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Mes jambes, si vous saviez, quelle fumée. Financial Times 28 oct 2004.

Source : Théâtre de la Bastille (http://www.theatre-bastille.com)

Apparence :

COPI auteur
Marcial Di Fonzo Bo Metteur en scène

Texte : Mes jambes, si vous saviez, quelle fumée

So very French, said my companion, fresh from Australia. This just gœs to show that stéréotypes of black stockings, sky-high stilettos and a city bathed in hedonism are far from dead. Only here, the stockings are worn by men. And women. And a mixture ot both, when the masks swivel round and only the buttocks distinguish back from front.
Back to the beginning, dominated by a glowing red disc on which radiate high-kicking legs, impossible heels spearing the rim. Slow ripples move across its surface; a small light darts erratically like a reflected firefly. It is hypnotic, sensual. The théâtre is filled with the crackly recordings of Pierre Molinier, the surrealist who tumed to erotic photography in his 50s, made his fantasies and his legs the subject of his work and thought that our mission was to tum the world into a huge brothel. His was a life that inspired Bruno Geslin to adapt Molinier's interviews into this intimate, extraordinarily theatrical production.
Molinier's voice fades into the actor's. Pierre Maillet is Molinier and magnificent. He has the mannerisms off to a T: the nasal provincial accent, the self-deprecating cough at the end of outrageous anecdotes, the tee-hee chuckle. Drawing us into his atelier, he conjures up the toddler crawling under the skirts of clients of his dressmaker mother, swishing his little hands up their stockinged legs as far as they could reach. He casually
continues this fetishistic meandering, cocking a snook at conventions despite a wife and
three kids back home.
Geslin's staging is absorbing and inventive, mixing vidéo, audio, screens,shadow play and dance to the rhythmic clicking of heels. It is never vulgar and often funny. Gunshot shatters the erotic tension and jolts us into laughter. False notes are hard to find, though the orgasmic soundtrack lacked the général lightness of touch.
The text weaves in the passing of time, growth of wrinkles, sagging of flesh. Maillet giggles about photographing his own gravestone, complete with epitaph.
The twist is that he really did kill himself, in celebratory fashion, at 76, leaving a note : "Gone to kill myself. The concierge has the key".



Source Externe : Financial Times 28 oct 2004.


Inséré le : 28/02/2006 00:00