So maternal and lucid

When I first encountered In nome della madre [In the Name of the Mother], I liked it immediately. I had read Erri De Luca’s book when it came out, long before my interpretation of it in the theater. I recall that I had placed it on a shelf where I keep special books, the ones that remain in my heart.

The text had struck me with its intense spirituality, and the way it conveyed the mystery contained in small everyday things – a starry sky, a caress, and the smell of salt – the simple words that defined and, at the same time, left my heart open to every inner movement. Miriam had struck me – Mary, the woman who speaks, who tells her story, and who, with her story, grabbed and engaged me.

When I was proposed the creation of a theatrical adaptation of that text, something happened, which is I entered into symbiosis with Mary. It seemed to me that I understood her, that I entered into intimate and intense contact with her. I did not expect it. In reality, I had always had a relationship with her. I had had it for years, since I was a child, but it was a secret. Perhaps even unconscious. I did not receive a Catholic education, but when I was given a little silver Madonna dating back to my baptism, I kept her well hidden in a drawer. I turned to her in difficult moments, when I wanted advice or comfort, and her light reassured me.

Bringing Erri De Luca’s text to the stage perhaps meant bringing out something that I had within me. Dante’s words about the prayer of Saint Bernard came to mind:

“Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, more humble and exalted than any other creature creatures, fixed goal of eternal plan...”

Interpreting the Madonna was difficult. Was it permissible? I was afraid of what it involved.

I had to give voice, gestures, and thoughts to the most well-known and important female figure in human history. However, we shared a common point: the sphere of motherhood, profound, rich, mysterious, that special duality, that unique dialogue. The birth of a child always remains within, it can make you think and dream for your entire life. This had happened to Mary. This is true for every woman.

I realized I had to dismantle everything. My profession, which I had practiced for years, and in this time portrayed many female figures—ordinary women, tragic figures, heroines—was not enough. To interpret Mary, I had no precedents to rely on. I had to explore new territories, give depth, and color to Jesus’ mother. What language did Mary speak? What tone, where should I place the ‘accent’ for a mysterious and concrete woman, who was great yet earthly, and simple? That is when I thought and felt that I could not limit myself to just Italian, as wonderful as the language of the text was. Mary demanded a special inflection from me, one that was not immediately identifiable. It had to be uniquely hers, yet inclusive of everything. However, I did not dwell on it too long. A Middle Eastern aura emerged, someone told me, which came naturally. After all, this was right; Mary was a Palestinian woman.

When it came to the first time on stage, there were only a few of us at an open rehearsal, and I was afraid. It was just me in front of the audience. A monologue, without music, without interruption, costume, or special effects. Just a stool and a veil, and Mary speaking, recounting, dreaming, fearing, suffering, and hoping. The theme, the content was motherhood, love for her son, the fear of losing him, and then again the joy, the memory, feelings that chase each other and repeat themselves in a deliberately repetitive unfolding. Yet - I discovered - monotony enchants; it envelops the spectator, Mary’s words capture them, make them partake in a mystery. Mary is both real and sacred. Moreover, she is tender, and witty! She is complicit and maternal with Joseph. She is clear-eyed and courageous. For me, every time the monologue begins and the light illuminates the figure on stage, a journey begins, one that brings me closer to her. Every time, I realize that those listening to me - listening to Mary - are following along.

By GALATEA RANZI
Actress. In theater, Galatea Ranzi has been directed over the years by great directors in classical roles, for example, Electra, Gertrude, Antigone, and Mirandolina. In cinema, she made her debut with the Taviani brothers, and was one of the protagonists in Paolo Sorrentino’s “The Great Beauty” and several other successful films.