Revisiting Piano

Theatre
Meta Ħatfu lil Piano
MITP

When for a number of reasons, not all of them theatrical, plays in English started drawing the larger audiences and theatre managements spoke openly of “a crisis in Maltese theatre”, one wondered why the local writers shied off exploiting some of the more national conflicting issues.

Divisive events, like Malta’s entry into Europe, and red-hot news stories, like the Presidential pardon given to certain individuals, or the Sant-Mintoff confrontation – all excellent fodder for dramatic development – were ignored and the local producers jostled for the rights to put up foreign works with proven records of “packing them in”. When some brave scribe attempted to break the deadlock, he would inadvertently dip his pen into some comfortable, historical topic, oblivious of the country’s present and future destinies.

Last weekend, the up and coming Zararti Foundation broke a lance for theatre in the vernacular, when it presented Meta Ħatfu lil Piano (When They Kidnapped Piano), a comedy written and directed by the foundation’s resident artistic director, Narcy Calamatta. The evening consisted of a one-acter and a coda.

The chequered history and bland future of the Opera House ruins in Valletta, which dominated the news for the past 12 months, provided the theme of Mr Calamatta’s script. And Renzo Piano, the man reassigned to design the controversial City Gate entrance, in lieu of an international competition, provided the backbone of the plot.

In a rather linear work, the inept Patrick and his lover Barbara, two former theatre studies students, engage the services of a ruffian, characteristically called Johnny Trouble, to literally grab the famed architect as he leaves his car for the airport. He is then dumped into a basement at Castille, right beneath the offices of the Prime Minister.

Patrick keeps on attempting to get his kidnapped victim to sign a declaration, stating that works on the theatre would not proceed until the Maltese public has declared its preferences in a referendum. When the good Italian does not oblige, or rather cannot oblige simply because their dumb hit-man had kidnapped the wrong man, the three characters start tearing each other to pieces. Barbara panics and rushes for help to her uncle, an aged fascist sympathiser, who boasts of good contacts in a country replete with peers who share same convictions. The unexpected climax is reached when the idealistic Patrick, on finding out that his plans have been thwarted, convinces Johnny Trouble to end his life and make it look like suicide.

Jason Vella’s bulky presence coupled with his thunderous voice fitted the loud foul-mouthed, stupid but streetwise, Johnny Trouble. His litany of vulgarities endeared him to the audience who, however, could not empathise in his one dramatic scene where he breaks down after being unexpectedly kissed by Barbara.

David Tucci and Maria Pia Meli, though looking every inch the idealistic young couple they were meant to portray, lacked the vocal timing upon which all comedy thrives. Chris X. Grech commanded attention as the grotesque uncle and Matteo Pipito was credible in his thankless role of the captive wrong man.

At curtain call with the applause still ringing, Erin Stewart Tanti, a young director, requested the audience to remain seated, while he invited Victor Debono, actor and drama teacher and Mark Camilleri, the Realtà editor, to initiate a post-play discussion involving the audience’s participation.

I found this coda both enticing and enhancing, with an audience eager to have its say on issues like censorship, priorities in public spending, standing up for one’s rights, suicide as a heroic act or the coward’s way out, right down to the validity of the play itself.

Theatre sustains itself by a process of cross-fertilisation to which all of its species contribute. A weakness is sooner or later transmitted to the rest of the departments. The local theatre’s weakness is that it lacks true satire. While it churns samples of complacent, self-congratulating and fundamentally inoffensive wit, local theatre has no training-ground, no source for the true satirist to practise his art and polish his weapons. I believe Malta needs its full and corrosive share of satire without the usual hints and nudges that masquerade it in pantomime. Zararti has done well to point the way.