The rooms, like gruppo nanou’s motels (in their time), reek fearfully of an otherworld that has already reached our streets.

gruppo nanou returns to the festival with its new work goldroom, once again set in the sala Oceano Indiano. As in the previous redrum, which took shape as a journey through inhabitational and gestural dispossessions inside the conceptual "container" named Overlook Hotel, which so strongly recalls their own past articulations around the Motel, the form is immersive and the wide field (cinematic rather than political) of vision settles a spatial architrave within the prismatic frame of a stage space unfolding on the diagonal, a place for those who watch and where the actions unfold simultaneously; actions driven by a sthenia, an effortless casualness of doing, a self-display in the solipsism of small dances, choreographic gambles contradicted right after — counterpoints of movement, after all, windows onto the dark, ghostly memories of Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, the true core business of the operation, which returns after redrum in what is perhaps its less consolatory version.

The mechanism is identical in that obsession with repetition, with fraying the gears, with layering and then dismantling the time of the now, there with us, trying to decipher (visually) its time regained (may Proust forgive me) in all that available atmosphere (the running time of the piece is hardly incidental — indeed, it plays its cards), full of cinematic nightmares and perceptual deviations, adding to them, inevitably, our own personal projections. Which "flood" with cultural and emotional memories in the flow of a definitively motionless time, though there are no pauses in the performers' entrances and exits, compressed as we are by live-reproduced images and by weaves of shifts, small dances and installational drifts organized by a musical coloring, this too with live openings. Everything happens within arm's reach of us guests, the corridor has its small sofas, its "rooms" of resistential traceability (with respect to the duration), and everything flows, deflagrates among the shadows (the shadows return — something that does not merely stay there but seeps into a part of our memory, as in Alessandra Cristiani's work: shadows, ghosts, echoes of an elsewhere).

The other face of redrum is also the succession of garments, the walking that coils up a haute couture archive; it is the stress of an urban spatial architecture that encysts a catwalk onto a tearoom, a slit through which to peer. It is the harsh picture of a time without a future. The rooms, like gruppo nanou's motels (in their time), reek fearfully of an otherworld that has already reached our streets.