I might just stay here, in this hall that is not a theatre, watching figures that slip away from any design, on a night for living a different life.

I climb to the first floor of Ravenna's former covered market. I remember this place: until not so many years ago it housed the town centre's fruit and vegetable stalls, decidedly pricey; some time ago it was bought by Coop and turned into a trendy supermarket with little restaurants. In practice, the perfect tourist trap, and for that it also needed a touch of culture washing, with a first floor devoted to elusive events. The noise of the restaurants below seeps into the upper level, where tables and armchairs are more sparsely arranged, like the lounge of a comedy club. Although it has been prepared, that is, modified and arranged for the performance, this is perhaps the most ‘risky’ space I have seen gruppo nanou take on, in its choreographic landscapes inside disused buildings, in bars and in the foyers of Italian-style theatres, or in museum spaces.
Il frammento finale "In" appartiene alla frase successiva ("In goldroom…"): lo traduco insieme al blocco che segue. In goldroom (Ravenna Festival, 1–7 June) we find ourselves somewhere between the Roadhouse of Twin Peaks, but with performers who seem to come from One Eyed Jack's, lost in repeated danced obsessions, while we spectators are free to move around, change chairs and armchairs, get a drink. The work draws on the atmospheres of The Shining, and in particular on the temperatures of the Overlook Hotel.A spectator sits at a small table with a friend; both wear informal chic white post-beach outfits; she shows off chunky yellow rubber sliders edged in gold and crosses the room to claim two generous gin and tonics. The floor is covered with golden carpets; I stay seated at my table alone, greeting acquaintances and sending smiles, meanwhile getting to know the figures passing close by: there is a tanguero who extends his body as he bends, following the arcs with his arms; there is a girl in knee socks who recalls a college gymnast; a dancer wears puffed breeches, almost a medieval tumbler's costume, and moves in little hops. In the distance, at the far end of the room, there are sofas and small tables, like a more private area, while right above the bar, behind me, a screen shows the same scenes we are watching, but slowed down, disturbed by loops and glitches, images coming from a mysterious recent past. The late-afternoon sun floods the room. I am lifted from my table by the electronic dreams of Tricky and Portishead, the dark rhythms of Joy Division and Siouxsie and the Banshees, the percussive depths of OvO and the inhuman trumpet of Miles Davis. Meanwhile a woman in fishnet stockings and a night coat wanders about, then another who flings her arms out straight (she seems to be the club's owner); we will see her return in a feathered gown, just as the first figure will come back masked (as in Eyes Wide Shut), carrying ultramarine blue drapes. Scenic details that thicken around dances barely set down in the space, on a ridge between pure gesture and narrative.

I have been sitting here for two hours and have watched people come and go: regulars of the city's prestigious festival, casual customers, a few tourists, several industry professionals, friends of the company. I look around and find no centre; evening falls and the lights pick out choreographic fragments: the performers now cluster in the middle of the room and sketch synchronised steps. Solitudes recognise one another, bodies travel along corridors shaped by light, the golden carpet turns into a black stain or a mirror depending on how the light falls. As night descends, it seems to me that the female figures look you in the eye more often.

I might just stay here, in this hall that is not a theatre, watching figures that slip away from any design, on a night for living a different life.