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Jacques Jouet

Upstaged

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On Tuesday March 9th our eighth performance of Going Out to the People, written and directed by Marcel Flavy, was disrupted. Even now, it’s extremely difficult to say whether this was unfortunate — either for us or for the audience. In any event, this disturbance was so artfully concealed from the public eye that the hallowed reputation of our national theater suffered no injury. Were it not for the professionalism of all involved — including, to be fair, the source of the disturbance himself — this would never have been possible.

There is something misleading in what I just wrote. What March 9th’s audience saw was not actually Going Out to the People. Although they did not know it, although they could not know it, although there was no way for us to tell them, what they saw was far stranger.

For this to make any sense I need to begin at the beginning. Before I do, it is imperative that I stress that the following — indeed, somewhat contradictory — account was not written with the aim of assigning blame to any of the players in that night’s drama. It should be remembered that these were professional artists violently shaken from their usual routines. There can be no doubt that for the duration of the crisis they performed to the best of their abilities. Taking sides for or against any of them would be not only inappropriate, it would be unfair. So as to be as absolutely explicit as possible: this document is offered with no other aim than the edification of a noble profession.

On the evening in question, the theater was filled to three-quarters of its full capacity (of eight hundred and fifty seats). In addition to the tickets sold, four complimentary press passes had been issued, two of which were redeemed.

Alexandre Botsinas of The Morning Republic was to be found in his customary front-row seat, a notepad in his lap, the text of the play in hand. (I note these details as they were to prove not without importance. ) Of the other journalist present nothing much need be said. Famed for his long critical naps, he was, in point of fact, actually asleep for the better part of the performance.

Act One proceeded as planned. Jean-François Ernu and Sylvestre Pascal-Bram breezed through its forty-five minutes in a mere forty-two — an acceleration that Marcel Flavy, the play’s author and director, had demanded after a lethargic Sunday matinee performance. This picking up of the play’s pace was made without notable cuts to the text, although a number of not-so-pregnant silences were filled. At this quickened rate, the dialogue between the head of state and his principal advisor was filled with new energy. When the President of the Republican Council decides to disguise himself as a common citizen for a night — to leave his palace incognito so as to take the pulse of his people, as it were — we sensed, for the first time, a genuine curiosity move through the theater. This seemed to bode well for what was to come. I made a note to myself: “Pacing! Watch over it! It is the production’s most vulnerable child!” People who don’t work in the theater tend not to to realize how the daily rhythm of performance works imperceptibly — and perniciously! — to slow delivery. Keeping watch over a play’s tempo is therefore absolutely essential. For this reason it is as exciting as it is important to find ways to counter the eroding effects of performance.