Un Mage en Été

Written by: Olivier Cadiot
Director: Ludovic Lagarde
Performed by: Laurent Poitrenau

In his blanched linen trousers and waistcoat over starched white shirt, Robinson, the titular magus played by Laurent Poitrenau, is gently iridescent against the pitch black of the Pompidou Centre stage as the lights go down on the audience. Throughout the hundred-minute monologue he retains this ethereal glow, part effect in Sébastien Michaud’s eloquent lighting design, part function of Poitrenau’s mesmeric performance, as he guides us through the brimming images of a sprawling subconscious.

Starting with a depiction of a woman standing in a river, water up to her waist, on a hot summer’s day, Robinson leads us down a stream of consciousness from a Roman villa of antiquity to musings on Nietzsche playing golf. He moves almost compulsively from one detail to the next, one topic to another, but each new idea follows as inevitably as the swelling river from the opening must keep on flowing to the sea. Poitrenau embodies this fluidity with ease and, while not explicitly miming every impression or scene, inhabits them completely with his body. Like the woman from the beginning who changes the swirling patterns in the water around her with the slightest movement, so Poitrenau alters the narrative with a subtle change in stance, its repercussions rippling throughout the following section of the monologue.

But while Poitrenau’s physical exploration of the piece is enough to keep the audience in thrall, it is his vocal performance, and the amplification and distortion effects which accompany it, which really go to the core of Cadiot’s text. The delivery combines clarity of meaning, sense of discovery and impeccable diction so flawlessly as to suggest that the voice is a distinct entity. And by taking Robinson’s voice and projecting it around the auditorium through speakers so that it circles us, disappears, reappears behind us and finally returns to its onstage narrator, director Ludovic Lagarde frees it from its physical body and consequently, from spatial and temporal constraints. The ideas, pictures and words thus tumble into one another of their own accord: the piece becomes a meditation about the nature and limits of imagination, memory and creativity – how these forces are not bound by the conscious self, but rather govern it in ways it cannot understand. Indeed, at one point, overwhelmed by the visions and sensations which possess him, Robinson denies he is a magus at all in order to escape the sensation overload which his ramblings have brought upon him. Frightened by the potency of the world he imagines, and possibly recognizing the hubris of thinking he could control it, he admits he is merely a physical being, made up of molecules and atoms and quarks. But no sooner has he finished this confession than he is gripped again by his inventions.

Thus, Cadiot’s text is essentially reflexive – though it appears to be describing a vast external reality, it is a study of a creative mind at work and, by extension, the act of writing. And while it probes into areas such as the boundaries between memory and imagination, what it could mean to be original, and what it is about certain thoughts or pictures that transports us to another place, it never provides any straightforward answers. One thing, however, is certain: whether or not they are truly magi, this fresh, intelligent and poetic collaboration between Cadiot, Lagarde and Poitrenau has more than a hint of magic about it.

Eurydice @ The Young Vic

On the back of the playtext for Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice, published by Methuen Drama and available for purchase at the Young Vic, an extract from a New York Times review reads: “the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced”. As Andrew Haydon notes, unless the quote has been opportunistically truncated in order to omit a phrase which qualifies that statement, or the NYT is wildly overstating its case, something doesn’t quite add up. The problem is with “moving”: the performance I saw was pretty much the opposite – more of a “detached meditation on loss”.

The full quote is in fact: “Oh, yeah, and it may just be the most moving exploration of the theme of loss that the American theater has produced since the events of Sept. 11, 2001, although Ms. Ruhl began work on the play before that terrible day.” Given that the review appeared on 3 October 2006, the reviewer, Charles Isherwood, is essentially saying that this is “the most moving etc.” of the past few years (as opposed to ever, which the line from the playtext seems to imply). It is easy to see why the 9/11 reference has been cut (even though the sense of the sentence is altered without it); I’m a little at a loss as to why it was there in the first place (even within the context of the article). Maybe Isherwood is simply using an American equivalent of “in Britain since WWII” or “in Germany since the fall of the Berlin Wall”, but the implication seems to be that the events of that day have had some influence on American theatre, in particular the way it approaches the theme of loss. Perhaps I am reading too much into it.

Even though the NYT’s endorsement has been somewhat exaggerated, whoever cut and pasted the extract should probably be let off the hook: overall, the review from which the quote is taken sings the play’s praises, with particular emphasis on how deeply affecting it is. This is in stark contrast to Sheibani’s production, which is zen-like in its refusal to engage the audience emotionally. Being held at arm’s length in this manner is at times deeply frustrating: what with all Eurydice goes through, I felt like my heart should really go out to her, while remaining largely indifferent to her fate. At other moments though, it is pleasing to be given the space to contemplate the puckish poetry in Ruhl’s writing, but always at a remove: we are never allowed to forget ourselves in the fluid imagery which pervades the text.

With the play staged in the round on a square black metallic grille, large, square neon frames suspended above it and fountains which spout up in a square formation at the centre of the stage, the set achieves a striking formal elegance. So much so, in fact, that it doesn’t need the play – it could practically be taken on its own terms as an exhibition piece. More problematically, although the play finds some functional use for the design (one of the suspended square frames is lowered to evoke an elevator descending into the underworld and the running water conjures the Lethe), there is little in the way the stage is set to support the “moving exploration of the theme of loss” which Isherwood witnessed.

The actors too, appear to be working against inciting anything more than an intellectual involvement on the spectator’s part. The delivery is so even throughout that any peaks and troughs in the script are glossed over; there is nothing at stake, nothing to lose. Nevertheless, Geff Francis gives a strong performance as and archetypal kindly father, and Rhys Rusbatch plays the infantile Lord of the Underworld with eccentric panache (“EURYDICE: You’re little CHILD: I grow downward. Like a turnip”). Ony Uhiara and Osi Okerafor capture all the naïve optimism of young love but, disappointingly, display none of its passion. In themselves, the charactarisations are believable enough, but they never strive to build to anything or dare to fall from any great height. There is also a chorus of stones: when its members succeed it is as individuals rather than as part of a coherent whole – again, ensemble work in English productions proves underwhelming.

There is so much about the production which conspires to keep the audience at a distance that it is hard not to conclude that this is just what Sheibani intended. However, leaving us to ponder the meaning of Ruhl’s original yet sometimes coquettish use of language rather than submerging us in it significantly reduces its impact - it is a play which demands that audiences see it feelingly.