A quirky theatre piece not only provides shelter from the storm but reveals the fragmented and paradoxical personality of one of Paris’s best loved writers.
The dreary weather has set in: bitterly cold, grey skies - but the hardy Parisians still frequent the cafés of St Germain, sitting inches away from passers-by and enjoying some Chèvre Chaud or Salade Niçoise while the napkins flap about in the wind and the waiters shiver their way through cigarette breaks.
It’s around now that the siren song of the city’s many theatres becomes even louder, and tonight there’s a showing of a modern piece about Jean-Jacques Rousseau, which is listed in the journal as an "intimate, funny, and mordant" monologue sketch. No lateness, as you’ll interrupt the play’s "artistic rhythm".
We arrive to find few places left, save for a couple of front seats that form a horseshoe around the stage. An amusing sight greets our eyes – Rousseau is already up on the stage, feigning sleep on a gilded chaise longue. We’re close enough to see the pattern on his night cap and the rising and falling of his dormant chest. The lights dim, and he sits up...or should I say she? The great writer seems to have the arched eyebrows and shrill voice of a woman! Time to read the programme. Ah, yes – Rousseau is played by Marief Guittier, who doesn’t mind the thespian gender swap in the slightest. She rises to the challenge admirably.
It’s a triumph, albeit an odd one. Rousseau cogitates with a jar of cherries under his arm, quoting from his Confessions and occasionally stopping mid sentence to offer love advice or a cherry to unsuspecting audience members. We learn that he both enjoys and hates theatre; both reveres and scorns Moliere (the latter illustrated by his hitting an alabaster bust of the playwright in the face), and has turbulent feelings of misanthropy versus a desire to be loved. The piece ends on a poignant note, with the great man belittled to a tragic figure in his nightshirt, spoon feeding himself cherries and glowering at us through heavy-lidded eyes.
Frances Forbes-Carbines
