Monday, 1/12/09

The outside of the theater:

This play may have been my favorite part of the trip. The 17th-century play by Corneille was performed at la Comédie Française. The mise-en-scène surprised me at first. Long before the play began, the austere black walls, net of glass doors and windows, and plain wood partitions that decorated the stage filled me with foreboding. I generally loathe modern settings of old pieces, and my fears of a contemporary-loving director were confirmed when the opening characters sauntered onstage in t-shirts and sweaters, facing not each other but the crowd. Once the story got rolling, however, my fears vanished. The magician, Alcandre, came out in leather pants, his shirt initially unbuttoned to expose a large, hairy belly that fit his low, rough voice and wise chuckle. Matamore (Denis Podalydès), muscularly challenged and small, had a high, ridiculous voice full of hubris, his hairline desperately receding. Pridamente (Alain Lenglet) has a spectacular dignity of bearing about his face, a sweetness unexpected from his character. His son Clindor (Loïc Corbery) had the most expressive face; the casting was brilliant. Clindor played irony, sarcasm, and indulgence just right. He was emotional, but not melodramatic, throwing himself upon Isabelle in such repentant fury, such glorious regret, with a passion I am not accustomed to seeing on a live stage.

The show made the words of the play come alive, in more than a literal sense. I missed so much in the first read, the pregnant pauses, the wordplay. I am glad that we read the play before watching it, but I think I would learn a great deal from reading it again.

K.B.