I experience few greater satisfactions than the specific moment of witnessing a friend achieve artistic maturity. This happened last Tuesday, as darkness fell inside the tiny room of the Heartbreak Hotel theater, commanded by Àlex Rigola, and the last words of Sis hectàrees d'oliveres, the play by my dear theater lady Aina Tur, still resonated: "Un rossinyol batega les ales. S'atura. I canta. Les xitxarres l'acompanyen. Les merles ploren. I les cendres. S'encelen. Emportant-s'ho tot" (A nightingale beats its wings. It stops. And sings. The cicadas accompany it. The blackbirds cry. And the ashes. They rise. Taking everything with them). Two cousins meet after a more than traumatic seven-year separation. She harbors much aggression and contempt within her soul and has decided to avenge them by burning the childhood landscape she had shared with him: the boy, unable to assume the family silences, listens to her upset while the two attempt the impossible mission of making peace. They become children again. They grow into adults. Fire is latency and purification.
In the hands of an attention-seeking and socio-convergent playwright, this story could have become an ideological bore or an unbearable sensationalist vomit. But Aina has given herself an excellent text; the metaphor of the olive trees and their heart of threads works perfectly, the dialogue between what is said and what is secretly thought flows like silk, and the text, when it could be sweetened seeking easy tears, goes directly towards containment in a strictly Central European way. Very good, my dear; it is clear that, before picking up the pen, you had the delicacy to read a lot, which should be the general rule among writers. I, as I told you, would polish some expressions in our language (certain quelcoms and so on) that do not fit well in the conversation between two family members. But nothing, nonsense, because you have given birth to a fantastic work with an exemplary command of Catalan. Great joy, beloved Aina.
The author also wanted to direct her piece and find the best artistic team to defend it. In a room as small as the Heartbreak, few flourishes can be made (and I celebrate it, because that way, who knows if we will once again pay attention to words, the primordial root of theater); however, the beautiful model designed by Marc Salicrú works very well when it comes to presenting the landscape as another character in the plot, and its dense smoke is fantastic for framing the protagonists' dialogue. What two actors, indeed! At home, we are convinced alarconistas, as there are few actresses who can become dictators of the scene with their mere presence. I would only suggest, at the risk of being a perepunyetes, that our actress moderate the intensity—from piano to forte, to understand each other—and that she begin the text's journey even more emulating the little girl she once was. It is a matter of nuance, but the play needs it.
Nao Albet's performance deserves a separate article. This humble servant had enjoyed our actor's work—and excellent singer, by the way—in shows, let's say, more expansive and raw. But what he displays in this play, with a stunning containment and regurgitation of words, is a top-tier performance that literally left me stunned. For some time now, I confess, I have suffered a certain friendly divorce from theater, because I am tired of ideological paternalism and the tiresome speeches we already hear at the rallies of our apprentice politicians. But Albet's acting work has reconciled me with this art, as it is not easy to face Anna Alarcón and hold your own against her in this way. The transition from naive infantilism and a complete lack of self-knowledge to the acceptance of past pain that this performer pulls off is truly remarkable. It doesn't matter what I tell him, he can be more than proud.
So too can the author of the whole affair. I can only tell the reader to please make the trip to the periphery of the Heartbreak, because Sis hectàrees d'oliveres ends its run next July 28. I am very happy, Aina, dear friend. And lately, it doesn't happen to me very often, because I would burn everything down.