{"id":232,"date":"2026-06-10T09:00:14","date_gmt":"2026-06-10T07:00:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/blog.robertoalonge.it\/2026\/02\/07\/farewell-to-il-castello-di-elsinore\/"},"modified":"2026-06-11T11:36:48","modified_gmt":"2026-06-11T09:36:48","slug":"farewell-to-il-castello-di-elsinore","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.robertoalonge.it\/en\/2026\/06\/10\/farewell-to-il-castello-di-elsinore\/","title":{"rendered":"Farewell to “Il castello di Elsinore”"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n

I find myself obliged to argue more fully why the devil, after 38 years of honoured service, during which 92 issues came out, a first-tier journal, “Il Castello di Elsinore”, founded in 1988, has been unexpectedly abandoned even by the last of its six founders. I would say, in the first instance, because a cycle has come to a close. I am glad to have been part of a generation that had Masters, ones moreover endowed with visions<\/i>. <\/span>At the origin of the theatrical discipline \u2013 between the Sixties and Seventies of the twentieth century <\/span>\u2013 there were Italianists and French scholars of worth (Apollonio Caretti Getto Macchia), as well as a few Art historians. In Turin it was Getto who invited Gianfranco De Bosio, then Director of the Teatro Stabile of Turin, <\/span>to hold a seminar on Alfieri for some of his graduating students, among them Tessari and myself (and it was De Bosio who later drew in Alvise Zorzi, to have us continue our apprenticeship). At the beginning the gamble seemed fascinating, for the young people who abandoned their native lands, the territories <\/span>of Literatures or of the History of Art, <\/span>setting off in march toward the unknown lands, beyond the frontier. Some, in truth, may perhaps have been driven out<\/i>, with a kick in the rear, <\/span>by demanding or somewhat too tyrannical Masters, just to get rid of them, the little donkeys and the tiresome conceited ones, but there was no lack of the brave, the restless, somewhat adventurous and somewhat rebellious, in relation <\/span>to a certain grey and even slightly prudish cultural conformism. <\/span>A generation, ours, <\/span>militant<\/i>, that is to say protesting, <\/span>quite belligerent, as was inevitable, all of us descending along the branches from the whirling tree of ’68. The most ambitious (who were also the most talented) perceived themselves as colonists eager to break with the mother-country, anxious to arrive soon at defining an identity for the new discipline, autonomous from the Masters who had dispatched them to colonize an unknown territory. The History of Theatre<\/i> could not be a new way of saying an old thing, of rebaptizing those poor little subjects that had always sat in all the literary departments of the pre-’68 University, Italian theatrical Literature<\/i> or French<\/i> or English<\/i> or German <\/i>and so on and so forth. <\/i>And so it was, not History of theatre<\/i> but History of Spectacle<\/i>. A pity that, in the haste<\/i> to conclude the matter, as sometimes happens, the baby was thrown out with the bathwater. In examining the substantial scholarly output of the last thirty years of the twentieth century \u2013 moreover on average of a high level \u2013 it is easy to ascertain how dominant, almost obsessive, is the inquiry into the actor’s art, or into any other segment of that manifold jumble that is spectacle, provided it was not the hateful dramaturgy<\/i>. If then, instead, in place <\/span>of the noble spectacle,<\/i> one really had to name the execrable word \u2013 theatre<\/i> \u2013 the only authorization in force was to speak of the Material History of theatre<\/i>, that is, of the infinite problems of organizing the spectacular event, including the perfumes sprayed in abundance to attenuate \u2013 as a delightful chronicle of the time reads \u2013 “tal puza de tampho et de pisso del tanto pissare che haveno fatto quelle donne”, that is, the female spectators of the stagings of the Renaissance festa<\/i> commissioned by the Prince, forced \u2013 the poor things \u2013 to micturate right where they were, immobilized on the tiers, because unable to reach the urinals on account of the multitude of the public! Even the heretical<\/i> minority of the teachers of the ’68 generation, despite their literary origins, since they were largely pupils of great Masters of Italian studies like Getto or Caretti, <\/span>inserts itself <\/span>\u2013 <\/span>in an occasional manner or in a more constant mode \u2013 into the collective drive toward the change of pace<\/i>, producing moreover highly original scholarly works of great rigour: I think of the inquiries of Tessari and Ferrone around the Commedia dell’Arte, of Artioli’s research on Artaud and Carmelo Bene, <\/span>of the long excavation that Marzia Pieri devoted to sixteenth-century spectacle, reread as one tessera<\/i>, not even the most important, of an overall totality, behind which stands the civilization of conversation<\/i>, present both in private festivity and in the associative <\/span>customs of academies and confraternities. Naturally much more impassioned, almost lacerating, to the point of bordering on accents of fanaticism, was the adherence to the actor’s work (principally contemporary, but not only, to be honest) of those whom the castellans<\/i> called the millers<\/i>, because tied to the publishing house Il Mulino, <\/span>who <\/span>obviously had their capital in the Bologna DAMS, for a long time the only DAMS existing in Italy, object of the cravings and the envies of all those who did not have one\u2026 For a quarter of a century they did battle \u2013 castellans<\/i> and millers<\/i> \u2013 and there is no doubt that what I have said so far is enough to make clear that the winners were the latter, who waved the more glittering standards, relatively few in number, but compact and cohesive in their gleaming Teutonic-knight armour, garrisoning the entrenched north-eastern front, along the Grotowski-Barba line.<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

\"cavalieri<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

And yet I ask myself \u2013 somewhat confused and stunned, with one foot in the grave (but as a tenacious claustrophobic I prefer to say on the edge of the crematorium oven<\/i>), whether the uncertainty in which our scientific community visibly finds itself is not precisely the result of that triumph, which proved in the end, in fact, a sort of Pyrrhic victory. Because it seems hard to me to deny that the perception of history is being lost: there are young people who sometimes write of events that happened today or at most yesterday morning, and those dating back even merely to the Nineties of the twentieth century appear to them archaeological antiques, and the word dramaturgy<\/i> a kind of blasphemy\u2026<\/p>\r\n

And so \u2013 to come back to the point \u2013 I say that I originally thought I would have to <\/span>accompany \u2013 <\/span>the journal surnamed <\/span>“Il castello di Elsinore” \u2013 <\/span>as when I took to my colleague at the Faculty of Veterinary Medicine my little cat named Ibsen, too old to have to suffer any longer, but somehow, at the last \u2013 perhaps seduced by proposals and avances<\/i> arriving from many quarters, perhaps also through the good offices of the cunning co-director\u2026 \u2013 the unfortunate one answered, slipping <\/span>out of my hands, as if she were one of the six Pirandellian characters, obstinate in their wish to display themselves on the stage, fleeing far <\/span>far away\u2026<\/p>\r\n

Indeed, but how far, where to, had she fled, the mischievous journal? Surprisingly arrived all the way to Bologna: precisely the capital of our enemies<\/i>, which had curiously opened its doors to the firstborn pupil of the first knight of the Castle<\/i>, to enthrone her on the regal seat that had been the Sire of the millers<\/i>‘: thus reconfirming that, truly, they had won it, inexorably, the Thirty Years’ War\u2026 Yes, because I remember well how the great Claudio, Lord of Bologna, spoke of non-verbal languages<\/i>, which for him were the essence of DAMS, so that he would certainly have liked the path of Elena Randi, who \u2013 <\/span>it seems to me, but I may also err\u2026 \u2013 has long since <\/span>abandoned the studies on dramaturgy and on directing, favourite daughter of dramaturgy<\/i>, to devote herself exclusively to dance, voil\u00e0<\/i>, precisely non-verbal language, <\/i>dance\u2026<\/p>\r\n

And so, before this little picture of mine \u2013 <\/span>not idyllic but serene in its final conclusions, pacified by the force of inexorable reality \u2013 I cannot hide <\/span>my astonishment at the reaction \u2013 disproportionate in any case, and at least to me incomprehensible \u2013 of Mirella Schino, in the face of our Notes of farewell<\/i> in the last issue, which came out punctually in June 2025: what the devil did we permit ourselves to say, we, poor little plague-spreaders, directors of the publication? In her barely 17 lines Perrelli <\/span>noted how the ownership of the same was passing to the Department of the Arts of the University of Bologna, observing at the same time that “the disciplinary sector has a cogent need for history and depth of research and historical practices”. Just below the 17 Perrellian ones, only 8 Alongian lines, which I reproduce in full:<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

\u2026 because <\/i>a castle is a castle, an enclosed space in which one defends oneself from assailants, because <\/i>all the assailants have vanished, because <\/i>even Umberto and Tex, defenders of great worth, have gone off I know not where, because <\/i>Siro and Silvana I have not been able to hear from for some time, not even by telephone, because <\/i>Claudio, my fellow student of half a century ago \u2013 son of a colonel <\/i>whom the son of a marshal <\/i>regarded with respect and even with timidity \u2013 I must have seen him, yes, certainly I saw him, more than twenty years ago, but I did not recognize him, because <\/i>there are no more flags that wave and all is miasma, because <\/i>the rest is silence…<\/p>\r\n<\/blockquote>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

\"duello\"<\/p>\r\n

 <\/p>\r\n

I would have spared myself the tedium of this punctilious little chat of mine (and all the more <\/span>the narcissistic emphasis of self-quotation) were it not that Mirella Schino \u2013 in the latest issue of the journal “Teatro e Storia”, 46\/2025, pp. 10-11 \u2013 saw fit to do me the honour of constructing a whole discourse of her own, precisely starting <\/span>from my brief poetic flourish<\/i> (perhaps a bit enigmatic, <\/i>I admit, <\/i>for the young people of the scientific community), very badly interpreted by her, although clearly <\/span>introduced by the refined prose of the ever amiable and penetrating Perrelli (“Roberto Alonge’s point of view \u2013 founder of the journal \u2013 is, in this context, inevitably more involved and personal, and recalls above all the desertification over the years of the nucleus that launched the publication, due also to the deaths or to the common loosening of relations in the flow of life”). An innocuous senile lamentatio<\/i>, in short, <\/span>excusable in a melancholy <\/span>old retired professor of a good 83 years, who continued to teach, in the capacity of adjunct professor<\/i>, for 1,400 euros a year, that is 100 euros a month, until his 80s. Mirella herself moreover seemed <\/span>to share it, beginning her piece with words of human understanding:<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

On taking his leave, its founder, Roberto Alonge, wrote a brief message. I believe in respect for older scholars; to follow what they say is a duty; I read it with particular attention. It is a few lines, they seem to me very bitter, I reproduce them: [\u2026] The grief for the loss of so many friends, and even of so many enemies, is touching, it is a feeling that sooner or later involves everyone. But it is a strange message, with which to close a phase in the life of a journal; the regret for times gone by merges with contempt for the present times.<\/p>\r\n<\/blockquote>\r\n

Goodness, all at once “respect” for the poor old (scholars) hoary and weary, and even “a duty” to “follow what they say”, but then\u2026 but then the fatal adversative clicks into place, the But<\/i> at the start of the last quoted sentence, and at that point the urge to come to blows is irrepressible, and so “impetuous, irresistible whirlwind” \u2013 the Alfieri of Saul<\/i> would say \u2013 “uproots, hurls to the ground, crushes, annihilates”.<\/p>\r\n

From what, however, does she infer \u2013 our fair warrior \u2013 that the “message” of my succinct little note is “contempt for the present times”? My meagre 8 lines \u2013 framed by 7 <\/span>becauses<\/i>, homage to Umberto Artioli obsessed with numerology and with the fascination of auspicious figures \u2013 aspired, with no great ambition, to the lightness of the aura<\/i>, at most to some literary reference, for example to the miasma<\/i> of Greek tragedies\u2026 How to deduce from it the crude and brutal “contempt for the present times”, that is \u2013 if I translate correctly \u2013 a pitiless judgment on the quality of the studies of the young members of the current scientific community? The only explanatory handhold \u2013 on careful reflection \u2013 may lie in a round parenthesis in which Mirella distributes a more courteous cudgel-blow to the co-director as well, writing thus: <\/span>“(it seems to me reiterated [contempt for the present times<\/i>] <\/span>also by the other farewell message, by Franco Perrelli, more sober)”. Alas, it seems to me that <\/span>Mirella interprets too severely <\/span>the Perrellian\/Foscolian exhortation to <\/span>young scholars <\/span>to return to history, but in any case Perrelli and myself are not interchangeable, and above all we use different linguistic registers, which must be grasped for what they are, by whoever is capable of grasping them, of course: otherwise, better to keep silent. Words have a weight; miasma<\/i> is too strong, violent a term, it cannot be the equivalent of Perrelli’s presumed negative judgment. Certainly, I do not deny that, leafing through the contributions appearing in the “Castello” over the last decade, a dejection took hold of me, <\/span>at essays often folded back on itsy-bitsy little topics, tiny as postage stamps, of scarce interest, except for the navel of their authors. And yet with time everything that is born degrades, we know it, decadence is inevitable, the civilization of the West is decaying too, surely the part located on this side of the Atlantic, and in short she ought to have understood \u2013 the excellent Mirella \u2013 that my miasma<\/i> referred to something quite other, to something very grave, properly \u2013 to say it all \u2013 to the obscenity of plagiarism, an intolerable wound in the horizon of scholarship, <\/span>which ought to exalt the search for originality, and not the banal popularization, the flat repetition of what has already been written, and least of all plagiarism. Or can and must I think that the excellent Mirella, in the manner of a candid Snow White, <\/span>has not noticed that recently the air in the home of the guild has grown even more infected, already for years infested <\/span>by the stench of the unspeakable shame? Certainly, in the present days we have news of university professors who scheme to filch, free of charge, computing tools and even household appliances, but more serious \u2013 it seems to me \u2013 is to steal ideas than to steal coins. We are not angels, we all descend from apish bestial ancestors, the hunger for food and that for sex have always pressed upon us, implacable and ferocious needs; university professors too, then, share with all of humanity the temptation of money, even in its extreme form of corruption and theft, but the appropriation of others’ ideas is peculiar and exclusive to the status<\/i> of the scholar, and therefore more infamous. <\/span><\/p>\r\n

There, the real question, if anything, <\/span>which it is too painful to answer, concerns the temporal choice of the unexpected sudden abrupt change of pace: why ever in 2025, and not a year later or a year earlier, the renunciation of continuing the publication? But <\/span>because there is always a day and an hour and a minute, just as to a person \u2013 throughout a life lived throwing the heart beyond the obstacle \u2013 there comes the <\/span>day on which their heart (perhaps because it has loved too much or perhaps for other reasons that history does not tell<\/i>, as Roberto Vecchioni sings) falls and is irreparably dented, and so perhaps it happened to the journal, something too distressing must have befallen it, in that ill-starred Year of Our Lord 2025\u2026<\/p>\r\n

<\/span>And yet I really cannot manage to understand all this rough and aggressive arrogance with which the admirable Mirella thus rereads our little Thirty Years’ War:<\/p>\r\n

\r\n

I imagine this is the reason why I have been left with a quite different impression, which here I would like to add to his. I would say a sensation of frost: rather than battles of ideas I remember academic brawls, of which it was often the youngest who paid the price. In my memory \u2013 perhaps partial or misled \u2013 it was a period in which, more than usual, careers were accelerated or slowed or blocked for reasons extraneous to the quality of the scholars. I remember, and it is not a pleasant memory, obedience in many cliques, or “schools”. Not in mine. [\u2026 ] On the whole, and despite everything, we are in any case in a slightly healthier moment than the resplendent years to which Alonge refers, in which, besides a few intelligences, there triumphed, fortunately not everywhere, the most lethal of systems: the pyramidal conception of academic groups, with a chief who decides and subordinates. I do not know how to say it in a way that is not unbearably rhetorical: let us not be seduced by the past, it is not worth it.<\/p>\r\n<\/blockquote>\r\n

Goodness, goodness, double goodness! But where did she win the post of researcher, the first rung of her deservedly accelerated<\/i> career, the dear, dearest Mirella??? Not in the University of L’Aquila of her Master Nando Taviani, and not even in the Roma III of Ruffini, and least of all in the Bologna DAMS of Meldolesi and Cruciani. None of the Magnificent Four of the Ave Maria managed to promote the first step of her path as a scholar! Her “memory” is neither “partial” nor “misled”, as she hypothesizes; alas, <\/span>it is simply forgetful<\/i>: <\/i>she has forgotten that she won at the University of Turin, for a post that I had had put up freely<\/i> for competition (as rarely happens in the Italian University). Perhaps she won without her knowledge<\/i>, I am not quite sure, but Mirella Schino won<\/i>, and rightly so, proving on that occasion the <\/span>most talented candidate of all the participants. So that for a certain number of years she had to take the night train Rome-Turin to come and carry out her duties on Savoyard soil.<\/p>\r\n

Naturally <\/span>I know how the world goes, especially in an anti-meritocratic country like Italy, and so, yes, there will surely have been <\/span>improper competitive practices, and the protest of those who have been victims of them is normal and just, but it does not seem to me that it can be Mirella Schino who complains. I am comforted by the fact that it was Nando Taviani,<\/p>\r\n

Mirella’s Master, who later invited me to publish a book of mine in a series he directed at La Nuova Italia Scientifica, later become Carocci (the same series where Mirella too published a book of hers\u2026). An event that scandalized my comrades, on the point of suspecting <\/span>that I had gone over to the Teutonic knights\u2026 Only a na\u00efve simpleton can imagine that so much kindness was rendered to me for anything other than the mere recognition of my having had respect for <\/span>merit: a respect that is a duty but a most rare flower in the Bel Paese\u2026<\/p>\r\n

In short, reality is always more complex than it may seem, especially to those who have a tendency to dream it up, reality. There was a long conflict, <\/span>between the two groups, but also periods of understanding and collaboration, in alternating fashion, like the phases of the tide\u2026 When I say that those certain people <\/span>were the Magnificent Four, I am not engaging in stupid irony; I truly hold that, at least at that chronological altitude, <\/span>they were the most talented of all, but they were complacent in their superiority, or at least so they were perceived, rightly or wrongly, and for this the journal of the stray dogs<\/i> was named after the image of the <\/span>castle, “an enclosed space in which one defends oneself”: one defends oneself from the most talented, rightly or <\/span>wrongly experienced as “assailants”. I cannot, however \u2013 then, all the more so \u2013 understand the excellent Mirella’s change of temperamental register. At the start of the 2000s, when Guido Davico Bonino and I published the four large Einaudi volumes of History of modern and contemporary theatre<\/i>, I had commissioned a few pieces from some of the millers<\/i> (among them the young Schino), and all had duly signed in acceptance of the assignment (high-tide time\u2026), but later some contracts were torn up, the relevant contributions did not arrive at the publishing house (low-tide time\u2026). Not, however, the young Schino, who on that occasion did not put on the helmet to fall into line in the trench. More than just, a young scholar in her career, why ever renounce enriching the curriculum, with a long essay of a hundred pages, published by a prestigious publishing house like Einaudi? Hence a prudent, shrewd temperament, calma e gesso<\/i>, as those who play billiards say\u2026 But what sense does it make, then, now, when the war has been over for fifteen years, when we are almost all dead, or battered or under the shadow of Alzheimer, and Elena Randi has been received on the seat that was the great Claudio’s, and universal peace reigns, and even Eugenio Barba has decided to entrust his precious archive to a committee chaired by Franco Perrelli, surviving exponent of the small ancient world of the castellans<\/i>, <\/span>what sense does such a wish to do battle make, and to fail to understand that all one’s commitment should be put, rather, <\/span>into opening the windows, to purify the air from “the stink \/ of the peasant of Aguglione, <\/span>of that one from Signa, \/ who already for swindling has a sharp eye” of Dantean memory?<\/p>\r\n

Certainly, I make an effort to understand, I realize that, now, the marvellous Mirella is sole Director (and no longer in enlarged Direction<\/i>) of the glorious journal “Teatro e Storia”, but a true leader<\/i> always knows that there is a time for war and a time for peace. Mirella’s strength has always been the watchword of billiards, calma e gesso<\/i>. Outside this horizon, she risks <\/span>doing herself a wrong. Blinded by the voluptuousness of the clash, she has lowered the visor of her helmet, but in so doing she has made the exercise of reading difficult for herself. Halfway down page 10 of her journal, citing my 8 lines mentioned above, she correctly reported “Siro and Silvana”, but in the note at the bottom of the same page 10, yearning <\/span>\u2013 out of didactic zeal, I imagine \u2013 to explain to her young readers which surnames correspond <\/span>to the five names with which I had familiarly indicated the other founders of the “Castello”, she badly invented a far-fetched gloss, “Sara and Siro are Sara Mamone and Siro Ferrone”. There is, in truth, no lack of other small errors of transcription of <\/span>my 8 lines (an interpolated square bracket, a capital instead of a lowercase, italics and suspension dots omitted\u2026) but these are little sins that wash off with a bit of holy water. To swap the persons, however, transforming <\/span>the original “Silvana” into “Sara Mamone”, a capable scholar, consort of Siro Ferrone, well, precisely because it is not very pleasant for the dearest Silvana Sinisi, would seem to me truly embarrassing, although ascribable to a (hopefully) only momentary blindness\u2026 And yet, <\/span>as an ex-husband thrice divorced, I would prefer to think, rather, of an innocent matrimonialist obsession\u2026<\/p>\r\n

(7 February 2026)<\/em><\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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