The Invisible Artisans: When Translation Meets Theatre
There’s something profoundly humbling about the work of a translator, especially in the realm of theatre. It’s an art that thrives in the shadows, often unnoticed until something goes awry. Personally, I think this is where the beauty and the burden of translation lie. When Monica Capuani, one of Italy’s leading theatrical translators, describes herself and her peers as ‘children of a lesser god,’ she’s not just being modest—she’s highlighting a truth that’s both poignant and unsettling. Translators are the invisible bridge between cultures, the artisans who labor to ensure that a play’s essence survives its journey across languages. Yet, their work is so seamlessly integrated that it’s easy to forget they’re there at all.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Capuani’s latest project, translating Marina Carr’s Mirandolina, flips the traditional script of literary translation. Instead of a straightforward cultural exchange, this endeavor is a full circle: from Goldoni’s 18th-century Italian comedy to Carr’s contemporary Dublin adaptation, and then back into Italian. It’s like watching a game of linguistic ping-pong, where each bounce adds a new layer of complexity. From my perspective, this isn’t just translation—it’s a dialogue across centuries, cultures, and creative minds.
One thing that immediately stands out is Carr’s choice to center her adaptation on the theme of female fear. In a world where femicide continues to dominate headlines—as it did in Italy following the murder of Giulia Cecchettin—this isn’t just theatre; it’s a mirror held up to society. What many people don’t realize is that Carr’s work wasn’t a direct response to Cecchettin’s case, but the resonance was undeniable. Capuani’s observation that the play acquired new layers of meaning for Italian audiences is a testament to the power of art to intersect with reality in unexpected ways.
If you take a step back and think about it, the collaboration between Capuani, Carr, and the production team is a masterclass in precision. They spent hours dissecting rhythm, words, and phrases—a level of detail that even the actors found unusual. This raises a deeper question: How often do we, as audiences, appreciate the meticulousness behind what we see on stage? The translator’s goal is to disappear, to ensure the audience never questions the language. But this invisibility comes at a cost. Translators are often undervalued, underpaid, and overlooked, their names sometimes omitted from programs altogether. It’s a thankless job, but one that’s essential to the survival of global theatre.
A detail that I find especially interesting is Capuani’s comparison of AI translation to the internet’s impact on journalism. She argues that just as the internet democratized—and arguably diluted—news, AI threatens to do the same to translation. What this really suggests is that we’re at a crossroads. While AI can be a useful tool, its use as a replacement for human translators risks stripping language of its nuance, context, and emotional depth. As Capuani puts it, ‘It kills the language.’ This isn’t just about job security; it’s about preserving the cultural integrity of our stories.
This brings me to Sonia Folin’s essay, Survival of the Translator, which I find deeply compelling. Folin draws a parallel between the frustration of automated phone systems and the limitations of AI translation. We’ve all been there: navigating endless menus, longing to press zero and speak to a real person. What this really highlights is the irreplaceable value of human empathy and understanding. Translators don’t just convert words; they interpret emotions, cultural nuances, and unspoken meanings. AI, for all its advancements, can’t replicate that.
What makes Capuani’s work even more intriguing is her personal anecdote about her psychoanalyst, who pointed out the hidden meaning in her use of the word ‘impaired.’ It’s a reminder that language is never just about words; it’s about the emotions, associations, and histories they carry. This, to me, is the heart of translation: it’s not just about accuracy, but about capturing the soul of a text.
As Mirandolina prepares to take the stage at the Abbey Theatre, I’m left reflecting on the broader implications of this project. It’s a reminder that theatre is more than entertainment—it’s a space where cultures collide, histories are reimagined, and societal issues are confronted. And at the center of it all are the translators, the invisible artisans who make it possible. In my opinion, their work deserves far more recognition than it receives. After all, without them, the stories that unite us would remain locked in their original languages, inaccessible and incomplete.
So, the next time you watch a play in a language you don’t speak, take a moment to appreciate the translator’s craft. Because what you’re witnessing isn’t just a performance—it’s the result of countless hours of thought, precision, and passion. And that, in itself, is a masterpiece.
