Sign language—not "language," a friend who studied the theatrical repertoire of the French deaf community corrected me, but "tongue"—has a performative dimension still largely unexplored, yet already intuited by those in the arts with the most sensitive antennae in the second half of the twentieth century. The translation of Gershwin's "The Man I Love," performed in the celebrated Nelken (Carnations) choreography through an essential, haunting score of ideograms drawn in space by hand movements that progressively infects all the dancers onstage in a dizzying, choreographed embrace, has become a classic of the genre.
And indeed, what might have seemed a choreographed flash mob were the many spectators from the deaf community who filled the lobby of the Teatro Nazionale and the nearby bars on via del Viminale and via Depretis on a bitterly cold December Sunday afternoon. They were discussing animatedly among themselves with the cheerful urgency of those expecting a long-anticipated show, waiting for the final Roman performance of Peter Stein and Maddalena Crippa's Richard II. For this occasion, it was translated into sign language by two interpreters positioned at the side of the stage.
Maddalena Crippa onstage is a credible, resolute Richard with brusque and haughty manners. And with determination—assertively but not rudely—she asked the sign language interpreters to move back from the spot the technicians had assigned them, which was too close to the actors.
It may seem odd that an intervention from one of the performers was necessary during the performance, but one must remember that a theatrical show follows different rules than a film screening. There are living people onstage interacting through a complicated system of reference points rehearsed carefully beforehand. If the lights change or objects are moved, they become disruptive elements—like a musician trying to play with constant noise near their ear.
Yet strangely, after the first intermission the two sign language interpreters did not return. Richard II/Maddalena Crippa's request may have been expressed somewhat energetically, but in this writer's judgment, it is more serious to leave in order to signal one's displeasure after a real or perceived offense, depriving paying spectators of the chance to enjoy the rest of the performance.
The next day, the president and director of the Teatro di Roma condemned the gesture, surprised by what they called "disrespectful conduct" from an actress who "prides herself on her talent and a long career." Crippa replied immediately on Facebook.
"The Teatro Argentina cannot take initiatives of this kind without first obtaining consent from the guest productions and its artists. I was informed only this morning of the presence of simultaneous interpreters and immediately called the theater's management. I was assured the initiative would not disturb the show because they would be positioned to the side of the stage. But once the performance began, the interpreters were not only on our same stage but much further forward than us, completely lit so they fell entirely within our field of vision. My work requires deadly concentration, and for the sake of all the audience I cannot accept that this be compromised in any way. (…) If the matter had been organized with proper care, perhaps we could have done a rehearsal and found the right placement.(…)"
These are difficulties that seem surmountable if one is willing to dialogue about the substance of things, without stopping (on either side) at an immediate reactivity that leaves no room for collaboration respecting everyone's needs. What grieves most is that people often choose the shortcut of dispute. Playing the offended party is ultimately easier—it ends the matter, denies the other side any right of reply. An "easy" and instinctive choice, but one that, in this case, deprived most of the spectators in the hall of a performance explicitly and genuinely dedicated to them.
Giulia Guidi, 2018