I know I'm late, very late, in trying to say something new about the theater company La Calòrica and its highly celebrated show De què parlem quan no parlem d'aquesta merda. I accept the penance and, at least, I will spare the reader the umpteenth praise of this hit of our scene based on wordplay and jokes derived from its title. Let's get to the point. The primary success of this show by the Calòrics is its own survival and the fact (almost unprecedented in our corner of the world, but normal in the Anglo-Saxon theater universe) that a text born within a public institution like the TNC extends its existence into the private universe. I am about to write one of the adjectives ancestrally forbidden in our culture: yes, this De què parlem is a magnificent example of commercial theater (!!!), certifying that a reflective text and a quality production can be plotted with box office success.
For too many decades, supposedly highbrow theater has mocked the public success of a play, equating its massive reception with a necessary banality. The prejudice is fraudulent and is certified by the fact that our homegrown public theater too often forces us to swallow monumental duds disguised as supposed philosophical depth. I am glad that companies of tender maturity like La Calòrica (twelve years of work behind them) demonstrate that our culture's addiction to arte povera is terrible; its members would do well to normalize their success as a symptom of mental health. Let's say it again, because in Catalonia the most basic things must be remembered: that a company is welcomed by the public is excellent news, first because we are totally in favor of people earning a lot of money with their work, and then because money will enable its members to take even more risks.
Of banality, not at all; because with this De què parlem the tandem Joan Yago (author) and Israel Solà (director) make it clear that one can leave a theater with three or four opportune reflections after having had a great time. This play by La Calòrica is an example of pièce bien fait (with touches of sensationalism and often prototypical interpretations that err on the side of vaudevillian affectation; yes and absolutely yes!); but it must also be remembered that doing things well is incredibly difficult and that provoking a solid laugh is within the reach of very few artists. Theater reviewers have highlighted the affiliation of the "calóricos" with companies like Els Joglars, and this is true regarding the satirical catharsis around catalanor; but I would say that La Calórica produces theater of great depth because, Boadella aside, its members are not alien to the Rusiñol chromosome that survives in the sad and scatological humor of the Capri school.
With this De què parlem the tandem Joan Yago (author) and Israel Solà (director) make it clear that one can leave a theater with three or four opportune reflections after having had a great timeThis rootedness in the country's theatrical culture means that iconic scenes from the play, such as the neighbors' meeting or the pannel of absurd pundits (as an example of the profession, I enthusiastically applaud the very real caricature of this unfortunate trade) go from what could be a simple gag of Poland to a display of excellent theater. There are also state-of-the-art structures from an impeccable group of actors (with the guest star Mònica López, who extracts oil from a climate denier whom you would end up embracing with compassion). I wouldn't want to produce any schism or conflict of jealousy among all the interpreters, but Julia Truyol's thing is out of this world. I had already seen her pull off with potatoes a series of actors with more curriculum than her in the last (and dispensable) Uncle Vanya of the Lliure; now I state that this craft on a stage can only be the fruit of a celestial gift.
I add a final detail that, unfortunately, should not be news. The actors of La Calòrica perform in Catalan (not in "catañol") and play with the richness of accents of our language with a naturalness on the verge of extinction. The performance this past Thursday was full of people who left the theater happy while reflecting on one of the great problems of our world, and without having to endure a paternalistic lecture. I repeat and insist. Very much in favor of full theaters, of companies that make money and of successful people. In a few years, the actors of La Calòrica will remember their small rehearsal room (and the Duchampian toilet that served as their springboard) with great affection and will do so devoutly. I will celebrate that they do it in a farmhouse in Empordà that they will have been able to afford with the sweat of their brow and the undeniable triumph of their theater. At home, we will always be friends of the success of that success.
Still a postscript: if there is anyone left with a minimal neuron in public television, let them run to commission a series from these guys. Coordinates: Teatre Borràs, until January 8. Run and fill it.