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All
Mr Fo’s life in theatre and politics (the one infusing the other
all the time) was dedicated to the idea of il popolo contro i potenti,
the people against the powerful. He put himself squarely in the tradition
of the giullari, the mocking, singing jesters of medieval Italy, who
kept on the move because they were liable to be hanged if they stayed
still. The work that made his name and notoriety, “Mistero Buffo” (“Comedy-Mystery”),
was a one-man show in which, his long limbs feline in a black jumper
and grey trousers, he told, mimed, sang and shouted New Testament stories
like an idiot. His Jesus got drunk at the marriage at Cana, climbed
on a table and exhorted everyone to forget the afterlife for the here
and now; his raising of Lazarus was recounted by a furious pickpocket victim
in the crowd. The line to the medieval mystery plays was direct. When
Mr Fo won the Nobel prize in 1997 he received it on behalf of all mummers,
tumblers and clowns.
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