An amusing plea for humanity

To tell as many stories as there are members of an audience in a single evening: this is what Nico and the Navigators hope to achieve in their productions. This goal applies equally well to the latest work of this collective, which was formed in 1998 by director Nicola Hümpel and stage designer Oliver Proske. Their reappraisal of important musical works of the past has led them on this occasion to take on Gioachino Rossini's “Petite messe solennelle” and with it they have scored a real success. Running at slightly under two hours long, this long piece of image theatre tackles the theme of religiosity in our time: now, faced with all the wickedness of the world and caught as we are in the grip of a highly rigid late-stage capitalism, can we still trust the naïve words of the mass texts, or even believe them at all? Even Rossini, more of a scoffer than a sanctimonious old windbag, experienced doubts in 1863, upon completion of the commissioned opus. Does he not in one of his letters appeal to God for forgiveness for his placatory little mass? Nico und Co. play upon this distance the composer maintains from his own work. The piece remains true to Rossini's work, but nonetheless adds a countertenor, a dancer and actors, who express what is latent within the music and bound to appeal more to today's listeners. As a result the work is swept up in an overarching whole that is full of questions, uncertainty and doubt. Proske has created a white arch that curls across the stage of the Radialsystem, and in it he has concealed an ingenious and serviceable staircase. Right from the off, we can ascend. A man in a pale suit is talking to a barefoot penitent in a hood; he wants to know what is behind the door and whether it opens. He who wants answers must first listen, counters the hooded man curtly. The grand pianos are brought on, people appear, filling the stage with colour, the Kyrie begins, and also a dancer in red, possibly the devil, gets in on the mix. She is listening to her own music; whoever puts her headphones on immediately falls into raptures. The first disjunct. The devil sits amid the believers, one brushes the sublime phantom off and crushes the flowers given to him. It's not as if all questions have answers, reasons the penitent; but Benedikt senses the nothingness lying amid the galaxies. The devil actually opens an enormous door, mist billows out, the soprano sings like a mechanical doll, briefly tilts over. The devil directs each person into the right misty gangway. The penitent now gets it: he doesn't love people, he has lied, he asks Benedikt whether he would give up his seat for a pregnant woman on the bus. Words fail him, but that is not all; as the Agnus Dei is sung he is recognised as being guilty for all suffering and thrown to the ground. “If you have any questions” the penitent calls out to him from up high in the hall. This striking image puts a mischievous end to Rossini's mass and the discussion about religion. As expected, all questions remain open. Which is part of what makes the evening so exhilarating. Add to that the fine singing of the entire ensemble and a plea for humanity that is as witty as it is contemplative and you find yourself totally won over.

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