Ibsen Scholarship winner 2012, Trindade Theatre and Cristina Carvalhal from Lisbon, Portugal premiers on July 4th with i.b.s.e.n.
The performance runs to July 16th and is a part of the Almada Theatre Festival.

Co-production Ibsen Awards, Teatro da Trindade/Fundação Inatel, and Causas Comuns.

Nora just left her home. One hears a door closing. She left her husband. One hears a door closing. Her children. One hears a door closing. And the maid. One hears a door closing. And her belongings. One hears a door closing. And the roof. One hears a door closing. Nora is in the fresh air. Ah, the air that hasn’t yet been breathed is so healthy. If she doesn’t breathe the air not yet breathed, who will? There are important things to be done. Yet, Nora is hungry. Fourteen Norwegian crowns in her pocket. Not a cent more.

Artistic Credits
Author: Miguel Castro Caldas
Director: Cristina Carvalhal
Scenic and Costume desgin: Ana Vaz
Props: Stéphane Alberto
Lighting Design: José Álvaro Correia
Sound Design: Sérgio Delgado
Movement: David dos Santos
Photography: Susana Paiva
Executive Production: Mafalda Gouveia

Cast: André Levy, David dos Santos, Inês Rosado,João Lagarto, Luis Gaspar, Manuela Couto, Sara Carinhas, Sílvia Filipe, Stephanie Silva and Berta Bustorff, Carlos Colaço, Carmo Gelpi, Dora Martinez Pinto, Erica Rodrigues, Irene Sofia Vaz, Maria Angelina Mateus, Maria Helena Falé, Marisa Costa, Miguel Brinca, Miguel Viegas, Rita Pascácio, Sandra Cristina Chambel, Xavier Faria Lopes.

From the Director:

This show is only possible, in this country, in this moment in which everything is slowing down and is near paralysis, because of the Ibsen Awards in Norway, na institution of a country that chose culture, the theatre, and XXth century playwright as a form of affirmation in the world.
On his last twelve prose plays, Henrik Ibsen states: “Only understanding all by production as a coherent and continuous whole will the reader be able to obtain the exact impression I tried to transmit in each and every one of its individual parts”.
The idea for this project arose from this statement. Ibsen’s imagination in explored crossing themes, images and characters from different plays, considering some of the issue that are most dear to him and that, although atemporal and universal, assume particular relevance in the context of a Portuguese society already denominated post-democratic.
The text, an original by Miguel Castro Caldas, finished during the rehearsal process together with the actors, visits the following Ibsen plays A Doll's House, Ghosts, An Enemy of the People, The Wild Duck, The Lady from the Sea, The Master Builder,  John Gabriel Borkman, and When We Dead Awaken.
The  cast also includes a group of non-professional actors who participated in a theatrical workshop aimed at members of the Inatel Foundation We wanted to open our doors to other voices, to relay how we work, to reach out to those for whom we perform, to create small networks believing they will continue autonomously, after “this”, in some fashion.
“And, if we take action, even though our acts may seem insignificant, we won't have to wait for an utopian future. The future is a infinite succession of present moments, and living in the present in the manner we find most correct, challenging all the evil that surrounds us, is in itself a marvellous victory”. (Howard Zinn in You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train).

Cristina Carvalhal
June 2013


From the Author:

Dear spectator: All of Ibsen needs translating, We should not forget that all of Ibsen's plays are always translations. There is no “original” text. In fact, even the Norwegian language, the so-called official national language only after the 1905 independence, is markedly different from the language in which Ibsen wrote. (…) Translating a text is the first step towards appropriating Ibsen.1 It is equivalent, therefore, in the beginning of the  Xxth century to a XVIth century Gil Vicente, or a Vth century BC Greek classic. But doesn't every text need translating? As if we only had at our disposal the fragments of a language, that did not exist even in Babel. That is, this language at our disposal is always that Norwegian we do not know and made ours, and it is ours, and it is the only we have, yes, I have but one language, and it is not mine.2 But translating is not communicating. Just as the part of a poem that communicates is not the most important part. It is beyond communication. For that one need to poet. What does a poem “say”? What does it communicate? Very little for those that understand it. What is  essential – that is, something unessential. That is a identifying sign of bad translations. Is not what exists in a poem beyond communication – and even a bad translator admits that it is essential – the inapprehensible, the mysterious, the “poetic”? That which the translator can only reinstitute by also writing poetry?3 And in this case, not with a specific Ibsen work, but with Ibsen's language. What we did was write in Ibsen's language, the one that is not Norwegian. To write not as a Ibsen topographer, registering his curves and elevations, but as one who uses a language to say things for which that language was not made for. As if Ibsen's language were the only language, which as performance of all language is neither reactionary nor progressive; it is purely fascist; because fascism is not impeding us to say, but forcing us to say.4 Such  that it compels us to cheat with the language, to trick the language.5 And this way, and no other, we can think and write with this Ibsen language that becomes part of us, that becomes the only language we have but which is not our own. And this is what the dear spectator will see: the problems raised with Ibsen's language. It all begins with Nora, who has just left her home and has to solve how to get to this our-of-home, and new place but that existed before her. What does she need to do? Think she needs to adapt, ask the place to receive her, or think that places are never finished and that, precisely, always-being-made-by-those-that-are-there is what gives the illusion of being made? I don't know how Nora reacts to this, but the Erin Manning's texts on dance were inspiring as a tool of translation of Ibsen's language to this other one that we all need to discover. We can think of movement in at least two ways. 1. I enter a room and see that the room already existed before me. I cross the room, drawing an imaginary line that cuts through the space. 2. My movement creates the space that I will learn as “the room”.6 Erin Manning clearly opts for the second way, the body in itself does not exist because the body is always more that “itself”, it is always becoming what it is not yet.7 It is this grey zone that is in the intervals of everything, between legality and illegality, between pages, between train cars, between rooms, between languages, between the said and unspoken. The initial act may be ambiguous: this is how things begin in the grey zone. An unforeseen opportunity arises by itself: a fire; a partner expelled from the room; gossip; the discovery of papers lost by a rival. Accidents. But accidents that repeat themselves so often that they become the structural, occult basis of modern life. The initial event was singular, unrepeatable; the lie last for years or decades; it becomes “alive”. That is probably why there are no keywords here: just as some banks of too big to fail, the grey zone is too broad to be recognised; it casts a dark shadow over the value that is the bourgeoisie’s justification faced with the world: honesty.8 Then there is the problem of mountains whose existence in the scenery allows us to always say that they will resolve all existential problems: always off-scene. Or because someone leaves, or jumps, or falls and dies. And I should say no more, or have already said more than I should have, and would have said nothing at all were it not for this thing of asking, for the sake of information, of the author that they speak of what they've done and the references that led to it. I wish you have an agreeable experience.

Miguel Castro Caldas
June 2013

PHOTO: @Susana Paiva