I had my first live match with Manassa. He squared up in the boxer’s ‘classical upright position’ while I came forward in the pose of the swordsman: left arm behind back, chest out, right arm outstretched, hand with fingers straight, tightly together and rigid as a blade. Lunge … parry … feint … straight thrust … whack! A blow to Manassa’s face, causing him to wrinkle his nose in disbelief. ‘For Christ’s sake! That’s not fair! What kind of boxing is that?’
A crowd of boys and one or two older fishermen had gathered round the two fighters. Manassa returned to the fray, throwing a couple of rapid punches, but with such fury that he knocked himself off-balance. I kept my poise, like a skilled swordsman. I moved back with swift steps without letting my outstretched arm fall, waving it about at any attack from Manassa. Swerve … feint … sideways parry … draw back … lunge … whack! One more blow to the boxer’s body … further delivery of downward stroke … Manassa on the ground, nose, forehead and cheek bones bright red. ‘Oh no, bloody hell! This is piss-awful boxing,’ he snorted. ‘I’ve had it up to here … it’s not fair!’
‘Quite fair,’ intoned Mangina, in the authoritative tones of a Boxing Board of Control umpire. ‘Everyone is entitled to fight in the style he chooses, so long as he fights with his bare hands. No sticks or stones. If someone prefers to strike out with only one hand, it’s up to him, no complaints. It’s a style like any other. The classic, one-armed style!’ And from that day on, they gave me the name ‘the cripple’, but with high respect.
But I couldn’t abide that nickname, and had to do something about it. I decided to learn to fight with both hands … still in the manner of a fencer, but swinging both arms as though I were holding several sabres. I practised every day with my brother, who acted as my trainer. To block my assaults, Fulvio started to kick out wildly. Without realising it, we had reinvented a kind of exotic, perhaps Chinese, boxing. To be able to strike better with the feet, we wheeled round continually this way and that, kicking out without warning, and at the same time throwing punches and even head-butting. Finally they changed my nickname: I became the ‘spinning-top’, which was hardly a great improvement!
CHAPTER 10
African War and World War
In 1935, the African war broke
out. Universal delight: Italy was invading Abyssinia!
‘We are going there to colonise, not to pillage,’ they taught us, ‘we’re there to build bridges, dams and roads, to bring civilisation to those savages. As a bonus, Italy will become an empire.’ I could not understand why my father was cursing and swearing and muttering to himself about ‘bare-faced robbery’. ‘Even the beggars want their place in the sun. To knock at Europe’s door and get them to open it for us, we have to go shooting people in Africa. A fine way to win the respect of the plutocrat bosses of this world!’
At school they told us: ‘We will revenge the massacres of Macallé and Adua. The Abyssinian slaves of the Negus will be liberated!’
Pa’ Fo exploded, striving to keep his voice down: ‘Sure thing, and to liberate them more quickly, they’ll gas them!’ My mother nodded, adding: ‘You can bet on it.’ I stared at my parents in disbelief, thinking to myself: ‘What a dreadful family of anti-Italian defeatists!’ How could an honest and courageous man like my father express these contemptuous sentiments towards the Duce and the fatherland? And that’s before he got onto the subject of the king: ‘That criminal dwarf!’ were his insulting words.
I was in awe of my father but one day I almost assaulted him as I churned out the grand words which we had learned by rote at school: the Risorgimento … the First World War to free Trento and Trieste … the heroic sacrifice of our glorious soldiers … the sense of patriotism … ‘And you of all people! On your deputy station-master jacket, you show off all those medals, and you’ve got silver ribbons on your arm to show you were wounded … so why did you volunteer to fight with the Arditi?’
I expected Pa’ Fo to give me a cuff on the jaw, but he didn’t. He smiled, and checked me gently. ‘Calm down. First of all, I did not volunteer. I was called up. I was nineteen, I was born in 1898, and I was enlisted in the infantry. After one month, I was already at the front. Can you imagine that? You were a complete innocent, and they shunted you into that hell. What could you have learned about weapons, combat or military strategy? Apart from rifles and Drapen (hand bombs, whose real name is Strapne), machine guns, mortars … nothing at all! You were given a mouthful of grappa to knock back at top speed before every attack, then they threw you forward to get yourself killed, and you were a sitting duck: skewer them or they skewer you. After the first six days on the Carso border, half of our battalion was already done for, slaughtered. On the seventh day we were relieved. I was literally a wreck. Two men from my village had been blown apart when a howitzer got them dead-centre, only five paces from where I was dug in. All that was left of those poor bastards who arrived at the same time as me were some bits of flesh and blood scattered all over the place. Everywhere there was the acrid stench of gunpowder and the sickly smell of blood and guts. And the screams of the wounded and the dying, groans and moans that would rip the skin off your body.
