How does a man’s life come to be broken? How does a man cross the fine line between being “normal”, in line with the world, and becoming a lonely outcast? It happens all at once something, is there a particular moment of tipping, or are there signs accumulating that could have been detected? What is going on in his mind? What remains, in his new existence, from his former life? What memories does it take with it? How does he survive the terror of a new day? How is man preserved? How do you avoid being dumbed down? How does he spend his time, what does he fill that long day-to-night journey with? Is there hope?
These are some of the questions posed by the text cut by Toma Dănilă from the monologue Zorro, a sidewalk hermit by Margaret Mazzantini. It is an intelligent cut-up, a story that flows non-linearly, with forays into the childhood and adolescence of the man who has become a street person, in which the possible reasons that They brought to the present state (beyond the clearly exposed: an unfortunate car accident in which a young man died, the departure of the wife) are suggested without being explicitly stated as such – there are also some psychoanalytic references (the relationship with the mother, for example), but kept within limits of good taste. Just as the social accents on which the theme are kept within decent limits Would could have exploited: this is not the aim of the makers of this show which depicts a day of a tormented man who, in order not to go crazy, as he himself says, dialogues with himself, monologues loudly, creates the illusion that he is a social being – he the solution found by him and he says it explicitly; it also works perfectly as a theatrical convention.
The text gives Ioan Andrei Ionescu a recital of exceptional quality in which he gives his full measure. It’s a heavy, dense text that requires all the actor’s qualities, the voice, the technique, the mastery of emotions. Ioan Andrei Ionescu’s play is extremely nuanced, intelligently alternating moments of emotional climax, some overwhelming, in which anger and frustration come to the surface, with calmer ones (obviously also the credit of the director). The character oscillates between reticence, insecurity, vulnerability, on the one hand, and sharp affirmation of opinions. The actor exploits his voice very well in the serious register, but with subtle transitions to the warm, tender zone – in the moments of remembering happy moments from his previous life, the beauty of his wife, or those of hope, because there is such a thing One existence like his -, alternating the hard expression of the face with the warm smile. Tension exists throughout the seventy-plus minutes in which the actor, scantily clad but not degraded, not repulsive, stands alone in front of the audience, aided by minimal set design and props: the tiled wall of a train station , several chairs on which he slept, a suitcase on wheels containing his belongings. It’s a tension contained, assumed, but never led to melodrama: Ioan Andrei Ionescu’s playing is kept on the fragile border between involvement and detachment, with great care for posture and gestures (measured, not excessive, betraying, like the words, the weight to live, to move on).
Also visible in this show is the actor formation of the director Toma Dănilă, who has recently specialized in “camera” shows, with one or two actors that he very generously values.
I noticed with great joy the absence of the lavaliere, an ingredient that seems to have become like salt in food, indispensable in the installations at TNB. If I have to find a fault with the show, it is the presence of music. I think It could give it up altogether – Ioan Andrei Ionescu does not need crutches, and the musical interventions are also at too high a volume, and sometimes pleonastic in relation to the text. I even think the lack of music would give more weight to the ending.
A beautiful, accomplished, round show; an acting lesson.
(photo: Florin Ghioca)
