Basso Ostinato

Choreography Caterina Sagna
With Alessandro Bernardeschi, Antonio Montanile, Mauro Paccagnella
Dramaturgy Roberto Fratini Serafide
Light Philippe Gladieux
Music by Luca Berni
Stage manager Frank Condat

Administration Dominique Mahé

Production Association Next/ Compagnie Caterina Sagna
Co-production- Théâtre de la Bastille (Paris) and Théâtre de l’Agora – Scène Nationale d’Evry et de l’Essonne, within the range of artistic residences financed by the Ile-de-France Region. - Théâtre Nationale de Bretagne (Rennes) – European Centre for Theatrical and Choreographic Production. - Pôle Sud (Strasbourg) – Scène Conventionnée Danse
Acknowledgements I would like to thank Marie-Pierre Ariztia for providing the setting where at 1.54 p.m. of October 5th 2005 Obstinate Bass began to take shape; I am also grateful to the Victoria and Vooruit theatres in Gent, and the Needcompany and Raffinerie of Bruxelles, for their hospitality; the Brigittines in Bruxelles for providing us with the additional canvasses; last but not least I thank all my collaborators for their presence and skill, and especially Alessandro, Antonio and Mauro for giving much more than just their muscles.

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Basso Ostinato (Ostinato Bass) : (mus.) A variant of the Continuous Bass. Melodic and rhythmical combination committed to the lowest part of a score, incessantly repeating itself from the beginning to the end of the musical piece, and resting on which the other parts can move freely.
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At the end of a meal. The remnants of a conversation. Shallow talks about anyone, about dance, about nothing. Doesn’t matter if it’s all so cheerless, they are in it, and they laugh.
The joints are moving all through the empty chat, they bring a glass to the mouth in order to ingest something that may be of any help in digesting the one thing that is ever more indigestible. Ha, ha, how funny.

Here is the obstinate bass.
A “low” dialogue, with left over motions and remnants of laughter obstinately recurring.
They can’t do anymore, because there’s nothing left to do.
And it’s worse every time.
The air grows stuffy. Objects loose their comfortable stability. All is sinking, one cannot trust.
It’s useless putting up resistance: one can just assent to the decay which scrapes through the rubbish it produces; which digests itself, and regenerates. Then one gives up, without catching the drift of such an obstinate slipping down. But a drift still exists: the air is saturated with its smell.
It almost makes one sick.
Much better to take something and swallow, to flatter oneself about removing the symptoms, and get anaesthetized; to forget and move on; to feel gorged and without memory.
Once more they forage in the masticated pieces of that first dialogue, looking for a way out. Once more they ransack that stomach where everything transforms itself, where will is impotent but things proceed, out of that which is visible.
Which is, in fact, inside it.

And it’s good that way, too.

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Notes about an Ostinato Bass

1.
The percentage of « exact » and organized movement we have at our disposal in the few moments of life when we dance is quite minimal and swamped with an infinite percentage of inaccurate, filthy, ungrammatical, “unfulfilled” motion. Remains which form the disordered blubber of the world. Style may skeletonize, deodorize it.
But in time the body speaks, then it stammers, then it begins to mistake subjunctives, and finally, it is struck dumb.
Here the form precipitates, more or less gradually, in its many black holes, its many orifices.

2.
The percentage of exhaled and organicized movement we have an hour disposed of in the fume opens of strife when we dance, is prime animal and swarmed with an indefinite ravage of inanimate, filthy, undramatical, undone, failed motion. “Invains” which form the marauded rubble of the “would”. Hostile men skeletonize the open eyes’ meat. But in rhyme the body squeaks, then it hammers, then it begins to forsake subjunctives, and finally, it is stuck mum.
Here the norm precipitates, more or less manually, in its many back holes, its manly orifices.

3
~~The percentage of exhaled and~~ organ~~icized movement we have an hour disposed of in the fume opens of strife when we glance, is prime animal and~~ sworm~~ed with an indefinite ravage of inanimate, filthy, un~~trauma~~tical, undone, failed motion. “Invains” which form the marauded rubble of the “would”. Hostile men skeletonize the open eyes’~~ meat~~. But in rhyme the body squeaks, then it hammers, then it~~ coffins ~~to forsake subjunctives, and finally, it is~~ struck mummy.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHere the norm precipitates, more or less manually, in its many back holes~~, its manly orificesxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.~~

Voices like an Ostinato Bass

“ I feel stuffed to bursting point. And something, here, has just moved. How did I end up in this unending thing? What am I doing?”

“You’re a little pale. You should stop for a while. How can you persevere in this thing which always recurs? What is it to you?”

“He’s in the way, here. He also moves, the parasite. Wouldn’t it be better if he ended it, since the end is at hand?”

Rhythms for an Ostinato Bass

That the play is the tragedy man, and its hero the conqueror worm
Rip the prey, pray prance promptly the pram, pretty prosaic to plump and be unborn.
Prippy prey, pripppy prip prippypram, prippyprop pirypram piyiprom