“This carpet with its rich wool and ornate design is thirsty, I say, thirsty!..I have come to seal an impossible pact…I will replace it with an impossible act…” And so on.
In response, Boehlmer gave voice to all the accusations and anger that he had swept under his own carpet since the first moments of his confinement, and, for that matter, since the first day of rehearsals, when Flavy had distributed the roles without regard for his actors’ preferences — including, of course, Boehlmer’s.
The confrontation between the two men had now reached a state of equilibrium: each character equally ready, willing, and able to respond to the other’s accusations. A moment of respite. This created, however, a problem for the plot: it wasn’t going anywhere. The actors were like two rams, horns locked, neither giving an inch. Flavy’s Soufissis seemed to have become decidedly less suicidal, while Boehlmer’s President was openly gloating over his right to banish this burdensome witness to the ways he had used his absolute power.
The scene went on, and on, seeming condemned to run aground in the sands of inactivity. The audience continued to wait — expecting, at least vaguely, the tragic end of Théodore Soufissis. When two groups of spectators rose and left the theater, however, Boehlmer realized where things were headed and changed course. He declared to Soufissis that as the promised reconciliation was not to take place: one of them must die. Flavy grabbed this verbal ball on the fly and returned to his text, announcing his refusal of any egalitarian duel and his intention of unilaterally staining the Presidential carpet with blood. Unfortunately, the pistol that was normally in the pocket of Boehlmer’s costume had disappeared, falling out when Annie Soulemenov had rushed back toward the stage. What was Flavy to do?
After a long diatribe ridiculing the pretence of someone who grandly announces their imminent suicide only to realize they’ve forgotten to procure the instrument with which to perform it, Boehlmer offered a solution to this dramaturgical problem: he moved to the large presidential desk and opened a drawer. A simple glance into the (empty) drawer sufficed for the audience to deduce that he was looking at a weapon. Flavy approached, thrust his hand into the drawer, and withdrew it with great energy while taking care to turn away from the audience. Then he thrust the phantom knife into his stomach. As hara-kiris go, it wasn’t great, but it sufficed. Bent forward, Flavy tottered toward the vast carpet. After a last gasp of pain, he collapsed onto it, expiring with his nose buried in the wool’s deep pile. Unexpectedly, this got a huge laugh — laughter, however, that somehow managed not to seem mocking. The President advanced to the edge of the stage, apparently fixing the audience with his stare — though, in actual fact, he was trying to stare down the stage manager high above, who was asking himself when he should cut the lights. Boehlmer’s look was unequivocaclass="underline" you will do so only after my final line! He let loose a sardonic cackle that instantly quieted the audience’s laughter. Then he added, icily: “Never again!”
Black. Curtain. Immediate applause. Hallelujah.
You know the feeling. The nightmare is over. Land-ho. Salvation. The end of an hour of chaos for an exhausted teacher — That happened to me once when I taught preschool. It was horrible. But, at last, darkness. Though an audience often manifests relief by rushing for the exits, they treated us to round after round of warm, enthusiastic applause. We responded unreservedly, with much smiling and bowing, as if we’d just pulled off King Lear without a single misplaced iamb or unshed tear. During the third round of applause there was a noticeable intensification as Pauline joined us, a dazed smile on her face. Her black stockings were on again. And then, during the fifth round of applause, the Usurper appeared behind us. We didn’t see him. When we broke ranks, he rushed towards Pauline, gallantly presenting her with a red rose. This done, he leapt over the footlights and into the audience, thereby clearing both a visible and an invisible hurdle. The audience reacted with a final explosion of applause as the theater went dark. He disappeared into the crowd, which was already moving toward the exits.
We never saw him again.
Before concluding, and at the relatively disinterested request of Marcel Flavy, I append to my report the complete text of Alexandre Botsinas’s review, published in The Morning Republic on the Monday following our performance. After the end of the play, the critic did not elect to stay and have a drink with us, as is his custom. “That there,” said Jean-Pierre Capelier to me, “is a paralyzed critic. Look at him, all wrapped up in his coat as though someone’s been bludgeoning him — without intermission! — for the past two hours” (normally an hour and forty minutes, but we went over a bit).
“Exhausted,” I acknowledged.
“And something tells me that he isn’t going to keep that exhaustion to himself,” added Flavy with a bitter smile, which he then couldn’t manage to relax.
Botsinas surprised us, however. And, as you can judge for yourself, agreeably:
Going Out to the People, a play in three acts, written and directed by Marcel Flavy on National Stage Seven, with Pauline Bensmaïla, Annette Nois, Annie Soulemenov, Sylvestre Pascal-Bram, Jean-François Ernu, Nicolas Boehlmer. Scenery and costumes: Sylvie Plumkett. Lighting: Jean Sachs and Jean-Pierre Capelier.
A FALSE DEPARTURE FOLLOWED BY A REAL RETURN…
— unless it would be better to say, “A not-quite-false departure followed by a not-quite-real return.” Marcel Flavy has offered us a remarkable new play — a historical drama that is bold in subject and artful in execution. It should be seen by everyone who has not completely given up on modern theater.
In these days when so many are seeking to foster interest in our history among the younger generations, Marcel Flavy — talented refugee first from the Lounia Company and then from Paul Batteux’s troupe (which explains much) — offers us a splendid surprise. In three acts lasting two hours and depicting twenty-four hours of national history, we witness the reunion between the legendary “Real-President” of the preceding century, as Alcover calls him in Portraits in Vitriol, and the man who was his dearest friend during the period of his ascension and his bitterest enemy once his power became absolute. The visit to the people that gives the play its title also drives its plot: from the president’s decision to disguise himself for a wild night with his subjects to the sobering day after. Everything revolves around the encounter between the two men — as if Fidel Castro were to run into Che in a sordid back alley in Havana.
In this face-off there is some first-rate verbal jousting and an extremely original use of dramatic hesitation. It was as if the players were not supposed to say their lines until they had first forgotten them, which clearly necessitated a repressive discipline wonderfully maintained and which I find especially praiseworthy in Marcel Flavy, hitherto known as a strict traditionalist. I would like to trumpet the following and be heard near and far: Marcel Flavy, continue down this ascetic path! Too often in the theater a line of dialogue is shoved forward like a reheated pizza instead of like something unique to its time and its place — a time that is none other than now, and a place that is none other than here.