Category: Theater

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Fin de partie: On divorce de Dieu

I expect that the most familiar example of theater of the absurd, at least for U.S. readers, is Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. We read it in English class in high school, and even took a field trip to see it performed on stage. We also read it in French class in high school. When I was at college, I frequently used a computer system that offered you short text each time you logged out. The texts were randomly drawn from a collection maintained by the administrators. The most memorable one I ever saw was about the local public transit system: “One has the feeling that if Godot himself walked on stage in the middle of the second act and said ‘Sorry I’m late, I came by T.’, the audience would entirely understand.” Separately, I recently read a description of Godot as “The play where nothing happens. Twice.”

This week’s play is perhaps Beckett’s second most well-known work, Fin de partie (“Endgame”). It appeared in 1957 and has been regularly performed in French and in English ever since. You can find a full-length recording of a recent staging of the play in Toulouse. In 2018 an opera company in Milan commissioned a musical setting of the text which can be seen in all its glory on YouTube.

https://youtu.be/ALFiOCXQUek

There are four characters in the play: the blind and wheelchair bound Hamm; his hobbled servant Clov; his father Nagg (who lives in a trashcan); and his mother, Nell. The names are apparently symbolic for “hammer” and “nail” (in various languages, e.g. clou in French, nagel in German), but I didn’t see much of that in the play. There’s also apparently a fair amount of chess symbolism in the play, but I didn’t get that either. Likewise, I have no idea what to make of the two characters in the trash cans. What I did get was the heavy dose of existentialism. I didn’t understand the first thing about this philosophy when they tried to teach us about it in high school, but I understand it (or at least the Wikipedia presentation of it and some scattered follow up reading) a good deal better now. I wonder if I was an outlier, or if existentialism made no sense to any of us adolescents then.

As with past plays in this series, I tried writing something sensible about Fin de partie in French and then reviewed it with my teacher. This one turned out to be way more evidentiary than my previous analyses – all the page numbers are from Les Éditions de Minuit version, copyright 1957. Not the most exciting essay, but not terrible either. And even if the argument is weak, the practice at writing French was useful as always. This runs 1200 words, but many of them are just quoting Beckett directly, so my actual writing is less. Here’s the finished draft, post correction:

Fin de partie: On divorce de Dieu

On dit souvent «La guerre, c’est l’enfer». Mais qu’est-ce qui arrive après la guerre ? Le paradis, certainement pas. La fin de la deuxième guerre mondiale, et à vrai dire les quarante années précédentes, ont donné naissance à deux mouvements liés: l’existentialisme et l’absurde.

L’idée centrale de l’existentialisme et que le sens à la vie ne vient pas d’une source extérieure, mais d’une source intérieure. Les adeptes de l’existentialisme disent que «l’existence précède l’essence». Nous n’avons pas été créés ou destinés à faire quelque chose. Nous existons, et donc c’est à nous de créer un but, un destin, un sort, chacun pour lui-même. Les religions, les grands concepts abstraits comme les classes de Karl Marx, la liberté de Thomas Jefferson ou le nationalisme de Georg Hegel doivent tous être rejetés. Dans son livre L’existentialisme est un humanisme (1946), Sartre a écrit «L’existentialisme n’est pas autre chose qu’un effort pour tirer toutes les conséquences d’une position athée cohérente.» Les autres philosophes trouvaient la cohabitation de Dieu et de l’existentialisme envisageable, mais pas Sartre.

Quant à l’absurde, c’était une réaction contre les idées classiques et réalistes de l’art et de la littérature, ou peut-être une réinterprétation de ces idées. On peut dire qu’une œuvre d’art est un reflet de la vie elle-même, captée par un artiste. Mais pour les auteurs absurdes, la vie ne suit pas des chemins bien illuminés. Elle n’a aucun sens prédestiné. Les choses se passent aléatoirement, sans raison, sans justice, sans structure et sans prédictibilité. Donc présenter une image ou une histoire bien rangée, c’est mentir. Le théâtre de l’absurde a embrassé cette idée avec des pièces qui manquent d’une intrigue cohérente , dont les répliques sont souvent répétitives, et qui n’ont pas d’ancrage spatio-temporel.

Mais les pièces absurdes ne sont pas sans importance. L’écrivain a instillé des idées et une signification. Cependant, c’est à nous les spectateurs de construire le sens, à la manière des existentialistes. Si on arrive au même terminus que l’auteur, c’était un bon exercice pour donner forme au chaos. Si on arrive à sa propre destination, tant mieux. Forcer le public à penser par soi-même, c’est déjà une réussite pour les auteurs absurdes.

Donc, c’est à moi de repérer l’essence de Fin de partie, une pièce absurde de Samuel Beckett créé en 1957. Selon moi, c’est une pièce existentialiste dans la tradition de Sartre, dans laquelle on observe le divorce de l’homme et de Dieu. L’Homme est représenté par le personnage de Clov, pendant que le personnage de Hamm est l’incarnation de Dieu. Hamm donne des ordres toutes les deux minutes, Clov les suit sans comprendre pourquoi. Clov annonce qu’il voudrait tuer Hamm, et puis qu’il va le quitter. Finalement, Clov regarde quelqu’un à l’extérieur et il part sans même couvrir Hamm avec le drap. 

L’apothéose de Hamm, c’est une thèse audacieuse, mais l’évidence est partout. Pour commencer, où sont les personnages dans cette pièce? La scène est sans lieu spécifique, mais il y a deux fenêtres qui donnent vue sur la terre et la mer (pp 43-45). Ça nous rappelle les vers initiaux de la Bible «Puis Dieu dit : Que les eaux d’au-dessous du ciel se rassemblent en un seul endroit pour que la terre ferme paraisse. Et ce fut ainsi. Dieu appela « terre » la terre ferme, et « mer » l’amas des eaux.» Nagg, le père de Hamm, raconte l’histoire du tailleur anglais qui compare la confection de pantalons à la création du monde (p. 34). Hamm insiste pour être placé bien au centre de la salle (p. 40), comme Dieu était au centre de la civilisation pendant des millénaires. Hamm raconte l’histoire de l’origine de Clov, qui se termine avec les mots : «Sans moi, pas de père. Sans Hamm (geste circulaire), pas de home» (p. 54). On constate qu’avec l’insertion d’une seule lettre, la phrase devient «Sans Hamm, pas de homme.»

Certes, d’autres arguments s’opposent à l’identification de Hamm à Dieu. Nagg est le père de Hamm, n’est-ce pas? C’est vrai, mais Chronos est le père de Zeus et Bor est le père d’Odin, ce qui ne les empêche pas d’être des dieux. Qu’en est-il de l’épisode où Hamm siffle pour Clov puis ordonne «Prions Dieu.» (p. 73) ? Ils commencent, avec Nagg, mais que se passe-t-il ? «Bernique!» et «Macache !» (p. 74). Hamm annonce «Il n’existe pas !», mais il est aussi possible qu’il n’y ait pas de réponse parce que Dieu était l’abonné absent, étant celui qui a passé le coup de fil. 

Enfin, on peut objecter que Dieu est puissant, même omnipotent, tandis que Hamm est vieux et chétif. Comment expliquer cela? Toutes les choses s’épuisent, même les dieux. Il y a plusieurs indices que nous sommes à la fin d’une ère dans cette pièce. Les personnages parlent souvent du passé avec nostalgie: «Hamm: Autrefois tu m’aimais. Clov: Autrefois!» (p. 18); «Nagg: J’ai perdu ma dent. […] Je l’avais hier. Nell (élégiaque): Ah hier!» (p. 28) «Nagg: Hier tu m’as gratté là. Nell (élégiaque): Ah hier!» (p.32); «Clov: Nous aussi on était jolis – autrefois. Il est rare qu’on ne soit pas joli – autrefois.» (p. 59); «Hamm: J’ai un fou qui croyait que la fin du monde était arrivée […] Clov: Un fou ? Quand cela ? Hamm: Oh, c’est loin, loin […] Clov: La belle époque.» (p. 61). Jadis Dieu était puissant, mais maintenant il est aveugle et cul-de-jatte.

Il n’y a pas que Dieu qui s’épuise. il y a un manque de presque tout: «Il n’y a plus de roues de bicyclette (p.20), «Il n’y a plus de nature» (p. 23), «Il n’y a plus de dragée» (p. 74), «Il n’y a plus de marée» (p. 81), «Il n’y a plus de navigateurs» (p.86), «Il n’y plus de calmant» (p. 92), «Il n’y a plus de cercueils» (p. 100). Il y a un manque de contraste aussi. Le ciel n’est ni blanc ni noir mais gris, ou comme Clov dit: «Gris ! GRRIS! Noir clair. Dans tout l’univers» (p. 46). Si Clov connaissait les théories de Lord Kelvin il dirait «La mort thermique de l’univers», le terminus asymptotique pour un univers qui dure suffisamment longtemps. Même le titre de la pièce annonce la fin de quelque chose. 

Pourtant, à chaque fin il y a un nouveau départ. Dès le début de la pièce Clov désire un redémarrage: «Si je pouvais le [Hamm] tuer je mourrais content» (p. 41); «Je te quitte» (p. 54). «Je te quitte» (p. 77). Mais il ne le quitte pas. Pourquoi? Jadis il essayait de trouver l’essence de la vie en obéissant à Hamm. Au moment où nous le rencontrons, il a abandonné cette idée comme une mauvaise blague: «Hamm: Clov! […] On n’est pas en train de … de… signifier quelque chose? Clov: Signifier ? Nous, signifier ! (Rire bref.) Ah elle est bonne !» (p. 47). Néanmoins, il n’est pas encore prêt à quitter Hamm parce qu’il n’a pas de source alternative de signification. C’est seulement l’arrivée de quelqu’un – à l’extérieur, à peine visible – qui motive Clov à partir.

La nature de cette arrivée est obscure. Clov dit qu’il s’agit d’un môme, mais Hamm doute de l’existence du visiteur. Cependant, réelle ou non, les jours où Clov sert Hamm sont terminés, et Hamm le sait. «Clov: Tu ne me crois pas ? Tu crois que j’invente ? Hamm: C’est fini, Clov, nous avons fini. Je n’ai plus besoin de toi.» (p. 103) Quant à moi, j’estime que c’est Clov qui n’a plus besoin de Hamm. Il a créé son propre sens de la vie, comme un bon existentialiste. Quelle absurdité.

Things I Learned

  • Come follow, follow, follow, follow, follow, follow me: there are many ways to express that someone is a follower of a school of thought. Un adhérent refers to someone who is a dues-paying member of a political party. Those who agree with the positions of a party but don’t pay for membership are sympathisants. For something less political, like a religion or a theory, one can use words like partisan, adepte, or défenseur. For a sports team, the word is supporteur.
  • Mirror, mirror on the wall: the phenomenon of light bouncing off a shiny surface is distinct from the light or image produced by that phenomenon. The act of bouncing is la réflexion. The resulting image is un reflet. La réflexion is also the act of thoughtful introspection. When art imitates life, the work of art is un reflet.
  • Captive audience: the word captiver means enthrall, fascinate or enrapture. The word capter means to catch, emprison, or absorb. Artists hope the theater audience is captivé by their work, but concession stand prices are set knowing the audience is capté.
  • Distilled spirits: the word instiller literally means to introduce a substance bit by bit into a cavity or absorptive material. Think the condensing drops in an alcohol distillery. More metaphorically, it is used to mean to make someone gradually believe or adopt a set of values or culture. By contrast the word instaurer is the more formal establishment of a policy or set of rules. It is imposed rather than taught.
  • What do you call a work that carries the essence of existentialism? Existentialiste. What do you call a work that carries the essence of absurdism? Absurde. Apparently there’s no need for consistency when one is being absurd.
  • “The audience applauds” or “the audience applaud”? Not sure there’s one right answer to that in English, but apparently in French le public is singular.
  • Creationism: there are different nouns in French to describe the creation of different kinds of things. One speaks of la construction of a building, but la confection of a garment. Although according to CNRTL, you only use confection if the clothing is mass-produced, not if it is a bespoke garment. I don’t know what word you use in that case. The more generic word fabrication may be used for building and clothing alike.
  • Working for peanuts: Becket uses two offbeat words for meager results: bernique and macache. The dictionary says bernique is both archaic and familiar, an expression of frustration, disappointment, and rejection. It’s literally a kind of scallop shell. Macache is also old and slang. It means “not at all” or “nothing at all”. There are a lot of words like this in English: zilch, bupkis, nada, peanuts, squat, diddley, beans …

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Pourquoi écrire une pièce philosophique? Les Justes, par Albert Camus

Next up on the reading list of Harvard’s 20th Century French Theater and Performance course is Les Justes, by Albert Camus. Premiering in 1949, Les Justes is an examination of whether and when the ends can justify the means. The context of the play is the 1908 assassination of Russia’s Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich, uncle to the Tsar, an actual historic event carried out by a small group of Socialists plotting a revolution. The play itself concerns imagined discussions among the conspirators about the morality of their action, whether it matters, and if collateral damage changes the equation. It is a classical realist work with a clear five act structure, five major and four minor characters, and a mix of répliques (short lines) and tirades (extended speeches).

Camus wrote Les Justes in part as a response to arguments with Jean-Paul Sartre about the acceptability of political violence. Sartre was on the side of allowing a certain amount of individual or even random violence in order to overturn capitalism and colonialism, which he saw as long-term inflictors of systemic violence on populations. Camus was on the other side, drawing sharp limits on what was morally conscionable (as well as what was long-term effective) regardless of circumstance. This debate is very nicely described in a 2005 article by Ronald Aronson, Sartre contre Camus : le conflit jamais résolu. Eight years later, in 1957, Camus published a pair of essays Réflexions sur la guillotine and Réflexions sur la peine capitale in which he also objected to state sponsored execution. This topic remains hotly debated in France today, even though the death penalty was outlawed in 1981. Recent acts of terrorism on French soil (for example, the 13 November 2015 attacks at the Bataclan theater and elsewhere, the trial for which began last month) have raised the question of whether those guilty of atrocities deserve to die. So the work remains timely even though it is a 70-year-old work about a 110-year-old plot.

I wrote out some thoughts about the play, which unexpectedly grew to nearly 1,200 words. I lightly revised it during an editing session with my teacher.

Pourquoi écrire une pièce philosophique?
Les Justes, par Albert Camus

J’étais lycéen quand j’ai appris l’existence d’Albert Camus – et le mot «existence» est bien choisi, car au lycée le nom de cet écrivain était synonyme de la philosophie de l’existentialisme. Mes camarades de classe non francophones ont dû lire L’Étranger en traduction pour leurs classes d’anglais, pendant que nous francophones le lisions en version originale pour nos cours français. Le vocabulaire est simple et le titre connu, donc les profs l’ont choisi, même si l’existentialisme était peu accessible à la plupart des adolescents. Peu importe – c’est un roman philosophique, et donc bien convenable pour le lycée.

L’Étranger est un roman philosophique, et Les Justes est une pièce philosophique. Pourquoi écrire une œuvre littéraire philosophique? Pourquoi ne pas écrire un traité comme Locke ou Kant? Ou un essai comme Montesquieu? L’enseignant norvégien Jostein Gaarder a écrit Le Monde de Sophie, un roman sur l’histoire de la philosophie (très bon, d’ailleurs), mais c’est autre chose: un texte pour lycéens sous forme de roman plutôt qu’un roman philosophique. Alors, pourquoi? À l’université, j’ai suivi un cours de philosophie avec Michael Sandel. Il nous a conseillé (presque à chaque cours) d’examiner chaque théorie philosophique par rapport à la situation. Êtes-vous d’accord avec cette proposition-ci? Appliquez-la dans cette situation-là. Vous n’aimez pas les conséquences qui suivent? Comment adapter la théorie? Et maintenant, appliquez la théorie modifiée à la prochaine situation posée.

Sandel nommait ce mode d’analyse «la dialectique»: passer de la théorie à la pratique et retourner en boucle. Il nous a mis en garde de ne pas espérer trouver une philosophie parfaite, qui s’accorde avec toutes nos intuitions. Pour lui, engager cette dissonance entre l’idéal et le réel est lui-même un bien incontournable. Si nous sommes des êtres qui pensent, nous changerons nos idées quand nos théories se heurteront à nos réalités. Nous changerons nos actions. Et c’est justement ça, la raison pour écrire une pièce philosophique. Camus ne nous montre pas seulement des gens qui affinent leurs idées au cours d’un débat, à la manière de Platon dans ses Dialogues Socratiques, mais des gens qui affinent leurs comportements au cours de la vie vécue. Il y a des dissonances, il y des imperfections, et des incohérences. Mais il n’y a pas un manque de conclusions. Comme Sandel disait: «N’imaginez pas que vous n’avez pas de réponse aux questions philosophiques difficiles: par vos actions et vos inactions, vous vivez des réponses à de telles questions tous les jours.»

Alors, examinons les personnages de la pièce. S’ils n’évoluent pas, ça ne vaut pas la peine d’écrire une pièce et plutôt qu’un traité. Bien sûr, ce n’est pas nécessaire que tous les personnages changent de cheval au milieu du gué. Certains personnages ne sont que les incarnations de théories, presque des figurants. Les gens que Kaliayev rencontre en taule sont plutôt des caricatures que des personnages. Foka? Il représente le fatalisme, un cul-terreux qui a tué les gens quand il était ivre et qui continue à tuer les gens comme bourreau pour réduire sa peine. Skouratov? Il parle la langue des Athéniens dans la dialogue de Thucydide: «les forts exercent leur pouvoir et les faibles doivent leur céder». La Grande-Duchesse est un portrait de la religiosité, et le Gardien un croquis de celui qui baisse les yeux et évite d’attirer la moindre attention. Leurs vies intérieures ne nous concernent pas. 

Qu’en est-t-il des conspirateurs ? Ils ont beaucoup plus de répliques que les personnages ci-dessus, mais la plupart des conspirateurs restent inertes aussi. Boris est un guerrier noble et humain: il préfère attendre deux mois pour avoir la bonne opportunité de tuer la cible, seule et nette, que d’agir comme prévu et de risquer des victimes innocentes. Il décide que le meurtre des enfants n’est pas permis, et inutile de plus. Par contre, Stepan est rempli de haine et d’amertume au début, au milieu, et à la fin. Ni la présence des neveux du Grand-Duc, ni la mort de celui-ci occasionne une reconsidération de son désir pour la violence illimitée. La noblesse ne le concerne pas: «L’honneur est un luxe réservé à ceux qui ont des calèches», dit-il. Tous les deux gardent leurs attitudes originales au cours de la pièce, sans difficulté et apparemment sans réfléchir.

Donc, il nous reste Voinov, Kaliayev (dit Yanek), et Doulebov (dit Dora). Voinov adopte facilement le discours de l’Organisation, mais il flanche quand l’opportunité d’agir se présente. On imagine qu’il n’est pas un peureux, mais qu’il ne croit pas vraiment que la politique vaille de tuer ou de mourir. Pour sa famille ? Pour sa propre vie ? Qui sait ? Mais pas pour la politique.

Yanek est peut-être le personnage principal. Au premier acte il annonce sa fidélité à l’Organisation, et il affirme qu’il tuerait le Grand-Duc même s’il reconnaissait l’humanité de celui-ci. Au deuxième acte il découvre ses limites quand il refuse de tuer les neveux innocents, et au troisième acte il se montre résolu en lançant la bombe et en tuant le Grand-Duc. Yanek a survécu à sa crise philosophique, et garde sa solidarité avec ses camarades au quatrième acte en refusant les propositions de Skouratov en prison. Mais est-ce qu’il a réexaminé ses principes, ou en a-t-il seulement fait l’épreuve ? Pour moi, Yanek est un exemple et une dramatisation de tenir à l’idée que tout n’est pas permis, mais pas vraiment un exemple de dialogue entre la théorie et la pratique.

Enfin, il y a Dora. Au premier acte, Dora avertit Yanek de ne pas faiblir au dernier moment en face du Grand-Duc, mais j’estime qu’elle parle vraiment d’elle-même: elle aurait peur de renoncer à l’attentat si elle voyait le visage de sa victime. Au deuxième acte, elle dit qu’elle ne pense pas non plus que le meurtre des enfants innocents soit justifié. Mais la mort de son amant Yanek la fait changer d’avis. Elle tombe d’accord avec Stepan, à travers une perte personnelle. Au début de la pièce, elle doute que venger les offenses abstraites par un crime contre un individu soit juste. À la fin, elle se hâte de prendre sa revanche contre le monde pour lui avoir volé son amoureux, peu importe l’Organisation ou la justice. Elle est vraiment transformée par l’expérience et la réflexion.

Est-ce que ces deux illustrations, la fermeté de Yanek et la désolation de Dora, méritent une pièce entière? J’estime que non. Mais je pense que Camus a raison d’extraire la philosophie du royaume intellectuel. La philosophie est comme un plan, ce qu’on imagine qu’on ferait dans telle ou telle situation. Mais rappelons-nous les mots du boxeur américain Mike Tyson : «Tout le monde a un plan jusqu’à ce qu’on lui frappe la bouche.» Les Justes nous montre la philosophie de Dora, bouche sanglante.

 Les Justes, mise en scène par Abd Al Malik, pour le théâtre du Châtelet, Paris,  2019 / 2020

Not a bad essay, and better than my previous one on L’Amante anglaise, but still a bit light as literary criticism goes. Still, a good canvas on which to learn French. Here’s some things I learned from it.

Things I Learned

Once again I’m omitting boring errors in preposition choice, adjective agreement, or omission of reflexive pronoun. I’m getting better at these, and that may be the biggest benefit by volume of writing each week. But they don’t make for interesting reading so I’ll spare you. Here’s more interesting things I learned.

  • Keeping a consistent register. This essay started out in a high register with words like émender and précautioner, but that was not my intent. I have written a few high-register things lately and wanted to make this piece more familiar. I have a ways to go still. I also over-corrected, using near-slang expressions like ça ne vaut pas la peine, en taule, cul-terreux, and froussard. I still struggle to recognize when a word or expression that comes to mind is in vieux / soutenu or a familier / argot register, and it would be time-consuming to look up each and every one. I suspect the only solution is listen and read more, plus get more feedback on my writing.
  • Qu’en est-il de is a super-useful expression I some hadn’t come upon until this month. It means “What about … ?”, and asks for an opinion or information about the disposition of something. It’s useful both for requesting information or as a rhetorical way to introduce a next subject or part of a problem to be addressed.
  • Froussard, trouillard, poltron, … there are a surprising number of words to indicate somebody who is afraid or who scares easily. They differ in connotation as well as register of language. Peureux is a standard word for someone who is generally fearful or timid. Pleutre and couard are both littéraire. Lâche is more insulting. Froussard, trouillard, and poltron are familier.
  • Changing hearts and minds: in English, one can present an argument to change somebody’s mind. In French, I can change my own mind (J’ai changé mon avis), but it’s not typical to use changer d’avis as a thing that A does to B. (J’ai changé son avis). Correct is to use the construction faire changer: Je l’ai fait changer d’avis.
  • Best served cold …: the word dédommager is best translated as “compensate” or “indemnify”. The reflexive se (faire) dédommager is about seeking damages or settling claims. If you want to get revenge or justice at a moral level, you should use the express venger or prendre revanche.

I didn’t love this play, but it did make me more interested in Camus. I ordered a copy of his novel La Peste from the local bookstore, which seems particularly apropos given our pandemic. I knew about it vaguely, but heard about it recently in a radio interview with Marylin Maeso who was discussion her recent book La fabrique de l’inhumain, which very explicitly makes the case that the Covid-19 epidemic parallels the story of that novel. I’ll let y’all know what I think of La Peste when I read it.

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L’Amante Anglaise de Marguerite Duras

Last month I read the play L’Amante anglaise, by Marguerite Duras, which is the second item in the reading list of Harvard’s 20th Century French Theater and Performance course. Duras, who is perhaps best known in America as the author of Hiroshima Mon Amour, which was adapted into a 1959 film. L’Amante anglaise delves into the psyches and motivations of an unremarkable fifty-year-old woman, Claire Lannes, who murdered her cousin (a deaf and mute resident of Claire’s household) for no apparent reason. She then dismembered the body and spent several nights dropping the parts from a bridge onto trains passing below. The police found the pieces and traced them back to the one point that the disparate train lines had in common, that one bridge. From there they located Claire without difficulty.

But it is with difficulty that the audience tries to make sense of Claire’s character and inner life. The play has two acts and three characters. In the opening act, Claire’s husband Pierre is interviewed by a nameless interrogator who advises Pierre that he is not under suspicion, is not obliged to answer questions, and is free to go. But the Interrogator is deeply interested in understanding Claire, the crime, and Pierre’s marriage. The entire act is one long dialogue between the Interrogator and Pierre. Act two is more of the same, except now the Interrogator is interviewing Claire, who has already been tried and convicted, who is awaiting sentence, and who still has some undivulged secrets (e.g. what did she do with the head of her victim, which was never recovered? Why did she murder her cousin?). The Interrogator becomes more of a character in his own right in the second act as his frustrations in the face of Claire’s airy lack of self-knowledge reveal oddities in the Interrogator’s personality.

The play is based on a real crime that took place in 1949 in France, a murder and disposal-by-train by Amélie Rabilioux. Duras found this event a rich source of inspiration, as she wrote a first play about it 1960 (Les Viaducs de la Seine-et-Oise), and then a novel L’Amante anglaise in 1967, and then a play version of the novel in 1968. The text I read was from a revised script of the play which became standard in 1976. The play is well known and often performed. France Culture produced and broadcast a full-length studio reading of L’Amante anglaise 1967. There is also a 2021 filmed reading of it that breaks up the scenes and interleaves Pierre’s interview with Claire’s interview.

As a writing exercise I prepared a 750 word commentary about the play and lightly revised it with my teacher. Here’s the final text, as well as things I learned in the process.

Depuis l’Antiquité les philosophes se demandent si les être humains ne sont que sang et chair, peau et os. Au XVIIe siècle on a introduit le nom matérialisme pour la position affirmative, tandis que dualisme décrit le contraire: nous avons quelque chose (une âme, peut-être) qui nous rend plus qu’un amas de particules chimiques et leurs réactions. Cet élément spirituel est le siège de la volonté, le conducteur qui dirige nos actions. Sinon, comment comprendre le comportement humain? Pourquoi a-t-on porté cette chemise, choisi ce métier, pris des vacances à la plage et pas dans les montagnes, dîné dans ce restaurant et pas dans le suivant ? C’est angoissant d’imaginer que la réponse de toutes ces questions soit «c’est le résultat des interactions déterminées parmi les molécules de nos cerveaux». Nous avons grand soif d’explications.

Dans sa pièce du théâtre L’Amante anglaise, Marguerite Duras nous invite à contempler les motivations de plusieurs personnages, et en même temps à considérer: Sommes-nous libres de choisir notre chemin? D’où vient la volonté ?

Malgré qu’elle ne soit pas présentée jusqu’au deuxième acte, Claire Lannes est le centre d’attention dès la première page. Pourquoi a-t-elle tué sa cousine? Pourquoi ne veut-elle pas dévoiler le lieu où elle a caché la tête? Pourquoi s’obstine-t-elle à dire qu’elle ne connaît pas elle-même les bonnes réponses? Pourquoi imagine-t-elle que la bonne question serait la clé pour débloquer un discours révélateur? Le public est guidé vers elle comme cible de l’enquête.

Bien sûr, il y a un deuxième personnage dont les motivations méritent investigation : Pierre Lannes, le mari de Claire. Il a accepté sans difficulté l’affirmation de sa femme que Marie-Thérèse Bousquet était partie pour quelques jours pour rendre visite à sa famille. Il avoue qu’il se doutait de la vérité de cette déclaration, mais il ne l’a pas relevé. Est-ce qu’il soupçonnait son crime horrible et a préféré différer le moment d’ affronter cette horreur? Plus profondément, pourquoi s’est-il marié avec Claire? Pourquoi est-il resté avec elle pendant une vingtaine d’années? Est-qu’il ment quand il répond à l’interrogateur qu’il n’aurais jamais poursuivi une histoire d’amour avec une servante, soit la cousine de sa femme soit n’importe qui. On imagine que mieux comprendre Pierre Lannes, c’est mieux comprendre Claire Lannes, et aussi inversement.

Ensuite on passe au troisième personnage, l’Interrogateur. Au début, il est  facile de le reléguer à l’arrière-plan. Il nous donne un croquis de l’histoire, il nous indique que Pierre n’est pas un suspect, et il agit comme interlocuteur (il serait saugrenu de monter un spectacle qui ne comprend que deux monologues étendus). Mais petit à petit, l’interrogateur gagne sa propre histoire, ou plutôt son propre mystère. Qui est-il? Il n’est ni magistrat ni juge ni psychologue. Est-il journaliste? Historien? Un parent caché de la victime? Pourquoi est-ce qu’il approfondit cette affaire sensationnelle? Est-il capable de freiner ses enquêtes, et sinon d’où vient son empressement  à les comprendre? Au cours de la pièce, il émerge comme un homme frustré, fouillant obsessivement pour trouver les explications qui lui échappent, comme elles nous échappent tous.

Enfin, tous les trois personnages, Pierre, Claire, et l’Interrogateur, suscitent en nous un désir fort de comprendre leurs motivations. Mais il y a un quatrième personnage, ou plutôt une personne, dont les motivations m’intéressent: c’est Marguerite Duras. La version du texte que j’ai lu correspond au mise en scène au Théâtre d’Orsay en 1976. Mais le spectacle original a été créé au Théâtre national populaire en 1968, tiré de son roman de 1967. En outre, elle a écrit et monté une autre pièce au même sujet, Les Viaducs de la Seine-et-Oise, sept ans plus tôt en 1960. Évidemment, ce meurtre commis par Amélie Rabilloux en décembre 1949 préoccupait Marguerite Duras pendant longtemps. Quel élément, quelle combinaison de gens et de circonstances de cette histoire l’envoûtait?

Je retourne finalement aux questions philosophiques. Si on souhaite jamais développer des théories ou des instruments pour comprendre les comportements complexes, subtiles, et entremêlés des gens dans la vie ordinaire, il faut d’abord que ces outils fonctionnent dans les situations les plus pures, simples et extraordinaires. Nous abordons les événements quotidiens en examinant les affaires hors du commun. Si Marguerite Duras retournait fréquemment à ce découpage en morceau d’un corps humain, c’est parce qu’elle veut disséquer notre nature humaine pour repérer où demeure la volonté.

Language aside, it’s not a great essay. It’s got two or three ideas in it, and I like the closing sentence, but the middle is far too rambling with endlessly posed but unanswered questions. Fortunately, I wrote it more as a vehicle for improving my French than to be a solid work of literary criticism. So let’s see what I gained on that front.

Things I Learned

My original draft had a number of boring errors in preposition choice, adjective agreement, or omission of reflexive pronoun. I continue to work on my automaticity in these areas and am getting better little by little. There were several more substantive corrections I learned:

  • Keeping a consistent register. This essay starts out in a high register, using highfalutin phrases to talk about philosophy and literary construction. That’s a valid stylistic choice, but only if it is maintained throughout. So my teacher identified several familiar expressions that broke this pattern and revised them into a more formal register.
    • «La volonté, ça vient d’où» became «D’où vient la volonté».
    • «un tas de» became «un amas de».
    • «Pourquoi elle ne veut pas» became «Pourquoi ne veut-elle pas».
    • «Bien sur qu’il y a» became «Bien sur, il y a».
    • «c’est facile de» became «il est facile de».
    • «machins» became «outils».
    • «bizarroïde» became «hors du commun».
  • Malgré que is the subject of a longstanding grammar controversy. There’s a lengthy entry about malgré que on CNRTL (see article II), which is considered an authoritative source by my French work colleagues. It begins : «Ac. 1835-1935, Littré et les grammairiens puristes n’acceptent malgré que que dans l’emploi II A, qui n’est pas un emploi conj. mais où malgré est un subst. compl. de j’en aie et que le pron. rel.…». Long story short, in oral language everybody uses «malgré que» = “despite the fact that” as they use «bien que» = “even though”. But the official grammar ruling is that in a formal register one must use only malgré + a noun, never malgré que + a clause. Bien que + a clause is still fine. However, this rule is far more honored in the breach than in the observance, even in soutenu register writing, and so we let it stand in my essay: Malgré qu’elle ne soit pas présentée. There is general consensus that if one uses this locution, the verb in the subsequent clause must be in the subjunctive mood.
  • Chimique is always an adjective, never a noun. There is no French noun corresponding to the English noun “chemical(s)”. The French speak of «produits chimiques», «particules chimiques», etc. The word is an adjective and must always modify some noun.
  • affronter, confronter. These two words both map to “confront” or “face” in English, but in French the correct choice depends on the nature of the thing being faced. If it’s a localized person, opponent, or obstacle and you wish to describe its position, you use confronter. If it’s a non-localized challenge, a danger, or a fear and someone is tackling or addressing it, you use affronter. The word confronter really has a face-to-face, head-on, physical arrangement aspect to it. In the essay above, a slight change to the sentence would highlight the ability of this distinction to resolve ambiguity: «Est-ce qu’il soupçonnait son crime horrible et a préféré différer le moment de l’affronter ?». Since the verb is «affronter» the elided pronoun l’ refers to the crime, and not to the criminal. If I meant the criminal I would need to write «le moment de le confronter», as you would look directly at the criminal while confronting them with an accusation.
  • un proposition has a meaning more specific than its English cognate “proposition”. The French «proposition» is a proposal, a demand, or an offer. In English, I use the word proposition also to mean a statement that can be true or false: “I was in Connecticut this weekend” or “The global climate is on track to rise by 2° by 2050.” Apparently this usage of «proposition» in French is restricted only to technical discussions of Boolean logic and not everyday statements. I replaced «proposition» in my original draft with «déclaration» when referring to a simple statement.
  • fouiller can mean “to dig through”, “to rummage”, or “to search” (it can also mean simply “to dig” in the ground). The direct object is the thing being searched: fouiller un tiroir, fouiller une valise. But if you want to name the target of the search, you can’t simply use pour and a noun: Je fouille l’armoire pour une chemise. You have to add a verb into the mix: Je fouille l’armoire pour trouver une chemise or Je fouille l’armoire pour repérer une chemise. The French sure do like their verbs…

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Les Bonnes de Jean Genet

Yesterday I finished reading Les Bonnes, the first play on the reading list for the 20th century French Theater and Performance course that I’m working through. I also watched a filmed version of the unusual 2011 production of Les Bonnes, directed by Jacques Vincey. The play was written in 1947 by Jean Genet and saw its first production that same year at Théâtre de l’Athénée, under the direction of Louis Jouvet. (I’ve encountered Jouvet’s name several times, more as an actor than as a director, though I gather he was quite renowned in both roles. Jouvet was famous enough that the theater has been renamed “Théâtre de l’Athénée Louis-Jouvet” and the plaza it faces renamed “Square de l’Opéra-Louis-Jouvet”). Les Bonnes is a warhorse in the repertoire of French theater. Wikipedia lists 10 notable productions since 1970, and my own web search revealed dozens of others at all levels of professional, amateur, and student theater. It has been translated into English as “The Maids”, which has been regularly performed since 1952. There are film adaptations of both the French and English versions, as well as many video recordings of live theater productions. The play is assigned reading au lycée for many French high school students. In short, a classic.

The play has three characters: Claire, Solange, and Madame. Claire and Solange are sisters, and work as maids for an haute bourgeoise woman known to us only as Madame. The place and time period are unspecified, but it’s French enough for there to be mansards, balls, operas, fancy dresses and furs; modern enough for there to be a telephone in the house; and ancient enough that there are no labor-saving electrical household appliances, leaving the onerous work to the maids. The two sisters hate their life as impoverished, dependent maids, hate Madame, and to some degree also hate each other and themselves. There’s a lot of hate to spread around. One gathers they have been in this situation for years and developed some deep-seated pathologies. Over the course of the play, we learn that Claire and Solange have managed to have Madame’s husband falsely imprisoned based on their own anonymous accusations. The maids are now conspiring to murder Madame herself. Although Jean Genet insists that his play was not inspired by it, there was a well publicized murder by two maids, the sisters Léa and Christine Papin, that transpired in western France in 1933.

The play is structured in three scenes, although no explicit boundaries are provided in the text. In the first scene, Claire and Solange are engaged in a role-playing game for their own benefit, with Solange pretending to be Madame and Claire pretending to be Solange. Claire dresses up in Madame’s clothing, puts on her makeup, and ironically adopts her airs and unconscious arrogance. Exactly why Solange pretends to be Claire rather than herself is never clear, although it contributes to the overall theme of confusing fantasy with reality. The two heap insults and derision on each other and play-act the strangulation of Madame, while also sporadically dropping out of the game to discuss what to portray next or to remark on their unrolling murder plot. A phone call interrupts them: it’s Monsieur, announcing that he’s just been released from prison and requesting that Madame meet him at a restaurant to celebrate. As the expected time of Madame’s return approaches, Claire and Solange end their game, hurriedly restore Madame’s things to their usual places, and otherwise hide traces of their mummery.

The second scene begins as Madame enters (after a failed attempt to visit her husband in prison), still unaware of Monsieur’s release. We now get to see the real interactions between Madame and the maids, which is not far off from the play-acting of scene one although the maids must be more circumspect and subservient in expressing their opprobrium for Madame. Claire prepares poisoned tea, but the two sisters are unsuccessful in maneuvering Madame to drink it. Madame notices many of the things that are awry in her bedroom after the play-acting and starts to suspect that her maids may be misbehaving, possibly even to the point of listening at doors and rifling through sensitive papers. Worried that Madame will realize they must be the source of the anonymous accusations about Monsieur, the sisters distract her with news of Monsieur’s release and the phone message requesting a rendez-vous. Madame is overjoyed and rushes off to meet him, despite the maids’ attempts to delay her long enough to drink the tea.

In the third scene Claire and Solange rip into each other, venomously trading blame for who botched the assassination and who left suspicion-raising evidence of their role-playing. Solange urges them to flee the house, but Claire despondently points out they are trapped by their poverty. The sisters fall back into their fantasy games, but this time with a harder edge. Solange performs a more realistic strangling of Claire-as-Madame, though it is still a mock killing. Solange then bitterly denounces Madame for couching her condescension in terms of kindness and generosity. She apostrophizes at length that she will no longer tolerate going through life bent over, but will stand up straight from now on. Claire resuscitates from her faux-death and insists that they enact the poison drinking scene that failed materialize. Solange is resistant, but finally agrees to serve Claire/Madame the poisoned tea. Claire knowingly drinks the poison and actually dies as Solange imagines herself in handcuffs and the play ends.

I understood most of this material in my first reading of the text, but was confused at a couple of levels. First, it was very unclear from the text which words are intended to be spoken “in real life” from one character to another, which are spoken “in the game”, and which are spoken as an aside to the theatrical audience. Often a single speaker turn contains two or three of these, with no stage directions indicating which words belong in which frame. Some critics assert this is a deliberate editing choice intended to give to a reader the same ambiguity between fantasy and reality that a spectator would have watching the show, and that the characters have in their fictional lives. Second, there are definitely sexual undercurrents in many of the interactions between Claire and Solange, but my French is not strong enough to know where the subtext is glaringly obvious, where the meaning is more implicit, and where I invented hidden meaning when none exists. So, my next stop was to watch a performance of the play.

Kitchen gloves are all he’s wearing …

The performance listed in the course materials is a professionally filmed recording of a 2011 production directed by Jacques Vincey. I watched it (text in hand) and got a very different sense of the play than I had by simply reading it. The print edition I have begins with a five page note from the author: Comment jouer «Les Bonnes» (“How to perform The Maids”). It declares that the atmosphere should be furtive and that the maids should be proper, yet still sexual, but not overtly erotic. The author also acknowledges that the dialogue may not be a realistic representation of how maids talk when they aren’t observed, but asserts that when he goes to the theater he wants to see himself on stage, stripped of conventions and niceties, naked. Director Jacques Vincey decided to start his 2011 production with an abridged version of this note recited by a completely naked man who does not otherwise figure in the rest of the show (though I believe he participates later as clothed stage hand). This introductory scene is presumably why the video merits a YouTube warning “This video contains content that may be offensive to some viewers. Are you sure you want to proceed?”, which also prevents it from being embedded on this page. You’ll have to click the link if you want to see stage directions recited nude.

The Jacques Vincey production is highly stylized with stark sets, dark lighting, minimal costuming, and eerie music. Almost all props are absent, replaced by pantomime. Many lines are spoken slowly with an emotionless, dispassionate affect, while others are delivered in a stentorian shout. I don’t know enough to be confident that labeling this production “avant garde” is formally accurate, but that description will give a non-professional the right impression. I came away from watching it with the thought “Ah, I see, that’s what this play is. An abstract psycho-drama infused with social commentary, class politics, and post-war despair. Got it.”

Only it turns out, this description is heavily influenced by the directorial choices of the production. I was fortunate enough to wonder if this is how it’s always played and looked for other recording of other productions. I found dozens of them on the web, both complete shows and excerpts. They illustrate a wide range of stylistic interpretations of the text, among which Jacques Vincey’s is an outlier. There are productions with more traditional, fully realized sets, props, and costumes. There are productions with less overtly deranged portrayals of Claire and Solange. There are productions where the maids are younger or prettier, ones where Madame is more natural or more horrible, ones that emphasize or ignore the sexual tension in Claire and Solange’s play-acting. There are productions set in prison. By far the oddest one I found was a production by Centaur Theater where the actors are on horses most of the time.

Centaur Theater presents «Les Bonnes»
Must watch: equestrian acting at its finest

All in all Les Bonnes (and Jacques Vincey’s production) was an unusual and satisfying first dish in the nine course meal that I’ve ordered for myself. And I’ve been reminded that not only must one not judge a book by its cover, but one must also not judge a classic play by just one of its productions.

Next week: L’Amante anglaise, by Marguerite Duras.

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Harvard Course: French Theater and Performance

Last month somebody introduced me to the existence of a course at Harvard University on French Theater and Performance. The one-line description of the class is “In this course, we will trace the history of French theater from the early twentieth-century to the present: its major trends, figures, and forms as well as its intellectual, historical, and political contexts.” I live just a few miles from the university, so briefly flirted with the idea of arranging to audit the class this semester (lectures in French!). But after a few minutes, I settled on a more modest undertaking: read all nine plays on the reading list. I might have to go more slowly than the one play per week pace that the course follows, but I figure it will be a good way to get a sampling from the past 120 years of French theater.

Here’s the reading list for the course:

  1. Jean Genet Les Bonnes, Gallimard Folio
  2. Marguerite Duras, L’Amante anglaise, Gallimard Folio
  3. Albert Camus, Les Justes, Gallimard Folio Plus Classiques 
  4. Samuel Beckett, Fin de partie, Editions de Minuit
  5. Bernard-Marie Koltès, Combat de nègre et de chiens, Editions de Minuit
  6. Nathalie Sarraute, Le silence, Gallimard Folio
  7. Jean-Luc Lagarce, Juste la fin du monde, Solitaires intempestifs
  8. Marie NDiaye, Papa doit manger, Editions de Minuit
  9. Wajdi Mouawad, Tous des oiseaux, Actes Sud Papier

The books were all available via the Harvard Coop bookstore. They very nicely put them all in a list so I could fill my cart with just a few clicks. A week later, I had a nice stack of reading for the Fall.

Perhaps if I get wrapped up in this I’ll contact the professor, Matthew Rodriguez, and ask if I can sit in on just one or two lectures to get the feel of it. In the meantime, Allons-y!

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Feydeau, Chambre 21

Much has been made of October 2021 as the 100th anniversary of the birth of one famous French Georges, the singer Brassens. But June 2021 was also the 100th anniversary of the death of another famous French Georges, the playwright Georges Feydeau. Feydeau is widely considered the master of French vaudeville, a theater genre we could call “farce” in English (note that this is different from the American “vaudeville show”, which is more a mix of variety acts and short slapstick sketches).

French vaudeville is full of licentious gentlemen, sexually harassed servants, unfaithful wives, and cuckold husbands. There are secret lovers stuffed in closets, hidden under beds or tucked behind drapes. The dialog is witty, double entendres abound, and mistaken meanings («quiproquos») lead to comedy gold. Most of all there is non-stop motion, a frenzy of perfectly timed entrances and exits («portes qui claquent»). The canonical line from a Feydeau vaudeville show is «Ciel, mon mari!», declared by an adulterous woman who has just discovered her husband is about enter the scene where she is entertaining a lover. English language works like “Charlie’s Aunt” or “Noises Off” are direct cultural descendants of vaudeville as elaborated by Feydeau. And of course Feydeau’s work owes much to Molière’s comedy and to commedia dell arte before that.

This framed poster from 1896 hangs in the Théâtre du Palais-Royale, where I photographed it in 2018.

Feydeau enjoyed great success in the Paris theaters for over 30 years. He started writing plays in 1882, debuting his first smash hit Tailleur pour dames in 1886. He continued delivering money-makers for decades, titles like Monsieur chasse!, Champignol malgré lui, Le Dindon, La Puce à l’oreille and Je ne trompe pas mon mari! Feydeau had penned over 40 plays when his final play, Hortense a dit : « Je m’en fous ! », was produced in 1916. Sometime afterward he contracted syphilis. Feydeau spent the last two years of his life in a sanatorium in Rueil-Malmaison, a suburban community west of Paris, where he routinely experienced megalomania, paranoia, and hallucinations according to reports. He was just 58 years old when he died in 1921.

It is this final period of Feydeau’s life that modern authors Thierry Barbeau and Pierre Berriau have taken as their focus for their play Feydeau, Chambre 21. We follow the ailing and addled Feydeau through his delirium and hallucinations as his experience of life plays out in a fantasia of clever banter and hat tips to his greatest works. All of this is superimposed on early 20th century mental hospital treatments, with a healthy dose of fourth-wall breaking to boot. In addition to airing the story of his sad demise, the play is an homage to Feydeau’s style of vaudeville with super witty dialogue and carefully choreographed traffic patterns.

Many actors explicitly play two characters, a common device which the audience is ready to accept until Feydeau-the-character sees through it and calls it out. The other characters have no idea what Feydeau is talking about and treat this as another symptom of his madness. Feydeau nonetheless coaches them on how to be a better character in a Feydeau play, e.g. teaching them to use theatrical asides properly. Some characters are delighted that they can say whatever they like, safe in the knowledge that they won’t be heard, while others protest that they can hear the offending remarks loud and clear.

Here’s an example of the sort of self-awareness that suffuses the whole script:

Scène 5
Feydeau et Adélaïde (fille de Fouquart) sous les draps d'un lit. Des ébats amoureux.

Fouquart entre en trombe dans la chambre.

FOUQUART: Ma femme, Gabrielle, elle a disparu!
FEYDEAU: Quoi? Mais qu'est-ce ...
FOUQUART: Où est ma femme, Feydeau? Elle est là, n'est-ce pas?
FEYDEAU: Mais je ne sais pas.
FOUQUART: Mais si, elle est là, je la sens. (Montrant furieusement le lit dans lequel se trouve Adélaïde.) Ce lit! Il y a quelqu'un à l'intérieur.
FEYDEAU: Mais non, il n'y a personne.
FOUQUART: Enfin, Feydeau, vous n'allez pas voir vos pièces? Quand quelqu'un dit qu'il n'y a personne dans le lit, c'est qu'il y a quelqu'un.
FEYDEAU: Mais je vous assure que non. C'est un lit vide.
FOUQUART: Un lit vide? Depuis quand y a-t-il des lit vides dans les vaudevilles, ils ne sont jamais vides, croyez-moi, il y a toujours quelqu'un dedans. Et je vais vous le prouver.
FEYDEAU: Mais je vous interdis! Pour qui vous prenez-vous, Fouquart?
FOUQUART: Pour le cocu, monsieur, le cocu. Vous savez très bien ce que c'est un cocu, Feydeau, non? Il faut toujours un cocu dans l'histoire et aujourd'hui, le cocu, c'est moi. (En direction du lit.) Gabrielle, c'est toi mon bébé? 
FEYDEAU: (s'interposant) Je suis chez moi! C'est ma chambre, c'est mon lit.
FOUQUART: Alors mon ami, d'un, le cocu est cocu mais il a des droits que les autres n'ont pas. Et de deux, (désignant le lit) je vous affirme qu'il ya quelqu'un ici.
FEYDEAU: Mais non, je vous dis «personne».
FOUQUART: Il y a quelqu'un. (Il va au lit, soulève les draps, il n'y a personne. La comédienne est passée par une trappe.) Ah non, personne.
FEYDEAU: Ah bon?
FOUQUART: J'aurais pourtant juré que ...
Scene 5
Feydeau and Adélaïde (Fouquart's daughter) are under the sheets of a bed, making love.

Fouquart bursts into the room.

FOUQUART: My wife, Gabrielle, she's disappeared!
FEYDEAU: What? But what ...
FOUQUART: Where is my wife, Feydeau? She's there, isn't she?
FEYDEAU: Well, I don't know. 
FOUQUART: Oh yes, she's in there, I smell her. (Gesticulating furiously at the bed where Adélaïde is.) This bed! There's someone inside. 
FEYDEAU: No, really, there's nobody.
FOUQUART: Come on, Feydeau, don't you go to your own plays? When somebody says there's no one in the bed, there's someone in the bed.
FEYDEAU: But I swear to you, there's no one. It's an empty bed.
FOUQUART: An empty bed? Since when are there empty beds in vaudeville? They are never empty, believe me, there's always somebody inside. And I'm going to prove it. 
FEYDEAU: Wait, I forbid it! Just who do you think you are, Fouquart?
FOUQUART: I'm the cheated husband, sir, the cuckold. You know full well what a "cuckold" is, don't you Feydeau? There's always got to be a cuckold in the story and today, that's me. "Mr. Cuckold." (Turning to the bed) Gabrielle, is that you baby? 
FEYDEAU: (jumping between them) But we're at my place! This is my bedroom, that's my bed.
FOUQUART: Well my friend, in the first place, Mr. Cuckold may be cuckold but he gets some rights that nobody else has. And in the second, (pointing at the bed) I'm telling you there's someone in there.     
FEYDEAU: And I'm telling you "no one".
FOUQUART: There is somebody! (He goes to the bed, lifts up the sheets, but it is empty. The actress has exited via trap door). Huh, nobody. 
FEYDEAU: Oh, really?
FOUQUART: But I could have sworn ...

Broad humor, no doubt.

A set design for Le Dindon, Act II, 1896.

One noteworthy element of the play, possibly standard in Feydeau’s vaudeville, is the foreigner who speaks French with a ridiculous accent (now that I’ve written that, the play “The Foreigner” comes to mind – another show that owes a debt to Feydeau). In this show it’s Le Général-Docteur Azacassasse, a medical quack from Latin America. This bit is far harder to translate, as the phonetic word play doesn’t work outside of French, but the joke is that Azacassasse says «sisse» when he wishes to say «si», which to him is an all purpose “yes”. But the word «sisse» also sounds like «six» (the number 6), while the word «aussi» (meaning “also”) becomes «aussisse», and the phrase “6 also” («six aussi») becomes «sisse aussisse» in the mangled accent, which with elision sounds like «six saucisses» = “six sausages”.

I’ve tried to translate it on the right, taking liberties to preserve some semblance of the wordplay, but it doesn’t really capture the naturalness of the original.

FEYDEAU: Quoi, quoi, «lé ké vou losse»? Ici, il faut parler français.
AZACASSASSE: Ah, sisse?  
FEYDEAU: Mais parfaitement. En France, on parle français. Sinon, on ne comprend rien du tout. Vous, c'est quoi votre langue?
AZACASSASSE: L'ouroulouguaille. 
FEYDEAU: Ah! bon! eh bien, voilà, chacun sa langue chez soi.
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, ma bien sisse! 
FEYDEAU: Ceci dit, je ne suis même pas certain que vous compreniez tout ce que vous êtes en train de dire. 
AZACASSASSE: Euh... Nosse, pa to. 
FEYDEAU: Ah! vous voyez!
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, y'avousse. 
FEYDEAU: Le plus étrange, tout de même, c'est que vous compreniez parfaitement le français que je vous parle.
AZACASSASSE:  Ah, ma tresse bienne, tresse bienne.
FEYDEAU: Il y a quand même un petit problème, non?
AZACASSASSE: Ah, sisse, problème?  
FEYDEAU: No, pas six problèmes, on vous dit qu'il y a un petit problème, un seul.
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, yé dis sisse. 
FEYDEAU: Oui, mais nous, on dit «un».
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, oune.
FEYDEAU: (comprenant) Ah! «sisse» ça veut dire «un» pour vous.
AZACASSASSE:  Nosse, sisse é sisse.
FEYDEAU: Quoi, «sisse et sisse», six et six, douze.
FOUQUART: Bon, Feydeau, le général-docteur n'est pas là pour faire des additions. 
FEYDEAU: (comprenant) Ah! «sisse», ça veut dire «oui».
AZACASSASSE: Sisse! 
FEYDEAU: Mais comment dites-vous «six» alors? Le nombre six?
AZACASSASSE: Euh... Sisse aussisse. 
FEYDEAU: Ah, vous dites «six saucisses»?
AZACASSASSE:  Sisse. Sisse aussisse.
FEYDEAU: Comment voulez-vous qu'on s'y retrouve si vous dites aussi «sisse aussisse»
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, cé pas no kaille. 
FEYDEAU: Ah, c'est le moins qu'on puisse dire, c'est «pas no cailles» du tout.
GABRIELLE: Pour être honnête, c'est vrai qu'on ne comprend pas tout.
FEYDEAU: What's with, «lé ké vou losse»? You must speak french here.
AZACASSASSE: Ah, sisse?  
FEYDEAU: Why of course. In France, you speak French. Otherwise, no one will understand you at all. Say, what's your language?
AZACASSASSE: Ouroulouguaille. 
FEYDEAU: Ah! Good! Well, there you are, when we're in your country, we can speak that.
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, berry good,  sisse! 
FEYDEAU: You know, I'm not really sure you understand all the things you're saying. 
AZACASSASSE: Euh... Nosse, not all. 
FEYDEAU: Ah! there, you see!
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, I sees. 
FEYDEAU: The weirdest thing, though, is that you understand perfectly when I speak to you in French.
AZACASSASSE: Ah, me berry well, berry well.
FEYDEAU: But we still have a small problem, right?
AZACASSASSE: Ah, sisse, problem?  
FEYDEAU: No, not six problems. I said that there's a small problem, just one.
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, I's says sisse. 
FEYDEAU: Right, but we, we say "one".
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, woon.
FEYDEAU: (understanding) Ah! «sisse» for you means "one" for us.
AZACASSASSE:  Nosse, sisse eez sisse.
FEYDEAU: What, «sisse eez sisse», six and six is twelve.
FOUQUART: Look, Feydeau, the Doctor General is not here to do arithmetic. 
FEYDEAU: (comprehension dawning) Ah! «sisse», that means "yes".
AZACASSASSE: Sisse! 
FEYDEAU: But how do you say «six» then? The number six?
AZACASSASSE: Euh... Sisse too. 
FEYDEAU: Ah, you say «six two»?
AZACASSASSE:  Sisse. Sisse oh sisse.
FEYDEAU: What's a guy supposed to do if he has to say «cease see-sawing at seez oh seez"?
AZACASSASSE: Sisse, tha's nosse eezy. 
FEYDEAU: You can say that again. Not easy-peasy in the least.
GABRIELLE: To tell you the truth, even I don't understand what he's saying.

In the end, I’m not a big fan of this play. It has some hilarious, laugh-out-loud scenes, but the concept is not executed all that well. It mostly feels like someone wanted to show off how well they can write Feydeau-style farces, and was taken with the idea of what a manic, drugged out Feydeau must have been like. But I had a hard time getting past the bit about syphilis being a horrible way to die, and how being that disoriented would probably feel pretty scary. I expect it works better as a live spectacle than as a written text to be read. But I’m quite sure that in a live performance with lines delivered at full speed I would have been totally lost.

Feydeau, Chambre 21 was created for the 2021-2022 theater season. Rehearsal photos were taken at Théâtre de la Tour Eiffel, but I’m not sure they have a Paris production nailed down yet. The show poster is for some sort of filmed version maybe? Or a staged version in Nantes? I’m not clear. Either way, I think I’ll content myself with having read the script and move on.

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Je ne cours pas, je vole!: An Olympic reflection

I thought I was done writing for today having churned out three articles this morning already. But apparently my after-lunch coffee propelled me through the all-but-latest issue from L’avant-scène théâtre. They are still catching up from a roughly six month hiatus, so this issue is labeled «1er janvier 2021» despite having arrived in late July 2021, and despite featuring a play that had its opening run in late June.

Je ne cours pas, je vole! (“I don’t run, I fly!”) is another show that had a run at the Festival d’Avignon Off. I have no idea if it will get picked up by a production company for a subsequent Paris engagement. On the one hand, it was written by Élodie Menant and directed by Johanna Boyé, the same team that created the successful Est-ce que j’ai une gueule d’Arletty?, winner of two Molières in 2018. It was also sponsored in part by Théatre 13 and La Pépinière Théâtre, Paris outfits both. On the other hand, it’s not a great show (in my opinion) and is topical enough to give it a short shelf-life.

The show’s debut was perfectly timed to coincide with the Covid-delayed 2021 (né 2020) summer Olympics in Tokyo, as its subject is the motivations, obstacles, and psychologies of Olympic athletes. The main character is a fictional French track hopeful Julie Linard, but real-life personalities Usain Bolt, Haile Gebreselassie, Laure Manaudou and Rafael Nadal all appear as supporting characters with substantial air time.

Je ne cours pas, je vole! has decent mechanics, with interlaced scenes of training session, family discussions, tensions with her coach, internal monologues of self-doubt or dedication, and play-by-play narrations of competitions. The story line avoids being predictable, as it’s neither a straight shot to a cathartic payoff after all that hard work, nor a tragic downfall stemming from some fatal flaw. Julie has some setbacks in the 2008 Olympics, overcomes some difficulties with more than generic particulars, and ends up blowing past her best previous times while still falling short of the 2012 Olympic podium.

https://vimeo.com/572149196

The opening and final scenes feature Julie as a sports reporter covering the 2016 Olympic games. In the press conferences she asks various established champions questions that are a little too obviously aimed at herself as much as at those who are still competing. But the answers they give are varied, amusing, and original, and the answers that she eventually gives to herself are original and communicated to the audience with some subtext.

Overall there’s just not that much new or interesting here. By the very nature of their enterprise, track athletes are easily stereotyped as one dimensional, and this show doesn’t do much to move the audience off that preconception. Sure, Julie has a family, and a history of asthma, and some psychic dialogue with other great athletes of her time. But fundamentally, she runs in a straight line. She trains, she runs, she tries to run faster, she wins or she loses. Julie may feel that she flies, but this play never gets beyond just running.

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Summer Lessons Days 6-8: Toilets, cows, theater and vacations

My second week of online vacation lessons chez moi has come to an unexpectedly early end. I met with my teacher Dominique, furnished by the Institut Linguistique d’Adanet of Montpellier, France, on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of this week. Thursday was a scheduled day off, but early this morning I learned that Dominique had to cancel our Friday session for unnamed reasons. I’m hoping to do one more week of classes with ILA and a different teacher, but we’ll see if that materializes – Covid is once again disrupting all sorts of activities in France.

Dominique is a devotee of French film and was the source of the recommendations for Molière and Le Prénom which I wrote about earlier. He suggested a few others (Cuisine et dépendence, Les Choristes, Knock) that I plan to watch in the coming weeks. Our classes were a familiar mix of reading short texts or listening to short audio, and then discussing them. There was a smaller amount of written production, and the grammar work was limited to one set of exercises on prepositions.

Here are some of the item we’ve looked at together.

  • Copier Cloner, a short animation about the folly of modern techniques for raising beef cattle:
  • Le théâtre à nu, a recent newspaper column reviewing three books about French theater (got that?): Sauver le moment , a memoir by actor Nicolas Bouchaud; Patrice Chéreau l’intranquille, a biography and analysis of this important director; and S’adresser à tous, a challenging critique of the historical breadth of French theater and its recent cooptation by the forces of capitalism or neoliberalism.
  • Vacances pour tous, une utopie qui s’éloigne, a recent newspaper column about the evolution of the French notion of vacation as an institution in and of itself, starting with the emergence from World War II, and detailing the involvement of workers committees, dedicated paycheck deductions, and the construction of government subsidized vacation housing. From the early 80’s or so it’s been downhill in the eyes of this columnist, as first independent mutual tourism societies and then for-profit businesses have moved into the industry, pushing out their more egalitarian predecessors and catering exclusively to the well-heeled. In the thick of the fourth wave of Covid in France, the author laments the possible death of French vacations for all.

    My homework for Friday morning was to write a brief summary of this article, but as our course was cancelled I have only my original version, without corrections from a teacher. I guess that will have to suffice …

Version originale

«Les vacances», un pilier de la culture française, comprend plusieurs éléments qui évoluent ensemble depuis 75 ans: la puissance des travailleurs par rapport à leurs employeurs, les lois qui s’appliquent au travail, l’infrastructure de transport et d’hébergement abordable, et la tradition nationale de quitter la maison annuellement. À partir de 1945, la société française s’organisait pour fournir à tous des jours de congé payés et des opportunités subventionnées de passer ses loisirs à l’extérieur. Au début, c’était les comités d’entreprise et les syndicats qui s’en occupaient, puis les associations touristiques, et finalement les sociétés commerciales. Mais au cours de cette évolution, le rêve solidaire d’un bénéfice pour tous a été perdu. Ceux qui ont de l’argent peuvent profiter des vacances, mais le créneau moins riche risque d’être abandonné. Plus récemment, la crise du Covid-19 a empiré la dérive.

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Molière (2007): un compte rendu

More vacation equals more French films! Tuesday night’s selection was Molière (2007) starring Romain Duris and Fabrice Luchini. It was very entertaining, without any particular need to be more than an intelligent bit of fun. In concept, Molière is nearly identical to the American film “Shakespeare in Love” (1998), which I also liked enormously (that script was co-written by Tom Stoppard and brims with wit). Each film tells a fictional story of a real genius playwright during a period before he had achieved greatness, and retro-fits various episodes from their great works (Romeo and Juliette, Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, or Tartuffe as the case may be) into the imagined early life of the author. Thus we see a tragicomic “dramatic pre-construction” of how these masterpieces happened to spring from the mind of the luminary to be. Assuming one doesn’t take the enterprise at all seriously, it’s a fun romp.

Molière is cleverly written, sumptuously costumed, and luminously filmed in various French chateau and historic streets of Le Mans (200km southwest of Paris) as well as the gardens of Versailles. The characters are sympathetic and charmingly portrayed, especially by the two male leads. Fabrice Luchini, to whom I was first introduced to via a guest appearance on Dix Pour Cent, is a perfect mix of buffoonery, humanity, and hard-edged bourgeois pride. The two share one scene for the ages in which Molière (Duris), who has agreed to serve as an acting coach for the rich M. Jourdain (Luchini), demonstrates the difference between impersonating a horse, and looking like a man who is trying to look like a horse. No understanding of French needed to appreciate this gem:

As part of this week’s French classes (now with a new teacher, Dominique) I wrote a substantial, though incomplete, review of the film which we then edited together. Outside the first paragraph, there were not a lot of changes. I’m not sure if that means my French writing is getting better, or just that Dominique had little interest in the exercise (which I proposed, as it was so rewarding the previous week with Virginie). In any event, here’s the before and after drafts.

Version originale

D’où vient le génie? L’Einstein, le Shakespeare, le Michel-Ange? Sont-ils nés, tout finis, prêts à luir sur nous pour toujours?  Ou est-ce qu’il y a des enseignants, des formations, et des expériences critiques? Hormis les génies, quand il s’agit d’un quidam, est-ce que ses traits caractéristiques sont à lui dès sa première haleine, innés et immuables? Ou est-ce que la naissance d’une personne, dans une classe sociale aléatoire, avec une famille plus ou moins riche, n’a quasiment rien à voir avec sa moralité, sa gentillesse, ou ses accomplissements? Ce sont les questions que pose le film Molière de Laurent Tirard, sorti en 2007, avec Romain Duris et Fabrice Luchini.

Pour la majorité de ses scènes, Molière se situe en 1644, où Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (récemment nommé Molière et joué ici par Duris) avait 22 ans.  Mais dès que le film commence, les spectateurs voient Molière et sa troupe de comédiens en retournant à Paris après avoir sillonné toutes les villes et les hameaux de France pendant treize ans. Molière avait attiré l’attention de Monsieur, frère du roi, qui l’avait invité à s’installer dans le théâtre du Petit-Bourbon en 1658. Molière souhait de monter un spectacle tragique, ayant marre de la comédie en tout sa forme. Il a ras le bol de la farce, de la romance, et de la drôlerie. Il affirme qu’il a des choses sérieuses à dire, et que la tragédie est le seul moyen de les exprimer.

Malheureusement, sa troupe (dorénavant baptisée «Troupe de Monsieur), lui rappelle qu’autant qu’il est maître de la comédie, il est nul en tragédie. D’ailleurs, Monsieur, frère du roi, attend une comédie dans les jours suivants et Molière n’a pas le courage de le nier. Désespéré, il se résigne à jouer encore une fois une bêtise inepte et fade. Mais tout à coup, une jeune femme arrive avec une lettre urgente d’une femme mystérieuse qu’elle appelle «Maman». Molière lit la lettre et se rue à la rendre visite. Il la trouve gravement malade, probablement affligée de la consomption (la tuberculose). À ce moment-là, l’écran se fait noir et on nous apprends une transition temporelle avec les mots «Treize ans plus tôt…»

Nous sommes encore une fois à Paris, mais maintenant en 1644, et c’est à cette époque que la vraie histoire du film commence. Molière est interrompu en plein milieu d’une représentation tragique, en plein air, par des huissiers qui le mettent en état d’arrestation pour les dettes impayées. De coup, il est vite libéré par l’intercession d’un Monsieur Jourdain (interprété par Fabrice Luchini), un bourgeois friqué qui a besoin d’un maître dramatique. M. Jourdain embauche Molière et l’amène à chez lui, pour faire une combine saugrenue. M. Jourdain veut que Molière le forme à jouer comme comédien dans une petite pièce qu’il a déjà écrite avec le but de séduire Célimène, une marquise veuve. Mais il éxiste aussi une Madame Elmire Jourdain (incarné par Laura Morante), sa femme, à laquelle cette entreprise doit être cachée. Donc, Molière est déguisé en prêtre et présenté par M. Jourdain comme «M. Tartuffe» le nouveau précepteur de leur fille cadette, Louison. Mme Jourdain est fortement anticléricale, mais n’a pas de choix sauf à s’accorder à la présence de ce jeune homme à la maison.

D’ici, l’intrigue devient un peu alambiquée. M. Jourdain continue à s’emballer avec son enjeu de séduction de la marquise Célimène, pour lequel il demande l’aide de Dorante, un noble roublard et sans scrupule. Entre-temps, Mme Jourdain découvre que M. Tartuffe est un imposteur, mais aussi que sa plume et son esprit sont sans pareil. Les deux tombent amoureuses et forment une liaison cachée. Enfin, il y a encore une histoire d’amour entre Henriette Jourdain, la fille aînée, et un jeune homme Valère qui n’est pas de la noblesse. En outre, Dorante fait des manipulations pour que son fils Thomas se marie avec Henriette.

Version corrigée

D’où vient le génie? L’Einstein, le Shakespeare, le Michel-Ange? Est-ce que le génie est inné ou a-t-il besoin de s’élaborer avec de la pédagogie?  Ou est-ce qu’il y a des enseignants, des formations, et des expériences critiques? Hormis les génies, quand il s’agit d’une personne ordinaire, est-ce que ses caractéristiques lui sont propres dès sa première haleine, innés et immuables? Ou est-ce que la naissance d’une personne issue d’une classe quelconque, avec une famille plus ou moins riche, n’a quasiment rien à voir avec sa moralité, sa gentillesse, ou ses actes? Ce sont les questions que pose le film Molière de Laurent Tirard, sorti en 2007, avec Romain Duris et Fabrice Luchini.

Pour la majorité de ses scènes, Molière se situe en 1644, où Jean-Baptiste Poquelin (récemment nommé Molière et joué ici par Duris) avait 22 ans.  Mais dès que le film commence, les spectateurs voient Molière et sa troupe de comédiens en retournant à Paris après avoir sillonné toutes les villes et les hameaux de France pendant treize ans. Molière avait attiré l’attention du duc d’Orléans, le frère du roi, qui l’avait invité à s’installer dans le théâtre du Petit-Bourbon en 1658. Molière souhaite monter un spectacle tragique, en ayant assez de la comédie sous toutes ses formes. Il en a ras le bol de la farce, de la romance, et de la drôlerie. Il affirme qu’il a des choses sérieuses à dire, et que la tragédie est le seul moyen de les exprimer.

Malheureusement, sa troupe (dorénavant baptisée «Troupe de Monsieur), lui rappelle qu’autant qu’il est maître de la comédie, il est nul en tragédie. D’ailleurs, Monsieur, le frère du roi, attend une comédie dans les jours suivants et Molière n’a pas le courage de lui refuser. Désespéré, il se résigne à jouer encore une fois une bêtise inepte et fade. Mais tout à coup, une jeune femme arrive avec une lettre urgente d’une femme mystérieuse qu’elle appelle «Maman». Molière lit la lettre et se rue pour lui rendre visite. Il la trouve gravement malade (probablement affligée de la tuberculose). À ce moment-là, l’écran se fait noir et on nous apprends une transition temporelle avec les mots «Treize ans plus tôt…»

Nous sommes encore une fois à Paris, mais maintenant en 1644, et c’est à cette époque que la vraie histoire du film commence. Molière est interrompu en plein milieu d’une représentation tragique, en plein air, par des huissiers qui le mettent en état d’arrestation pour des dettes. Du coup, il est vite libéré par l’intermédiaire d’un Monsieur qui s’appelle Jourdain (interprété par Fabrice Luchini), un bourgeois très riche qui a besoin d’un maître dramatique. M. Jourdain embauche Molière et l’emmène chez lui pour élaborer un stratagème. M. Jourdain veut que Molière le forme à jouer la comédie dans une petite pièce qu’il a déjà écrite avec le but de séduire Célimène, une marquise veuve. Mais il éxiste aussi une Madame Elmire Jourdain (incarné par Laura Morante), sa femme, à laquelle cette entreprise doit être cachée. Donc, Molière est déguisé en prêtre et présenté par M. Jourdain comme «M. Tartuffe» le nouveau précepteur de leur fille cadette, Louison. Mme Jourdain est fortement anticléricale, mais n’a pas le choix sauf de s’habituer à la présence de ce jeune homme dans la maison.

À partir d’ici, l’intrigue devient un peu alambiquée. M. Jourdain continue à s’emballer avec son enjeu de séduction pour la marquise Célimène, pour lequel il demande l’aide de Dorante, un noble roublard et sans scrupule. Entre-temps, Mme Jourdain découvre que M. Tartuffe est un imposteur, mais aussi que sa plume et son esprit sont sans pareil. Les deux tombent amoureuses et forment une liaison cachée. Enfin, il y a encore une histoire d’amour entre Henriette Jourdain, la fille aînée, et un jeune homme Valère qui n’est pas de la noblesse. En outre, Dorante fait des manipulations pour que son fils Thomas se marie avec Henriette.

A final word about the costuming for this film: it’s really amazing! You can find a full gallery of Molière costume photos on the site of Pirates Cave, a small Dutch company that sells a wide range of period costumes. I don’t know that there’s any connection between the shop and the film, as the costumes for the film are credited to Pierre-Jean Larroque. But Pirates Cave does seem to have an extensive collection of photos, and presumably garments. Here’s a taste of the photos:

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La Maison du loup: Jack London et Benoit Solès

This being on vacation thing is pretty sweet. After four-plus hours of French lessons this morning and a leisurely lunch of bread, cheese, basil, peppers, cucumbers, and cherries, I decided to put off doing my assigned homework (watching a French film) and instead curled up on my living-room couch with La Maison du loup, the latest play by Benoit Solès. I had started it some time last week, but never got past the first scene despite carrying it around with me for days. Somehow, today I was in the right frame of mind to continue, and practically inhaled the rest of it in one go. A very pleasant literary digestif.

I first encountered Benoit Solès – quite literally – on December 27, 2019, when I saw him perform his multi-Molière-winning play La Machine de Turing at théâtre Michel in Paris. He both authored the play and originated the title role, first at the festival Off d’Avignon in 2018 and then again later that year in Paris. The show was outstanding and, afterwards, he came out and chatted with the audience, signed posters, etc. I purchased both the script of the play and a poster, which he signed after graciously talking with me for several minutes.

I took great care with the poster during the rest of the trip and had it framed when I got home. It hangs prominently on my living room wall. As for the script, I re-read it a few months later and felt that it lost something in moving from stage to page. Even with Solès’s performance freshly in my mind, the lines were uninspiring and the characterization of Alan Turing seemed forced. I found this quite surprising, as I had enjoyed the play enormously when I say him act it in person, and had found that presentation of Turing thoroughly convincing. Funny (and yet of course blindingly self-evident) how much a professional actor brings to the experience of a piece of theater.

So it was with mixed preconceptions that I received the script of La Maison du loup in a recent issue of L’avant-scène théâtre. Would I find reading it weak tea, and regret once more having scrubbed my plans to attend the 2021 Avignon festival, where this latest Solès creation debuted? Or would I be better able to elicit from the text the magic I had experienced in Solès’s presence in 2019?. Happily, it was more the latter than the former. While I wouldn’t go so far as to label this a “consummation devoutly to be wished”, I did find it quite easy to overlay my extrapolation of a Solès performance on the words before my eyes. The overall result was very satisfying.

The theme of La machine de Turing is the tragedy of a great man who accomplished great things, but whom society could not accept because of his other behaviors, both genuinely odd and harmlessly homosexual. The theme of La Maison du loup is certainly not identical, but in many ways it rhymes. Reformed prisoner Ed Morrell (played by Solès) arrives one summer evening in 1913 at the woodlands house of the celebrated author Jack London. London’s wife Charmian has invited Ed for a visit after reading his magazine article about the plight of a fellow prisoner, Jacob, condemned to death. While Ed thinks he is there to enlist the aid of the famous man in pleading with the California governor for clemency for Jacob, Charmian reveals that she brought him there in order to purchase the story of the condemned prisoner as the basis of Jack’s next novel (Jack, drunk, dissipated, and focused on paying for his lavish forest retreat, initially thinks Ed is an accountant come to collect debts owed to the architect).

As this first round of complications gets untangled, we learn that London’s last several novels have in fact been based on other people’s ideas, rewarmed, partially written by Charmian, and sold under Jack London’s marketable name. But hiding behind Charmian’s tawdry ploy to line up her husband’s next pot-boiler is a more noble motive, to which she eventually confesses: she wants her husband back. Not the bombastic, money hungry, whiskey drinking, morphine popping, image conscious sell-out that he is now, but the gutter-born, idealistic, fiercely righteous, hard-scrabble, auto-bootstrap-pulled socialist that she fell in love with. Charmian’s mid-play declaration of this desire drives both men from her and also apart from each other.

The remainder of the play is a sufficient resolution of this dilemma and as happy an ending as one could expect. London agrees to plead for Jacob, but his attempted intercession comes hours after Jacob’s death. Ed is convinced to divulge the story of his own fifteen-year stay in prison, his discovery of London’s works in the prison library, and the source of his compulsion to rescue Jacob. And London completes his own personal redemption, first refusing to be spoon-fed either a narrative for his next novel or a tonic for his bourgeois betrayal, and then alchemizing the joint story of Ed and Jacob into a powerful polemic against the California penal system.

A somewhat clumsy epilogue to the play, delivered by Ed in a closing monologue, informs the audience that Charmian and Jack’s love is rekindled, their mansion in the woods burns down, and the publication of his last great novel (The Star Rover, 1915) leads to substantial reforms of California prisons, ending various inhumane practices. It goes on to relate that Jack London died soon after from a morphine overdose, while Charmian went on to publish several works on prisoner rights.

First edition, 1915

How much of this is true, I don’t know. A cursory skimming of the web seems to corroborate that Ed Morrell was a real person, that he was tortured at the hands of the San Quentin prison staff, and that his story was the basis of The Star Rover. But I couldn’t immediately find confirmation of reforms enacted pursuant to the appearance of the novel. Perhaps this indicates Solès has injected his own romance into the story of Ed Morrell and Jack London, or perhaps the fact that this history is all but forgotten is exactly what motivated him to rediscover it and re-educate the theatrical public. Though I must say I’m a bit hazy on exactly what segment of the French theater-going public is in great need of a reminder of the battle for human rights in the American prison system.

Ah, well. Not all art needs to stand up to such demanding scrutiny. The play is, in any case, definitely worth a read. And if you happen to be in France when Solès next performs it (tickets available for January 2022 and May 2022, but with Covid who knows), definitely worth the effort to go see it.

Vocabulary

I made a note of several of the words that I looked up while reading the play. Click through on the links to learn the definitions.

la cagoule

la miséricorde

une pieuvre

la frimousse

filon

le tangage

une pépite

sournois

une calèche

un tuteur

charabia

grelotter

un mirador

dompter

déraper

tanguer

un tard

un conciliabule

un codétenu

une attelle

se bichonner

saborder

un mitard

fredonner

esquiver

besogneux

une croisière

ôter

un pantin

une entorse