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Paris
Theatre Diary
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April 2006 French directors have a nasty predilection. They don't like Shakespeare. At least they don't like how Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare; they have decided to make his plays better. The result: an endless array of conceptual rubbish cheekily by-lined "after" William Shakespeare. There is of course nothing sacred about the bard's plays. Occasionally a maverick director does explode his text into an unexpected delight (the Brazilian Enrique Diaz's Hamlet: Repetition last December was such an example). More often than not though, disregarding such finely crafted jewels stinks of vanity over true artistic endeavour.
Director Georges Lavaudant's Hamlet was such a case in point. It was a shame. The production re-opened the now sparkling Théâtre de l'Odéon after three years of renovation. Jean-Pierre Vergier's period-free décor and costumes were exquisite. The text was spoken by actors who actually wanted to make you listen, a rarity in France. Unfortunately, Lavaudant had other ideas. More specifically, he had one big, fat, important and incredibly 'clever' idea. Hamlet would be reinterpreted as a dream. Thanks to this, he crow-barred onto stage a mise-en-scène that became increasingly preposterous as the evening went on. Scenes were interspersed with ballet-style yoga exercises. Anything from hammerhead sharks to soft-rock videos were projected behind the actors. Laertes and Hamlet dueled with their fingers. For a sound effect, two swords were tapped apologetically behind them. Lavaudant also castrated the production of any remaining dramatic strength by slashing the text to under ninety minutes. Opportunity after opportunity for conflict, passion or suspense was lost. There was no opening scene with Hamlet's ghost, Claudius was reduced to a mere plot-device, and the Player's description of the fall of Troy, hacked down to three lines, was criminally mumbled by Pascal Rénéric. Ariel Garcia Valdès also gave a dull, lifeless performance in the lead role. Looking way past forty, Valdès was a strange choice. It's possible to sympathise with a young Hamlet, thrust into an unimaginably grotesque situation. Considering Valdes' graying hair and pot-belly it's hard to imagine him making Hamlet's mistakes. Losing his hair dye would be more probable. In short, more of a wet fart than a tragedy. There really is nothing worse than a director with a 'good idea'!
Perhaps someone could point this out to circus directors. The discipline has been invigorated since nouveau cirque (new circus) began placing artistic expression above the sawdust and spectacle of the past. Too often though, aimless philosophizing supplants actual entertainment. Writer and director Daniele Finzi Pasca is no stranger to big-budget extravaganza. Previous commissions have been for the Torino Olympics closing ceremony and the grandiose Cirque du Soleil. The scale and themes of Rain though, his latest project with Quebec-based Cirque Eloize, are much more intimate: memories of summer rain and cloudy skies, a nostalgia for a simpler past, the search to regain the freedom of childhood. They are nice enough ruminations, but they don't make for a gripping evening. And the interspersed circus acts, although highly proficient, are nothing new. Neither do they reach the astounding levels of spectacle that many of today's more traditional circuses have recaptured. What is left is something in-between: not so spectacular circus tricks mixed with a fairly vacuous trip down memory lane. Pasca's mise-en-scène, with its wonderful visual balance, floating clouds, Victorian musclemen, and beautiful light play, is undoubtedly pretty. In particular, the joy and abandon of the final scene, in which the cast thrilled in playing football under a torrential downpour was sublime. But coiffed poodles are also pretty. Circus needs sweat and guts. I left feeling like I'd eaten a vegetarian meal. Where was the meat?
Narrative meat is certainly not missing though in The Epic of Gilgamesh. Part God, part man, the Sumerian King's quest for immortality is the oldest story known. Recently it has also become something of a theatrical mainstay. Cheek by Jowl's Declan Donnellen has had a production planned for some time, and last year the Barbican was treated to Polish Teatr Piesn Kozla's remarkable Chronicles - A Lamentation, inspired by the ancient Sumerian tale. Like Piesn Kozla, French director Catherine Schaub, with an all Syrian cast, placed ritualistic song and movement at the core of her production. But although it had its moments, Schaub's ensemble never matched the visceral power of their Polish peers. Perhaps the most glaring problem is that the production never settled on a consistent style. The cast often broke from heroic tales to set up a mock teacher 'story-hour'. Actors running around like school kids was just clichéd and false. Interspersions of slapstick humour also sat uneasily with the epic grandeur of the story. Indeed the Syrian company were at their best when most direct and simple: a delicate chant floating through the auditorium, a God rising up from behind a stretched-out sheet, an immense expanse of silk billowing over the stage as Gilgamesh and the wild-man Enkidu traveled in search of the goddess Humbaba. There was also a profound tranquility to the death speech of Enkidu, delivered by Jamal Choukair in absolute stillness. The measured beauty of these moments made unwelcome so many crass diversions.
Reporter: John Cardale Please note that all three Archive indices are very long and will therefore take some time to download.
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