Collaborative Theatre

Le Theatre du Soleil

David Williams, David Williams

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2005
• ISBN:
  9781134884766
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Performing Arts

Over the past thirty years Ariane Mnouchkine's 'Théâtre du Soleil' has become one of the most celebrated companies in Europe, and Mnouchkine one of its best-known directors. Collaborative Theatre is the first in-depth sourcebook in English on 'Théâtre du Soleil', providing English readers with first-hand accounts of the development of its collectivist practices and ideals.
Collaborative Theatre presents critical and historical essays by theatre scholars from around the world as well as the writings of and interviews with members of le Théâtre du Soleil, past and present. Projects discussed include: 1789, L'Age d'Or, Richard II, L'Indiade and Les Atriades.

CHAPTER 1 TOWARDS A POPULAR THEATRE
1789: la révolution doit s’arrêter à la perfection du bonheur (1789: the revolution must end only with the perfection of happiness) (1970)

Remember that the [theatre] director has already achieved the greatest degree of power he has ever had in history. And our aim is to move beyond that situation by creating a form of theatre where it will be possible for everyone to collaborate without there being directors, technicians, and so on, in the old sense.

Ariane Mnouchkine¹

On the positive side, carnival suggests the joyful affirmation of becoming. It is ecstatic collectivity, the superseding of the individuating principle in what Nietzsche called ‘the glowing life of Dionysian revellers’ […] On the negative, critical side, the carnivalesque suggests a demystificatory instrument for everything in the social formation which renders such collectivity difficult of access […] Carnival in this sense implies an attitude of creative disrespect, a radical opposition to the illegitimately powerful, to the morose and monological.

R.Stamm²

1.1
1789 AT THE CARTOUCHERIE Victoria Nes Kirby

This detailed account of the staging of 1789, originally published in The Drama Review, describes the production and its scenography from the mobile perspective of a spectator in the central ‘pit’ area, surrounded by the action. The production contained a number of authentic historical documents; all such texts in this section are signalled by the use of italic type.

Inside the large rectangular building the theatre company has divided the huge space into two parts, cleaned it up and minimally painted it. One section has become a ‘lobby’, where tickets are picked up, some costume racks are stored and a photo display of former productions is mounted on panels. The other section, in which the play is performed, is much larger than the first. The walls and floor are stone and brick, and all the cast-iron reinforcements are visible. The rectangular space is divided down the centre by about twelve iron pillars; a wide skylight along the middle of the high ceiling is covered over during performances. The company has constructed a wooden grandstand for spectators that takes up part of the room nearest the lobby area. Behind and above it is a raised platform for the lighting boards and technical crew.

The grandstand faces five plain wooden platforms, each about five feet high, grouped around a large, empty, rectangular space. Each of the platforms can be reached from at least three sides—either along walkways or by stairs from the main floor. Inside the rectangular space, near the far platforms, are a tape deck and several kettle and snare drums. Outside the platforms and walkways there are four towers, for follow-spots at each of the corners. Above the entire playing area are rows of other spotlights, normal incandescent bulbs and several large loudspeakers.

Before the performance, the space is brightly lit, and the hall gives an impression of enormous spaciousness and simplicity. Nothing is hidden from the audience. We can see performers (of whom there are about forty) applying makeup in front of a long table and bench under the ‘control tower’. More costume racks, tables and benches, trunks and lockers are located at the two far ends of the hall. The audience is free to roam about, talk to members of the company, or find a place to watch the performance. The majority of the spectators seat themselves in the raked grandstand until this area is filled. Those remaining, and those who perhaps know that the space inside the stages is available to the audience, begin drifting, searching for a stair or a cross-bar to perch on. By the time the performance begins, the grandstand is full and about two hundred people are standing in the central area. In a sense, there are two different audiences. One of them, sitting in the stands, can see all the platforms at once and has an overall, simultaneous view of the performance; it is static and distanced from the action. The other, those people within the area defined by the platforms and walkways, becomes a participating audience.³

The costumes and acting styles contribute to the atmosphere of a carnival or travelling show: a festival-circus. The costumes are often flamboyant, symbolic and exaggerated in scale and detail. The actors are strolling players and bouffons from the late 18th century. They use commedia dell’arte, guignol and operatic styles of acting. Gestures are often amplified, larger than life. There is virtually no ‘realistic’ acting.⁴ […]

The lights dim, and two figures appear on one of the stages. They are dressed as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. To the grave, slow music of a Mahler symphony, they enact the flight of the royal couple to Varennes [in June 1791], where they hope to receive help from a loyal army. An actor dressed as a strolling player during the French Revolution appears; he describes the clothes of the couple in great detail and lists the towns they pass through during their journey. The scene is melodramatic and romantic, and invokes sympathy for the miserable and bewildered ‘innocents’ fleeing from the revolution and the Parisian mob. The couple disappears. Then the narrator bounds up on to another stage and addresses the audience in a loud, booming voice; the Théâtre du Soleil has another story to tell about 1789.

There follows a short symbolic scene in which the King is unhorsed by the common people, who also strike out against France’s two other tyrants—the Church and the Nobility. A figure appears on one of the end stages, and addresses the entire audience: ‘Once upon a time, in a country that you have forgotten, there was a sick King overcome with pain. Look at him!’ Leaning on a crutch, an actor dressed in the rich and flamboyant clothes of the King climbs up the stairs to the stage. The corner follow-spots brightly illuminate him, as music by Handel is played through the loudspeakers. Stepping down from the stage, the narrator grabs a microphone and tells the audience that the King, feeling death approaching, is calling his subjects to him; he introduces another actor, as a ‘gander’ (the Nobility), followed by another, as a ‘raven’ (the Clergy). These two are dressed in period costumes that are made unrealistic by the addition of extravagant feathers and plumes. The actor playing the Nobility moves slowly with courtly steps and gestures; he sniffs the King and turns away. The Clergyman has jerky, angular gestures and a harsh voice. The narrator puts a bonnet of ass-ears on his own head. As the raven and gander bang heavy wooden poles on the reverberating wooden stage, the ‘ass-narrator’ kneels down and the King sits on his back. Groaning, the ass begins to struggle and finally succeeds in throwing off the King. Seizing a baton, the ass threatens all three of the others. The scene ends as all of them, except for the narrator, remove their hats, making sweeping bows to the audience, and descend from the stage.

The next section is composed of simple scenes depicting the life of the common people in pre-revolutionary France. The narrator asks the audience to gather around him to hear the story of ‘Marie the Miserable’. Immediately, to the accompaniment of Bach, two actors and an actress appear on another stage. Behind them, a cloth curtain is hurriedly hung from a suspended cross-bar; it is reminiscent of those hastily raised backdrops seen in travelling shows and carnival booths. The performer playing Marie squats down on the floor of the platform and begins, in mime, to eat from a pot. Her gestures are slow, simple and repetitious. One of the other actors is again the Clergy; he wears a high, clerical tiara, unrealistically decorated with fake jewels and tassels. The third actor, playing the Nobility, is also richly and colourfully dressed—a wide white ruff encircling his neck, a silk sash across his chest, long lace cuffs hanging out of his sleeves; in addition, he wears a plumed hat and carries a studded cane in one hand. Both of them ask Marie for money, for God blesses her house and armies protect it. She has nothing to give, so they snatch her pot from her. She cries in despair, her hands outstretched to the spectators standing near the stage. The spotlight on her dims as her cry and the music fade away. Opposite, another vignette takes place on a different, brightly lit stage; it involves an actor playing the King’s salt-seller and an actress playing a hungry peasant. The woman drowns the salt-seller in an imaginary sea, and there is salted soup for everyone. Momentary rejoicing is cut short as the narrator introduces another scene on another platform. ‘Stagehands’ quickly erect the familiar backdrop. One actress plays a pregnant peasant woman, another her friend; they are awaiting the birth of the child. The only props on the bare stage are a bucket of water and a clean white linen cloth. From an adjoining stage, an actor, dressed in the hunting clothes of the nobility, approaches the two women along the walkway. In mime, he knocks on the cottage door and enters. He demands hot water in which to wash his feet and a clean towel with which to dry them. The pregnant woman’s friend begs him to return tomorrow, but the nobleman sticks his foot in the pail, splashing water over the stage, and grabs the linen cloth laid out for the imminent birth. He leaves and returns to the neighbouring stage, as the woman in labour screams and her companion weeps helplessly.

Four couples then appear on four stages, all dressed as peasants. Each woman rocks a white bundle, as if it were a baby, while the men speak to them: ‘My wife, I haven’t found any fire. My wife, I haven’t found any bread. My wife, I haven’t found any milk. I haven’t brought back anything. We are lost, we are cursed. Forever. Our child too. Give him to me, my wife; so I can kiss him, my wife; so I can caress him, my wife; so I can put him to sleep.’ Each father takes the bundle in his arms and strangles it.

Scenes of events leading up to the flight of the royal couple are now presented. Our eyes are drawn to another stage where an actor appears as King Louis XVI; he is a different actor from the one who impersonated the King at the opening of the performance. Imposing and lavishly dressed, he addresses the audience in an oratorical voice. He reads a paragraph from his decree for the convocation of the Estates-General (5 May 1789):

We, Louis, King of France by the grace of God, desire that from the extremities of our realm and from the most unknown settlements, each person should bring his wishes and complaints— in a manner that, by a mutual confidence and by a reciprocal love, will procure the quickest possible and efficient remedy to the ills of the State; and that we can restore, particularly to ourselves, the calm and tranquillity of which we have been deprived for so long.⁵

The narrator then describes the hopes that this announcement aroused in the people of France. He points to the platform opposite where a woman stands in a spotlight; she wears a simple dress, her hair piled up on her head. Behind her hangs one of the cloth curtains as used in other scenes. After singing a song that was popular in 1789, she tells the audience that they may write to the King, informing him of who is good and who is bad, who should remain and who should disappear.

An actor dressed as a curate emerges from the darkness, beating a drum. ‘Brothers!’, he shouts, like a town-crier, ‘the time of justice has come! Write to him quickly!’ The curate says he will return in an hour to collect the people’s grievances. On another stage opposite, directly in front of the grandstand, is a group of peasants, excited and happy about the news. The platforms and the pit are brightly lit; there is no music. The peasant-actors speak with a heavy regional accent, their movements are ponderous and awkward. The scene as a whole is played in a burlesque style. The peasants want to write to their ‘good King’, but they have no paper; so they produce the flag of France. Then they need a pen; there is a chase after an imaginary chicken, which they catch and pull out a quill. But there is no ink; so one of the women cuts her lover’s arm to draw blood, and the feather is dipped into it. Finally they realise that none of them can write, and the audience laughs at their antics. The curate returns: ‘If you’ve written nothing, we can change nothing!’ The audience’s laughter dies away.

A written grievance is passed through many hands on its way to the King. There are only two actors moving on bare stages, but they use popular theatre techniques and rapid costume changes to play a peasant, a man from a small market town, a man from a larger city, then a deputy. The costumes become finer, the actors’ stomachs larger and their voices more solemn as the characters they portray become more elevated socially. Their means of transportation is also mimed by the actors: walking, riding a horse, riding in a carriage. Money is exchanged; the sum rises.

All of the lights go out, except for two spotlights on one of the end platforms, where two trestles are hastily lifted on stage. A board is placed on top of them to form a miniature stage, and a plain curtain is raised on poles behind. Four actors appear, dressed as strolling players of the early 19th century with huge red spots on their cheeks. They carry small marionettes, representing Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Monsieur Necker (the Swiss-born Director General of Finances who, in 1789, was very popular because of his economic theories), the Nobility, the Clergy and a ‘brave’ member of the Third Estate. Everyone can see both the marionettes and the live actors who manipulate them. They present a sketch called ‘The Meeting of the Estates-General’, a comic Punch and Judy show with some of the stock situations: the Queen hits the King, th...