The Paladins of Palermo

The music of a hand-cranked pianola fills the tiny theatre.  It reminds me irresistibly of the tinny accompaniment for early silent films with Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton.  But tonight, the action is live, onstage, and the story is set in the era of Charlemagne and his favourite knights, the Paladins.

The Paladin Rinaldo (or perhaps Orlando) strides boldly to centre-stage, to confront a fearsome Saracen warrior.  Orlando (or is it Rinaldo?) wears shining armour, his plumed helmet gleaming in the limelight.  He draws his sword.  His opponent brandishes his scimitar. Cold steel rings against steel.  The pianola operator turns the handle faster; the music quickens; the antagonists hurl hoarse imprecations at each other; furious thumps and crashes attest to the ferocity of the action.  Suddenly, the Paladin (whoever he is) lunges forward.  His sword flashes; the unfortunate Saracen’s head flies into the wings, and his body falls dramatically to the stage floor.

Well, it’s not exactly Punch and Judy, but this is a puppet play – or rather, a marionette performance, with pupari – puppeteers – hidden behind the stage, manipulating the figures with strings and rods.  Like Punch and Judy, the stories and characters are traditional.  Besides Saracens, the Paladini may fight menacing serpents, or giants, or even each other – for the love of a beautiful lady, of course. 

Each of the marionettes is a work of art in itself.  I had a chance to see them close-up a few days ago, when I toured an exhibit of dozens of the figures – Pupi in Sicilian – at the Palazzo Branciforte in Palermo. The puppets are displayed in a stark, cavernous space within the Palazzo (where once a historic Monte di Pietà, or charity pawn shop, operated).  There, among 19th century shelving that looks eerily like makeshift stages, the knights, serpents, ladies and Saraceni are suspended in ranks, as if awaiting their cues.

Carved from wood and cunningly jointed, the figures are large, nearly three feet in height. Their features are carefully modelled, so that regular attendees (unlike me) instantly know each character by sight.  The armour the knights wear is also wonderfully crafted, made of hammered tin, brass and copper; and each suit is unique to its wearer.  Female characters are gorgeously gowned. The exhibit is from the collection of Giacomo Cuticchio, a famous puparo of Palermo.  It is his son Mimmo’s production we are watching tonight, presented by the Figli d'Arte Cuticchio, at their theatre in Via Bara all'Olivella, in Palermo, one of the few remaining venues for Opera dei Pupi.  Not long ago, there were dozens of puppet theatres throughout Sicily.  In the 1930s there were nine in Palermo alone.  In those days, rather like old movie serials, there were daily episodes, each ending with a suspenseful cliffhanger.  The stories, based loosely on chivalric romances about Carlo Magno (Charlemagne) and his knights, were hugely popular.  Giacomo Cuticchio is said to have had a repertoire of 370 plays.

Where did the stories originate? Perhaps the 11th century French epic, The Song of Roland, is one source (Orlando is the Italian version of “Roland”).  Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso” could be another; and memories of the Norman knights who wrested control of Sicily from its Moorish rulers in the 12th century may also contribute to the stories.  But a work by the 19th century Sicilian writer Giusto Lo Dico, La Storia dei Paladini di Francia, seems to be the most direct source of the plots.

In the 1950s, with the advent of television, audiences dwindled, and the puppet theatres closed, one by one.  But the art of constructing the traditional figures survived, and now Mimmo Cuticchio conducts workshops for budding puppeteers in Palermo, and his theatre attracts enthusiastic audiences once again.  In 2001, moreover, UNESCO proclaimed Sicilian Opera dei Pupi to be an “Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity”.

But back to the play:  I think I just heard Rinaldo threaten to split his antagonist in two.  The music is reaching a crescendo.  If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just cover my eyes for a moment …

Text © 2016 by Joe Gartman; Photographs © 2016 by Patricia Gartman. First published in Italia! Magazine, August 2016