Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France: Theatres and Their Publics 303122471X, 9783031224713

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Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France Theatres and Their Publics Ifigenia Gonis

Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France

Ifigenia Gonis

Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France Theatres and Their Publics

Ifigenia Gonis Lycée École Internationale Bilingue Paris, France

ISBN 978-3-031-22471-3    ISBN 978-3-031-22472-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

For my advisors—Sylvaine, Christian, and Verena. For my teachers and my students. For those I’ve created and performed with. And for all those who lent an ear to my excitement and frustrations As I navigated this mountain of a project. Thank you.

About This Book

This book examines the dynamics of the relational and spatial politics of contemporary French theatrical production, with a focus on four theatres in the Greater Paris region. It posits that these dynamics can be understood not only through an analysis of live performance, but also through putting these performances in context with the perspectives of the artistic directors who are responsible for deciding on seasonal programming. Understanding these dynamics, as well as the politics that underscore them, is key to understanding not only the present status of the public theatre in Paris—as well as in France at large—but also how theatre as a publicly-funded institution interacts with the notion of the plurality, rather than the homogeneity, of its publics.

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Contents

1 Introduction  1 2 Decentralization 19 3 A  ssemble: La Colline, Théâtre National, Paris (20th Arrondissement) 55 4 Build: Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers, Nanterre 89 5 Diversify: MC93, Bobigny125 6 P  luralize: Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris (11th Arrondissement)163 7 Conclusion199 Bibliography207 Index

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About the Author

Ifigenia  Gonis  holds a PhD in Romance Languages and Literatures (French) from Harvard University. Her primary research interests include contemporary theatre and performance studies, French cultural politics, social justice, and popular media. She is also one of the inaugural board members of the Boston-based Citizen TALES Commons collective.

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction

On March 4, 2021, a group primarily composed of intermittent workers in the theatre industry (intermittants de spectacle) began an occupation of the Odéon theatre in central Paris that would last just over eighty days. At the time, Metropolitan France was still in its second major lockdown due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, with cultural activity having been re-suspended as of October 2021. Yet, it would be an error to write off the group’s effort as a simple push for a full reopening of theatres and other sites of cultural production. True, as stated on their manifesto—formerly on the group’s (now defunct) website but still visible on their Instagram and Facebook pages as of 20221—reopening would be ideal, but this act on its own is insufficient, especially with regard to the statuses of the workers whose labour would be required to keep the theatre running. More precisely, at the time of the occupation, public discourse was beginning to concentrate around a proposed reform on unemployment benefits that, should it have passed on July 1, 2021, as planned, would, according to a report filed by the Socialist Party, disproportionately target workers in volatile industries.2 While French labour law technically places intermittent workers in the cultural sector in a distinct category, one of the requirements that must be met to hold that status is logging in a certain number of working hours as proof of activity. Whereas the first year of the pandemic saw the Ministry of Culture granting intermittent workers an “année blanche” (white year), prior to the occupation, it was announced © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 I. Gonis, Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0_1

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that this would not be extended past summer 2021,3 pushing an already unstable workforce into greater precarity. Yet this threat of further precarity would also prove to be one of the catalysts for what followed: the convergence of the intermittants de spectacle with a group they were, administratively speaking, formerly separated from. The hidden labour of the theatre—and then, by extension, the theatre itself—thrust itself into public discourse not under the guise of fighting for a sector-specific cause but rather as one branch of a larger socioeconomic problem. The public theatre and the activities associated with it are thus inextricably linked to a greater social ecosystem rather than set apart, one voice among several. What is even more notable, however, is the degree to which the Odéon—and eventually around 100 other theatres in France—functioned as primary sites for expression of public discontent.4 These included daily open forums where union representatives, as well as members of the public, were allowed to speak as they wished on the topic of the impending reform, as well as the difficulties brought on by the second lockdown, and occasionally short street performances, which, at the time, constituted some of the rare instances of live spectacle the public had open access to. There was little that resembled an agenda or a codified order of operations, other than granting as much space as possible for spontaneous individual contributions to a larger tapestry of public dialogue. Thus, the Odéon and the semi-circular plaza in front of it transformed into centralized hubs for the constant creation and the re-fashioning of relational links between the place, those who occupied it, and those who were present as members of the “general public”. This in turn temporarily re-situates the theatre from a status that set it somewhat apart based on a perceived sense of specificity regarding conditions of use to one decidedly anchored in the present—part of its publics rather than simply there for their consumption. That such a re-situating happened in and around a theatre is not, however, astounding in itself. A theatre, in the barest of terms, is a space that by nature engages in the realm of the revealing of the possible, albeit generally within an established fictional framework. What the activities that characterized the Occupation Odéon movement do, then, is shift an inherent and accepted characteristic of the theatre into the unpredictability of the real and, with that, momentarily divest the space from a certain pre-established relationship with its surroundings. Yet, this question of a renegotiation of the relationship between the theatre and both its publics and its surrounding territories is also at the

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heart of one of the more notable critiques of the movement: that of Stéphane Braunschweig, artistic director of the Odéon. In an interview with Télérama on April 28, 2021, Braunschweig laments the fact that the occupation’s demands have exceeded the limits of the cultural sector in attempting to converge the movement with larger social questions.5 This, coupled with an assertion that a cohabitation between the artistic team and the occupants would be impossible following an anticipated reopening under public health restrictions—an assertion that the occupation team countered in a comment to Libération6—ultimately strikes at the more profound question of who, and what, a public theatre is precisely for. In essence, the two perspectives are decidedly oppositional. On the one hand, there stands a vision that sees the theatre as a site of a particular kind of exchange, one which imagines a public that chooses to frequent it for a specific purpose, thus, to a degree, pre-emptively establishing a certain set of conditions that must be met to be considered as part of this public. On the other, the vision is that of a space that may not have a specific purpose—or product—to offer, but functions instead as a site that more openly embraces the plurality in its publics and, through this, creates the conditions necessary for a potential renegotiation of links between them. In other words, a theatre can be, at once, a site of creative, fictional performance as well as one that grants space for more direct engagement in real contemporary, and, critically, extra-theatrical, social matters. The perspective a particular theatre adopts can thus be rather revelatory with regard to where it situates itself in the question of how to imagine its public(s). At the same time, however, this debate over how a theatre in France relates to and imagines its public (or publics) did not necessarily arise following the convergence of labour movements in the spring of 2021, nor is it the case that the occupation was unique in its creation of conditions that foster plurality rather than homogeneity of publics. It must be conceded, however, that the imagination of publics has a relatively recent history compared with an imagining that tends towards the singular “public”. Indeed, one can see a homogenization of the public as far back, for instance, as d’Aubignac’s La Pratique du théâtre (1657),7 wherein he uses the singular spectateur as a stand-in for the greater, heterogeneous group in his analyses of theatrical aesthetics, ultimately suggesting a singular, rather than pluralized, mode of relationality. Where this question carries further weight today, however, is in the fact that now one must also consider it in the specific context of a space for which a direct line between it

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and its surrounding sociopolitical context has been established via State-­ sponsored subsidies, cementing its status as an integral element to the sociopolitical identity of the State in question. In France, this latter point takes on further significance when one considers the history of the development of State- and/or department-­ subsidized public theatres in the country. When the initial pushes for what eventually became known as la décentralisation théâtrale (theatre decentralization) were outlined, one of the underlying goals of the project involved the very engagement with the question of possibilities for multiple publics. Here, the scope of that question was largely territorial: in the aim to counter the perception that theatre and access to culture in general were reserved only for those who lived in or who could afford to travel to Paris, State budgets began to allocate funds towards the building of theatres in what were thought of as forgotten “pockets” of Metropolitan France. At the same time, however, though engaged in a project of diversification through territorial expansion, the initial decentralization project nevertheless maintained a close relationship with the idea of the physical presence of a theatre in a territory functioning as a means of creating a connective web that united their respective publics under the larger umbrella of a common sociocultural identity. Almost sixty years after the establishment of the decentralization project, this latter point in particular merits closer examination, especially given the social changes that have destabilized the very notion of unified identity in the first place. Given this, the question now becomes to what degree, under normal operating conditions, do today’s public theatres in France engage with or reflect this change in the larger social landscape. In other words, even prior to the occupation at the Odéon, were the conditions already in place to encourage a pluralized or constant renegotiation of relationality in the public theatre? Here, plurality refers to everything ranging from variances in economic status to gender and/or sexual identity, race, political affiliations, and so on, but more precisely, what it implies is the creation of a territorial environment in which engagement with several publics rather than engagement with the public has become a social reality with which public theatres in France have had to respond to. What I propose here, therefore, is an examination of various relational dynamics in contemporary theatre within the context of the differing artistic politics of public theatres in the Paris region. More precisely, through an analysis of live performance in the context of both the event itself and its place within the overall programming of the venue it is being staged in,

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it is evident that, first, to characterize the public theatre in the Paris region is to frame it as pluralized and heterogeneous rather than as a singular unit with a singular imagination. Second, where individual theatres diverge is more in how they respond to or engage with this plurality than in whether they recognize it in the first place. This is evident in a theatre’s programming, especially when considered as a manifestation of the overall project of its artistic director, the one who bridges the gap between the theatre as a space and the potential publics who will visit it. It is here that the question of negotiations, of establishment of and navigations through various dynamics come into play, and where one can begin to paint a more complete picture of the various statuses of public theatre first in the Paris region and then more broadly to Metropolitan France.

On Defining Space Arguably, one of the more evident examples of an intersection of the notion of plurality with that of territory in the theatre lies in the various manners in which one can conceive of “space” within this context. Rather than a singular definition, “space” can refer to anything from the fictional space created on the stage in the course of a performance to the spatial layout of the house in relation to the stage—and in turn the dynamics that result between the two, alluded to earlier—the physical structure of the theatre house itself and, finally, the manner in which this structure both conceives of and is put in relation with the larger territory that surrounds it. At times, these differing approaches are discussed independently from one another. I, however, propose to consider them all as interdependent, that is, that each cannot be considered on its own without accounting for its potential effects on the development of the others and vice versa. More precisely, it is through the examination of both the individual approaches and their interactions and dialogues with the others that one can begin to craft a more complete understanding of the politics of spectator/spectacle relations within the context of the public theatre. Theatre and Performance Theory Key to the exploration of the above hypothesis is an understanding of the conceptualization of space within the context of live theatrical performance. To borrow from Anne Ubersfeld (1982),8 one can define the theatre space as the image and counter-proof of a “real” space, closely tied to

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the notion of theatrical text. It is the part of the text that is unsaid, the silences, the unlocalized stage directions. Theatre space, because of its initial abstraction, is one that must be constructed for the text to be able to access its mode of existence. Yet, rather than remain fixed, space is also in a constant state of flux in the context of the theatre, and this occurs on three fronts. First, there is space constructed based on the spectator. This kind of construction involves a geometricization of space, which is derived from the idea that what counts is the relationship between different forms or ways of playing and the movement of the actors on stage that perform them. The scenic architecture is thus the determinant for the functioning of these spaces in the eyes of the spectator. Second, there are spaces that are constructed based on a referent. These are homogenous spaces, and therefore there is no distinction between different areas of play. In Ubersfeld’s case, for instance, she identifies these spaces closely with neo-­ realist theatre. Finally, there are undefined spaces or those that are constructed based on an actor’s (or actors’) movements and/or the combination of different bodies. Going further, one can also think of space in the theatre as being inherently plural, as its precise definition changes depending upon the particularities related to its use, as well as for differences in potential modes of relationality each use engenders. There is, for instance, the scenic space, that is, the assemblage of signs on a stage and the inherent process of signification contained within them. This is followed by the playing space— the space where the actor performs and thus engages with another form of signification—and then the dramatic space: the result of the convergence of all the other spaces present within the theatre. This latter space has the further distinction of extending beyond the physical bounds of place or architecture, as well as being able, through its capacity to transform a real, concrete place into a representative or imaginary one. Notably, what the recognition of the inherent plurality of space in the theatre context allows for is an extension of this same plurality to notions of “place” in the theatre, which, unlike space, encompasses the physical rather than just the abstract. When thinking of the “theatrical place” in general—normally defined by the building itself that houses the theatre— one can also consider it as a container of sorts, housing several other places. Biet and Triau (2006),9 for example, highlight in particular: the scenographic place (lieu scénographique) which includes not just the stage but the house and the spectators when there is a performance on; the scenic place, which is comprised of the stage (or if there is no defined stage,

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the playing area) itself and is where the actors go through a process of “evolution”; the ludic or playing place, which is inhabited by the actor, their presence, gestures, relationships to other actors, and their relationship to the scenic place in general. While each of these places has their specificities, what they all share is a definition that is essentially based on a notion of boundaries or limitations. What counts is that there is a system of inside/outside that is put in place, one that can also potentially be transgressed or, at the very least, blurred. Spatial and Urban Dynamics At the same time, “space” itself is not static in the sense that it is beyond individualized appropriation, its potential significance(s) or meaning(s) being set in such a way that it is only they who act on or influence the individuals who enter said space. Instead, what arguably exists is a reciprocal (and simultaneous) process of negotiations between both the space and its individual “occupants”, characterized by each’s capacity to enact a transformation on the other. Regarding the latter of the two groups, what such a relationship and capacity for appropriation further do is open an avenue towards a retention of a certain degree of autonomy or distinction from other inhabitants, running counter to a process of homogenization. There is, in other words, a certain degree of vibrancy, or rather, dynamism, that becomes apparent in a space once one factors in the potential tensions generated by the physical presence of distinct individuals. Such a conception of spatial dynamics is illustrated well in Michel de Certeau’s L’Invention du quotidien. 1. Arts de faire (1980),10 specifically his opening description of Manhattan done while looking down from the 110th floor of the World Trade Center which contrasts the above position of the spectator with the on-the-ground position or perspective of the walker. While the former has a bird’s-eye (or god’s-eye) view over the city, the latter is to a certain extent bound to the rules of the architecture. Certeau then further discusses the concept of the city which he describes as a place of transformation and appropriation that functions under a triple operation: first, through the production of its own proper space, namely a process of inclusion and exclusion wherein the city, through its organization, attempts to remove anything that could compromise it. Second, the substitution of what he considers to be a sort of “non-time” or a synchronic system to the elusiveness of tradition—in other words, a substitution that replaces feeling with science and methodical reasoning. Finally, it

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operates with the goal of turning “the city” into its own universal subject: it could be possible, then, that the city in its move towards a universal subjectivity seeks to distance itself from any notion of specificity or locality. However, the main way that space becomes “realized” is through the action of the walker. Indeed, through Certeau’s formulation, walking in a city takes on its own kind of rhetoric. To walk is not only to engage in a process of appropriation of space—that is, the walker retakes some ownership of the urban system in which they find themselves walking—it is also a spatial realization of place. If, for instance, a space, through its organization, is comprised of numerous possibilities, to walk is to realize one or more of said possibilities in that moment, to transform spatial signs into concrete traces, barriers, bridges, or trajectories of movement. It is also through walking or movement that the notions of “here” and “there” are realized. Although place and architecture may impose certain bounds to movement in a particular space, it is how the body of the walker moves through space that makes those bounds real (even in cases where it defies them or interacts with them “incorrectly”). Michel Denis’ Petit traité de l’espace, un parcours pluridisciplinaire (2016)11 also addresses questions of spatial practices as well as ways of perceiving (and thus constructing) space, especially from an architectural point of view. For the architect, space is a place of action and interaction between humans (although we can perhaps also add between the human and non-human). Furthermore, the capacity for space to condition human action affects an architect’s design choices, thereby making him a (somewhat external) part of this conditioning. At the same time, however, what the architect cannot do is represent the “lived in” internal space, as they only have the capacity to draw the concrete bounds that define the interior space that itself only becomes real if it is interacted with, appropriated, and thus defined directly. Such a formulation inspires several questions, namely: could we say that there exists a sort of tension between the desires of the architect/the exterior/bounds of space to influence behaviour and a potential—though perhaps only individual—human desire to test/push/ defy these bounds or use them (and the space) in ways they were “not meant” to be used? Though neither Certeau nor Denis addresses questions of space in a theatrical context directly, we can, however, conceive of a way of applying this manner of defining perception to the theatrical experience. With regard to Denis’ text, for example, one can consider the frontal relationship that has become something of a default in theatre design as being

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decidedly egocentric in the sense that the spectator relates to what is being represented/played in front of them primarily (and maybe even almost exclusively) by its relationship to where they are sitting, thus rendering simultaneous or allocentric perception almost impossible. As for Certeau, one can also potentially relate his formulations on how one moves through and acts on (or is acted upon by) space to the viewpoints technique of physical theatre performance developed by Anne Bogart and Tina Landau (2004),12 specifically the notion of architecture as another member of a greater performance ensemble rather than an imposing “default”. Furthermore, what must be considered is the possibility of applying the principles of analysing “physical” spatial dynamics to the particular—and to a certain degree, more abstract—spaces that are unique to the theatre. Such spaces include, of course, the playing space—which, though often frontal in relation to the house, can take on a variety of architectural configurations—the house, and, more precisely, the individual space created by each spectator in the house constructed in relation to not only their physical position relative to that of the playing space, but also how said relation figures into their process of approaching/appropriating/transforming space that continues beyond the physical bounds of the theatre itself.

Relational Dynamics Politics and Aesthetics It is in this connecting of the dynamics of the spatial transformations and negotiations that occur within the theatre space to a much larger, extra-­ theatrical territory that one can begin to discern the presence of a certain kind of spatial politics. Here I must acknowledge the influence of Jacques Rancière’s writings on aesthetics, in particular Le Spectateur émancipé (2008).13 What Rancière calls the “emancipation of the spectator” occurs at the moment not only where the opposition between watching and acting is called into question, but when the very ideas that structure relationships of seeing, of doing, of speaking are recognized as themselves belonging to an order of dominance and submission. In the context of theatre, as Rancière describes it, the spectator/spectacle relationship is often a rather didactic one in which the spectacle—and more specifically the play’s director who ultimately determines the show’s design—seeks to transmit something to the spectator who is there as a receiver of

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knowledge, rather than a fellow participant with something to give in turn. It is, in short, an unequal relationship. To make the relationship between spectator and spectacle more egalitarian, then, would mean in large part a reconsideration of the spectacle itself as “belonging” to neither party but instead existing within its own autonomy, making a power dynamic based on linear transmission and reception of knowledge impossible. Such a reconsideration further opens a potential for regaining autonomy on the part of the spectators, the possibilities for individual appropriation leading to pluralization rather than homogenization of the group as a whole. Rancière also addresses the question of emancipation, this time in a more general sense, in Les Scènes du peuple (2003).14 Rather than a focus on emancipation in a theatrical context, what is particularly questioned here are normalized ways of learning that set up a “master-student” dynamic in which the former acts as a carrier of knowledge and the latter remains the ignorant vessel. What emancipation derives from, then, is first a destruction of this dynamic resulting from the “master” admitting or retaking ignorance onto themselves—thereby recognizing the student’s individual/autonomous capacity for intelligence—and second through a consciousness of oneself as well as one’s place in the world. As to this final point, Rancière elaborates on it further through the development of a system of aesthetics he calls the partage du sensible (“the distribution of the perceptible”). In Le Partage du sensible, esthétique et politique (2000),15 Rancière defines this as a system of evidence that renders visible on the one hand a sort of commonality and on the other hand the divisions that designate the distinct places and parts that make up this commonality. It is through this breaking down or division of time and space, the visible and the invisible, that one can come to a definition of at once the place and stakes of politics as a form of experience. Politics is thus derived based on a definition of what one can see (range of visibility as opposed to invisibility) and what one can say about it, as well as who has the capacity or competence to see and/or speak on the properties of a given space as well as its realms of possibilities. It is here, then, that we find aesthetic practices— or rather, ways of doing things—of and in politics. To return to the context of theatre, a more detailed application of Rancière’s writings on emancipation can be found in Olivier Neveux’s Politiques du spectateur. Les enjeux du théâtre politique aujourd’hui (2013).16 Here, Neveux restates the point that theatre should be regarded as an intellectual support for emancipation, distinct from the act of social

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emancipation. In other words, an emancipating theatre is one that is born out of the abandonment of a desire to produce a particular affect or reaction in someone, itself an indicator of a distinctly pedagogical relationship. For Neveux, the denouncement of any attempt to transform the other (the spectator) does not necessarily imply an abandonment of the political “battle”. What must happen, however, is that something else must be developed to replace the otherwise “infantilizing” process of explaining things. Indeed, what makes a theatre political, to Neveux, is its excessive presence on what is deemed necessary at that moment in history. This theatre is political in the sense that it involves the encounter with a politics that is suspended from pedagogy. And even if this theatre does not inspire the desire to directly imitate its characters, it can eventually give the spectator the desire to do as the actor does, that is, play or create for themselves. More recently, however, Neveux has also taken on the subject of political theatre itself, this time more directly relating it back to the political policies of the State. Contrary to what the title of his most recent publication may suggest, Contre le théâtre politique (2019)17 is not a treatise against political theatre as a whole but rather of a certain kind of political theatre. More precisely, it is a political theatre that, though on the surface may seem subversive, socially conscious, or otherwise in a position of critique against an established order, is so only to the degree that it does not go too far in its commentaries that it works against or destabilizes a larger sociopolitical structure. Thus, it ultimately reinforces dominant ways of thinking, including with regard to the spectator/spectacle relationship. At the same time, though Neveux’s argument is largely constructed around the analysis of specific theatrical works, it does not necessarily do so while also considering the spatiotemporal context of their performance as an entity in and of itself. In other words, though it addresses the question of spectator reception, its focus remains primarily centred on the textual elements of the work, those that are, one can say, “constant” and not necessarily dependent on the live setting in order to reveal themselves. Furthermore, what is missing is a connection back from the performance to the context of its being programmed in the first place, or, especially in the case of the public theatre, how the scheduling of a production in a particular theatre can itself be considered a reflection of the perspective of said theatre’s artistic director. Here, however, the scope of the question expands beyond the subject of aesthetic politics and into that of theatre decentralization.

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Decentralization Despite the extent to which a push for decentralized theatre is interwoven with the history of the development of the public theatre in France today, there have been relatively few large-scale studies on the subject. Indeed, arguably the most comprehensive work dates from almost thirty years ago, Robert Abirached’s four-volume work La Décentralisation théâtrale,18 which presents a history of the theatre decentralization project in France from its genesis to the mid-1990s (end of publication of the first editions, with a second edition published in 2005). Although the chapters are each written by a different contributor, one can note in the organization of the work as a whole an attempt to create a sort of narrative. There is thus inscribed within this text the idea of not only a general progression but also a move towards an end goal, an ideal of a democratized theatre. Volume 2 in particular pays great attention to the increasing role of the State in all this, particularly in the 1960s under the influence of André Malraux (at the time appointed to the newly created position of Minister of Culture), who, through his championing of the necessity for theatre to become a State priority, helped solidify a politics of culture. As a counter to Abirached’s collection—and in particular its presentation of the decentralization project in the form of a progressive, linear narrative—however, one must look to Bérénice Hamidi-Kim’s Les Cités du théâtre politique en France depuis 1989 (2013).19 A good portion of this text is devoted to a re-examination not just of political theatre in France but of political theatre in relation to the decentralization project specifically, and whether or not said project has achieved its goal of creating a democratic or “popular” theatre. Hamidi-Kim’s approach is to recontextualize the narrative around decentralization not as a history but rather as a process of myth creation. In the construction of a supposed direct link between popular and public theatre, what was instead created was a notion of an imagined “people”, for whom this theatre is ostensibly for. Given this, one must further consider the relationship between the State and theatre that arose from the decentralization project as one that, despite the general freedom given to artistic directors heading national or state theatres in choice of programming, nevertheless projects a certain, and, to an extent, limiting, view of the State and the values it chooses to uphold. However, as Hamidi-Kim further elaborates, at the time of publication, theatre, as well as the relationship between it and the State, has found itself enmeshed in a narrative of crisis. Hamidi-Kim defines one of the causes as

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being spurred by a greater crisis in the republican model on which the decentralization project is based. She traces its origins back to both a radical pessimism that marked the turn of the last century and a somewhat more current tendency for reductionism. Regarding the former, this refers to a period of a “post-political” aesthetic wherein we are no longer thinking of the possibilities of new worlds (following global events such as the Second World War II, the Holocaust, and the fall of Soviet/Communist regimes and their links with totalitarianism), but rather adopting the idea that we are doomed or condemned to live in the world in which we are born. “Post”—as in post-political or post-modern—art is therefore art at the end of utopia (and here utopia is defined as both a non-space and the pre-figuration of a possible or desired future space, the constitution of a theoretical model and the first step of its eventual realization). As to the latter point, Hamidi-Kim focuses in large part on the reduction and association of “popular”—as in of and for the people—to populism, including the negative connotations associated with this term. This coincides with a move away from the project of creating a truly popular theatre—one that is accessible to all classes and factions of the population—to one that has unfortunately come to be reserved only for a small elite and/or middle class who has the (financial) means to access it. Art has thus once again become the reproduction of the dominant social order rather than an emancipator from it. Yet, what is missing from this analysis is an examination of how the implications of such a shift play out, in real time, during a theatrical performance. In other words, here the theatrical work itself is to a degree isolated from its performative context, existing in something akin to a state of suspension that does not take into direct account the capacity for its appropriation and/or reinterpretation on the part of the spectators that occurs in the singularly present moment in which the work is being performed. That theatrical art has become a reproduction of a dominant order instead of a medium through which to propose a reconstruction or reorganization of said order can, of course, be seen in the specific design or aesthetic choices that make up a theatrical work and that can, to an extent, be “preserved” outside the moment of performance (through photographs or video recordings). At the same time, however, one cannot divorce the work entirely from the context of its performance, including where and under whose artistic direction it was programmed. To return to the subject of public theatres in France, given the emphasis placed during the selection process for naming new artistic directors on whether

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candidates have a clear vision or overarching project, it would arguably be an error to not consider the staging of a specific piece as part of an artistic director’s greater perspective for where the theatre fits within the larger structure of current French society. A choice in programming, then, especially when considering this point of view, can have certain implications regarding how the work itself envisions—and conversely allows itself to be interpreted, or appropriated by—those who come to the theatre to see it. One must, in this case, consider the degree to which a work responds to or dialogues with the artistic director’s own point of view, thus reframing it within a context in which the greater weight is given to the moment it is performed live, that is, becomes officially inscribed within the present context of the theatre season. Ultimately, what an intersecting of the four avenues described above produces is a system of analysis that illustrates an active back-and-forth or, more precisely, mutually reflective spatial dynamics between physical spaces (the theatres themselves, including elements of scenic design) and spaces created either as a result of the occurrence of a performance (the spectator-spectacle negotiation space) or as a result of an artistic director’s own discourses (the particular theatre’s imagined position within the greater social/sociocultural fabric). In other words, current theatre staged in the Greater Paris region not only has the potential to act either as a mirror or as a response to contemporary society in terms of its content, but has the manner(s) in which productions are staged can be read both as a result of a certain politics of aesthetics with regard to the status or position of theatre in the city and as a potential lens through which one can reconstruct or reinterpret negotiation-based dynamics within the moment of performance. What this notion rests on is the idea of a mutually active, reciprocal relationship, based in part on the initial assumption that those who enter into the theatre space as spectators do not make up a singular body. In other words, the conceptualization of what constitutes the theatrical event can be characterized no longer as a relationship between a performance and a public, but rather as the gathering in a singular spatiotemporal moment of several different publics.

The Theatres For the sake of consistency, rather than opt for a more survey-like approach of many different venues, the choice was made to narrow the focus down to four theatres: three classified as public theatres (though not at the same level of classification), and one independent “outlier”. What these four

1 INTRODUCTION 

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spaces have in common—and indeed, what they arguably share with several other theatres in their respective categories—is that what underscores the individual projects of their respective artistic directors is an imagining of the theatre as a space that exists within a larger territorial context in which increased emphasis is placed on not necessarily difference but rather plurality. More precisely, it is a context that recognizes that several differing, and at times conflictual, elements can exist simultaneously within the same singular body or territory. The public theatre, then, is no longer obliged to engage in a process of finding consensus, but instead reflects and at times responds to the discords, incongruities, and inconsistencies that make up the social territory it is situated in, one that has, in this case, often been described under universalist terms. Where the four theatres diverge, however, is in the way their artistic directors choose to engage with this plurality and how that, in turn, affects the differing degrees of spectator/spectacle negotiations that occur in their respective spaces during a performance. Two of them—Philippe Quesne at the Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers and Hortense Archambault of the MC93, Bobigny—have chosen to explicitly highlight difference and diversity in their projects, though where they differ is in where, precisely, this diversity originates from. A third, Wajdi Mouawad of La Colline, prefers an approach that seeks new attempts at bringing together, or consensus, as something of an alternative to the plurality the theatre exists within. Finally, the fourth, Jean-Marie Hordé of the Théâtre de la Bastille, positions his theatre as simply another piece in the larger, heterogeneous, puzzle surrounding it. As to the pieces discussed in later chapters, ultimately each was chosen not pre-emptively but rather in terms of the degree to which it reflected or dialogued with the perspective put forth by the artistic direction. This is given even greater weight when one considers that, with some exception, the majority of pieces performed on public French stages are what are known as “créations” (“new works”), rather than repertory pieces. What this implies, therefore, is some degree of engagement (whether explicitly referenced during the performance or not) between the genesis of the piece and the sociocultural/sociopolitical moment in which it was created, making the works, in their present ephemerality, decidedly of their time. Further, what the inclusion of these analyses allows for is not just a putting into perspective of the diverse forms in which these four artistic directorial perspectives can take, but also the potential tensions or paradoxes inherent in the act of putting them into practice through theatrical programming and representation.

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Finally, there is the question of the location of the venues chosen, namely, “Why Paris?” This decision ultimately came down to a desire for variety in perspective based on difference in terms of official classification. In other words, when it comes to the question of State funding, no one theatre included in this study shares its official status with any of the others. Other than budgetary impacts, such a differentiation in classification also has implications with regard to a given theatre’s official mission— often outlined in the charter regulating if not the theatre itself, then the larger category of theatres to which it belongs—as well as the specific projects of the individual artistic directors, given that in general those who are appointed to these posts have a background that in one degree or another reflects, or will at least allow for enrichment of, the official mission statements of their respective venues. One must also take into consideration the fact that, though there was historically a push to make theatre more accessible to patrons outside of Paris, the city itself still retains a status as a political centre of the country, especially when it comes to cultural matters. The Ministry of Culture, for example, is not only located in Paris, but its offices are situated in the city’s central first arrondissement, a stone’s throw from the Salle Richelieu of the Comédie-Française. Though it must be acknowledged that for certain categories of public theatres—namely Centres Dramatiques Nationaux (National Drama Centres or CDNs) and Scènes Nationales (National Stages or SNs)—a certain number of management decisions have been handed off to regional or departmental bodies, the questions of the theatre’s status and of the overarching structure in which these more localized bodies must nevertheless work within is nevertheless still determined by the Paris-based Ministry. The city, then, mirrors the convergence of theatrical performance and State-determined cultural politics that is central to the argument advanced in this book.

Notes 1. Occupation Odéon [@OccupationOdeon]. 2021. Screen capture of updated manifesto. Instagram. March 18. https://www.instagram. com/p/CMjjsVeg23h/. Accessed 11 July 2022. 2. Les conséquences de la réforme de l’assurance chômage. Groupe SER, Groupe Socialistes & apparentés, Parti Socialiste, 8 June, 2021, https://www. parti-­socialiste.fr/assurance_ch_mage_plus_d_un_million_150_milles_ perdants. Accessed 11 July 2022.

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3. This was later extended (following the end of the occupation) to December 31, 2021. See Ordonnance n° 2021-1013 du 31 juillet 2021. Légifrance https://www.legifrance.gouv.fr/jorf/id/JORFTEXT000043879168. Accessed 11 July 2022. 4. It should, however, be noted that the Odéon has a history as a site for public protest, notably in May 1968. 5. Gayot, Joëlle. 2021. Stéphane Braunschweig au Théâtre de l’Odéon: “Avec les occupants, la situation est bloquée.” Télérama, May 19. https:// www.telerama.fr/debats-­reportages/stephane-­braunschweig-­au-­theatre-­ de-­l odeon-­a vec-­l es-­o ccupants-­l a-­s ituation-­e st-­b loquee-­6 878895.php. Accessed 11 July 2022. 6. Diatkine, Anne 2021. Le piège de l’Odéon. Libération, May 19. https:// www.liberation.fr/culture/scenes/le-­piege-­de-­lodeon-­20210519_2A7X LRYKUJDJHFF5EJ3TTHI2OA/. Accessed 11 July 2022. 7. Aubignac, François Hédelin. 1715 La Pratique du théâtre. Gallica https:// gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k9772908g.texteImage. Accessed 11 Mar. 2020. 8. Ubersfeld, Anne. 1982. Le Théâtre et l’espace. Lire le théâtre, 139–176. Paris: Éditions Sociales. 9. Biet, Christian and Christophe Triau. 2006. Qu’est-ce que le théâtre? Paris: Gallimard. 10. Certeau, Michel de. 1980. L’Invention du quotidien. 1. Arts de faire. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions. 11. Denis, Michel. 2016. Petit traité de l’espace, un parcours pluridisciplinaire. Brussels: Éditions Mardaga. 12. Bogart, Anne and Tina Landau. 2004. Viewpoints Book: A Practical Guide to Viewpoints and Composition. New  York: Theatre Communications Group, Inc. 13. Rancière, Jacques. 2008. Le Spectateur émancipé. Paris: La Fabrique. 14. Rancière, Jacques. 2003. Savoirs hérétiques et émancipation du pauvre. In Les Scènes du peuple, 35–54. Lyon: Horlieu. 15. Rancière, Jacques. 2000. Du partage du sensible et des rapports qu’il établit entre politique et esthétique. In Le Partage du sensible, esthétique et politique, 12–25. Paris: La Fabrique. 16. Neveux, Olivier. 2013. Politiques du spectateur. Les enjeux du théâtre politique aujourd’hui. Paris: La Découverte. 17. Neveux, Olivier. 2019. Contre le théâtre politique. Paris: La Fabrique. 18. Abirached, Robert. 2005. La Décentralisation théâtrale. Paris: Actes Sud. 19. Hamidi-Kim, Bérénice. 2013. Les Cités du théâtre politique en France depuis 1989, Montpellier: L’Entretemps.

CHAPTER 2

Decentralization

In a speech given during the inauguration of the Maison de la Culture de Bourges on April 18, 1964, André Malraux—then Minister of Culture under President Charles de Gaulle—underlined what he believed to be a close link between Culture and French national identity, anchoring it within a context of nation-building. More precisely, his opening remarks imply that, to a certain degree, France has a responsibility towards a nurturing and diffusion of cultural products, remarking that, five years prior, “la France reprenait sa mission dans l’ordre de l’esprit”.1 More than a responsibility, the use of the word “mission” here implies an act of a higher order, not necessarily in a religious sense—salvation, or similarly coded language, is never explicitly used throughout the rest of the speech—but more in one whose politics lie in the pressing need to accomplish a larger goal, in this case affirmation of an identity. Further pushing this point is the use of the verb reprendre, “to take up again”, rather than prendre, the “re-” prefix implying recommencing an action after a period of interruption. Given that this speech was made close to twenty years following the end of the Second World War, one can note a political necessity in situating the present action as part of an affirmation of a singular French identity that existed before divisions manifested themselves and could, Malraux also implies, exist once again. A rebuilding of a unified France, therefore, would have to involve the creation of a common project, more specifically, one that would manage to contextualize France’s © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 I. Gonis, Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0_2

19

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republican ideology in such a way that its maintenance—or even survival—directly implicated a degree of active participation from most, if not all, citizens. Culture—with the purposeful capitalization of the “C”—becomes, to Malraux, the link to achieving this form of socio-national reunification. For one thing, the eventual decision to concretize a cultural politics via the building of sites such as the Maison de la Culture in Bourges itself constitutes an effort to re-imagine the totality of France’s territory that further bolsters the discourses on reunification. As originally envisioned, the Maisons de la Culture would be dispersed around several cities and regions in France, essentially physical manifestations of a singular State politics. Their presence would thus be something akin to a common thread that linked several regions together, despite any disparities in terms of local cultural nuances and politics. What further results from this, then, is something of an internal web. A cultural politics of diffusion out from the centre—Paris, in this case—does not necessarily mean that the latter has entirely lost its place as the locus for decision and policymaking. Yet what the actual construction of centres of cultural production does is, first, create a direct line back to the centre as a sort of point of origin. Second, it allows for the additional creation of sub-links from one centre to another. Bourges, for instance, links back to Paris given that the latter was the site of approval for funding to begin the construction, but at the same time, Bourges also links directly to cities such as Amiens or Grenoble in that all three cities share a similar narrative of the construction of Maisons de la Culture within their territories. It is, in brief, the creation of an inter-­ urban model of connection meant to mirror the attempts at social unification and connection happening around the same time. Moreover, such architectural implantation of cultural centres—and more specifically, of theatres/sites of theatrical production—are themselves reflective of a certain conceptualization of the theatre as a form that not only creates a sense of unity between itself and its public, but more precisely homogenizes that in its public which otherwise remains heterogeneous or dis-unified. Furthermore, Culture in this case also acts as a counterbalance to a certain form of intellectual complacency brought on, in part, by rising trends of mass consumerism and preference for leisure activities. Yet, this is not to say that Malraux decries leisure activities altogether. On the contrary, while he acknowledges the necessity of their presence to meet a public’s needs for diversion or amusement, he does insist on a distinction between their role and that of Culture which, in his view, exists to serve

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needs beyond those that may be considered “base”.2 More precisely, consumption of Culture should not be undertaken simply for the fun of it, but rather because to do so stimulates something deeper: critical or personal reflection, or identification—through recognition of signs or symbols in the cultural product being consumed—with a particular group or ideology. Such identification can also be seen as somewhat reflexive. That is, one affirms one’s belonging to or calling oneself a member of a certain group (or nation, in this case) due to a capacity for consuming works produced by other members of said group and recognizing in them not only a particular set of group-specific signs, but also bits of oneself in said signs. Said form of exchange is further alluded to in Malraux’s definition of capital “C” Culture, which he identifies as being rooted in the fact that contemporary civilization is no longer what he calls a “religious” civilization. Consequently, rather than look to a higher power for guidance, “man” must face the questions surrounding his fate and/or his life’s purpose alone. “Culture”, then, is in part the sum of the answers one may formulate when, while looking in a mirror, one engages with the inevitability of one’s own mortality. 3 Yet, Culture is also that which has the capacity to go beyond the degradation and erosion associated with the passage of time. It continues to endure even though the society in which it is integrated is itself subject to undergoing several changes, some of which seem to almost render any sort of communication or intergenerational reflection impossible. Malraux further elaborates on this in the following hypothetical: suppose one were to gather Ramses, Louis XIV, and Napoleon in a room. Despite their differences in terms of the eras they lived during, if one were able to get them talking about battles they fought or how they administered or ruled over different facets of their respective realms, they would be able to understand each other because they all operated within somewhat similar monarchic, non-industrial, pre-State systems. On the other hand, if any of them were to encounter someone from mid-twentieth century France, an easy communication or exchange of such ideas would not be possible because not only have notions of the State—and the economy of the State— changed drastically since the advent of Industrialization, but the way people live in and how they interact with the world have changed as well. And yet—to paraphrase Malraux here once again—even when reading the Iliad or contemplating a classical ruin in a museum knowing that the concrete realities of the societies in which they were created are lost, or rather, inaccessible, one can still dialogue with these works. The constant

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that makes such dialogue possible in his formulation is that said works are engaged to some degree or other with understanding the unknown. One can call this unknown “death”—or rather that which follows death—but the fact remains that preoccupation with this subject is not limited to a particular temporal/historical period. Details regarding the manner and form in which this subject is addressed and interpreted are, of course, varied, but recognizing its presence as one of the impetuses behind the creation of a particular work is what allows for the possibility of cross-temporal dialogue in the first place. What remains of the engagement with the unknown is what can be identified as Culture. More than simply that through which one contemplates one’s mortality, Culture, and more specifically a product of Culture, transcends temporality. At the same time, the cultural product still carries marks of its period of origin. Thus, even in its capacity to endure “outside” of time, it remains to an extent anchored to a very specific moment. Temporal and a-temporal; belonging to one moment yet belonging to every or no moment. This interpretation of Culture as occupying a particular position on a linear historical line while also being freely accessible to dialogue with furthermore functions as an indicator of its potential as a democratic force. Though, once again, it does maintain a certain degree of attachment to a specific time, its transcendence of time does not, however, further restrict its accessibility only to a privileged few, precisely because, in Malraux’s model, the problematics it engages with that allow for its temporal transcendence in the first place are categorized as universal.

A Brief History of Theatre Decentralization in Early Twentieth-Century France This potential for Culture to be a democratizing presence speaks more directly, however, to the state of France in the fifty years or so preceding Malraux’s speech, especially with regard to access and availability of cultural products, including theatre. At the turn of the twentieth century, the state of theatre in France was, in short, rather poor. Largely industrialized and commercialized, theatrical productions tended to cater towards a primarily bourgeois audience, with the central aim being to turn a profit, hence a relative dearth of financial support for new and creatively challenging works. As a result, general interest in theatre began to drop, the rise of film as popular entertainment only serving to exacerbate this loss even further.4

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More distinctly, however, theatrical production at this time was all but centralized in Paris. This is not merely in reference to the number of theatres—and théâtres du boulevard or privately owned “boulevard theatres” in particular—that could be found within the city limits, but also in reference to the fact that Paris at the time had the unique distinction of housing a partially government-subsidized theatre: the Comédie-Française.5 While there was a certain level of attention given to the maintenance of the Comédie-Française, particularly its status as a national historic institute, this type of direct relationship between the State and theatre was the exception rather than the rule. An official politics of culture, as far as the theatre was concerned, did not truly extend beyond this specific instance. Consequently, at least on a State-official capacity, while Paris remained an active site for (commercialized) theatrical production, the rest of the country remained somewhat ignored, reflecting, to a certain degree, the old stereotype that Paris came first and the rest of the provinces followed. This is not, however, to say that absolutely no efforts were made to disseminate theatre outside of Paris city limits or render it more accessible to larger publics. Such efforts were undertaken but more under the initiatives of artists and theatre companies themselves than a concerted State effort. Indeed, the early twentieth century saw some troupes touring productions around the countryside—recalling the days of the medieval pageant wagon—while others, notably Maurice Pottecher with his Théâtre du Peuple (People’s Theatre), preferred to install themselves more permanently in the provinces. Again, however, the reasons for such actions remained relatively personal. Pottecher, for instance, credited his decision to leave Paris and start his theatre in Bussang, in the east of France, to the fact that theatre in the capital had become so pushed to the limits of decency and refinement that one quite simply had to leave the city if one desired to establish a theatre that did not run the risk of being so corrupted. Branching outward away from the centre of commercial and political activity could thus be interpreted as something akin to a return to a more “authentic” space, one that supposedly mirrors more closely that which had been lost in the wake of increased urban development. Not all critics of the contemporary Paris theatre scene chose to leave, however. Jacques Copeau—who shared Pottecher’s opinion as to the overt industrialization and commercialization of the Paris theatre scene— for instance, chose to stay in the city in order to incite a push for change from within, founding the Théâtre du Vieux Colombier in 1913, now part of the Comédie-Française.6 Such an act could be considered akin to taking

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back space in order to open up avenues for different populations within the city itself, putting more emphasis on its inherent heterogeneity as opposed to considering the population as a homogeneous whole in the reasoning behind a decision to leave and seek out less “corrupted” spaces elsewhere. In general, though, whether they chose to stay or to leave, what these early movements towards what would later be called decentralization shared was a call to seek out publics if not specifically outside of Paris, then ones that had been forgotten or excluded by the bourgeois theatre houses in general. Much like with Copeau’s choice to establish his counter to commercialized theatre within the city of Paris instead of outside it, one of the more notable early twentieth-century efforts of creating a theatre with a mission of greater public inclusion remained confined to the capital. In 1920, Firmin Gémier founded the Théâtre National Populaire (The National People’s Theatre, or TNP) in the Trocadéro Palace, with a view of bringing the theatre to the city’s popular classes, all while maintaining a rigorous standard as to production quality, as less financial capital should not be a determining factor as to the standard of cultural product one has access to. As with the founding of the Vieux Colombier, what is at play here is a carving out of space and creating new pathways for access to visibility as a sociopolitical subject via a redrawing of the socio-urban landscape. The situating of the TNP within the Trocadéro Palace exemplifies this in several ways. For one thing, given that the site itself was originally intended to be only temporary—it was constructed solely as an exhibition hall for the 1878 World’s Fair—founding a theatre with the word “National” in its name suggests a sense of permanence, an inscription of the micro-space of the theatre, as well as the building that houses it, within the larger context of the French sociocultural landscape. Furthermore, to designate it as a théâtre populaire implies a certain democratization of the space, in the sense that those for whom it is created are those whose visibility as subjects in the sociopolitical sphere risks being denied. Consequently, while the theatre remains open to all, it structures its openness as starting from the bottom in a strictly economic sense, thereby going against a model that correlates higher quality as being exclusive only to higher price points. Because that vertical hierarchy has ostensibly been done away with, the space can thus progressively move towards becoming more democratic, in that the focus on the popular classes both opens this cultural space to new populations and theoretically allows for a more heterogeneous mixing of various sub-­populations contained within the city of

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Paris. Most significantly, however, the founding of the TNP further inscribed the development of theatre in France not only within a social— or rather, socioeconomic—context, but within the politics of the State as well. Following the establishment of the TNP, for the first time in its history, the French government granted that funds be awarded to a theatre that was not only new—that is, lacking the historical foundation of already funded institutions such as the Comédie-­Française, the Odéon, or the Opéra Garnier—but also one with a specific sociocultural aim of wider, more equitable spectator outreach.7 These early examples of what would later become the official decentralization project under Malraux’s ministry continued into the 1930s, with the focus—as was the case with the TNP—leaning heavily towards dismantling perceived class restrictions around the theatre. The arrival of the Front Populaire, a coalition of several leftist parties, into the government in 1936 marked a further development in the nurturing of a direct relationship between the theatre and the French State, notably through the creation of the Ministère de la Vie Culturelle (Ministry of Cultural Life). This ministry, which regrouped the departments of education, sport, and communication under one jurisdiction, was, at the time, unique in the country’s history precisely due to its contextualization of questions of cultural import under notions of pedagogy and civic pedagogy in particular. In other words, the successful education of a citizen depended in part on their degree of access to cultural works. It is not necessarily compulsory consumption that is required for such an education to be possible; rather, one must look at the extent to which one has the freedom to choose to consume a particular cultural product, as well as outside factors that could limit or fully prevent the making of said choice, especially lack of financial capital and class prejudices. Ideally, what such a widening of access would involve would be a move of various sites of cultural production/diffusion closer to their target populations, removing, to some degree, the brunt of the economic burden otherwise involved with travelling to access culture, should it remain geographically centralized. It is a sort of territorial democratization that somewhat mirrors that seen in the context of the TNP in that it starts the process from the bottom in an attempt to render horizontal a formerly vertical hierarchical relationship. At the same time, however, so that both models may work, a certain imagining of their targeted public(s) is required that involves conceiving of them as a large mass defined by a sort of oppositional relationship with regard to what it does not have access to. More specifically, to continue with the example of the

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Front Populaire, an internal geography with Paris at its centre is still maintained in large part because the conceived process of diffusion of education and cultural access largely defines its targets as the singular collective of the popular classes located outside of Paris. The centre, in this case, still holds as a primary producer, as the territory that has or contains within it the means and results of cultural production, whereas that which surrounds it is not quite reorganized or re-imagined in such a way that it is granted a similar degree of autonomy regarding production. Yet, as ambitious as the Front Populaire’s plans initially were, their proposals never quite made it past the floor of the legislature. For instance, as part of an initial effort to democratize cultural access, a budgeting proposal was put forth to lower ticket prices at the Comédie-Française, with the difference in cost being made up through state funding. Unfortunately— as was the case with a second proposal for the creation of large, though site-impermanent, theatre festivals to be held five times a year in venues in the Midi and southern regions of France—this idea was met with significant resistance from the other parties seated in the French government, none of whom were willing to tinker with an otherwise orthodox budget in a period of deep financial crisis.8 What ultimately threw a final wrench in the Front Populaire’s plans as far as a politics of culture was concerned, however, was the rise of fascism and the arrival of Maréchal Pétain’s Vichy government—though it should also be noted that in-fighting had already significantly destabilized the coalition. At the same time, however, the Vichy government did not entirely abandon the cultural projects of the Front Populaire, choosing instead to appropriate several elements to serve their own needs. Thus, the rejection of commercialized production in favour of more popular—or, in the case of Vichy, folkloric and region-specific—forms continued to underscore the government’s approach to cultural promotion and diffusion. The difference, however, lay in the re-centring of focus from the nation as a whole to regionalism. Whereas the Front Populaire operated in part out of an interest for wider cultural access, for Vichy, cultural politics were tied more closely to the idea of a “return” to supposedly uniquely, and region-­ specific, French forms of cultural expression. Further pushing such politics to the right was Pétain’s own insistence on a moral imperative driving the need for what he believed was a necessary cultural reform, including not just the form but the content of theatrical productions. Theatre, and theatre in Paris especially, for instance, was far too decadent and morally bankrupt in terms of the subjects it staged, many of which centred on

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adultery or other challenges to a “traditional” familial dynamic. The preference for supporting smaller, more localized regional theatres, then, arose less from a desire to move away from a profit-driven business model and more from a wish to return to a supposedly more sober form of theatrical production and expression, where traditional (read: Catholic) values dominated the stage. Moving the government outside of Paris during the Occupation thus proved to be rather advantageous for Pétain’s cultural politics. With Paris having, for the moment, lost its central status, the need to navigate or build a relationship between it and the rest of France was no longer as pressing, leaving the Vichy government more time to focus on its development of region-specific theatre projects to push its ideological agenda, ideally through the localized implantation and support of theatre troupes.9 There are, in the case of Vichy, echoes of a certain conservativism previously seen with Pottecher, namely, a return to the “authentic” demonstrated through a renewed emphasis on local folkloric tradition. Yet what the preference for traditionalist (and nationalist) forms over experimental ones also engenders is a sort of “closing of ranks”, a reduction of the territory of cultural influence down to the point of a creation of a hard “border”. In this case, however, what carries greater weight is not so much prevention of that which is contained in the “imagined” cultural borders from escaping out as it is keeping the outside from coming in. Emphasis on the folkloric rather than the experimental in cultural programming can be read, on the one hand, as a practical application of the desire for patrimonial preservation. On the other hand, the exclusion of the new also implies “stability” in that there is less chance of the dynamics between the cultural product and the subjects/public to whom it is addressed entering into a process of renegotiation that can be engendered in instances where new forms question established structures. As to the question of centrality—or, indeed, whether there is a new “centre” in the Vichy model—one could argue to a certain degree that a focus on local/region-specific forms has an additional effect of almost doing away with it. Although administrative matters were, in this period, moved out of Paris and to a new “centre”, the level of autonomy given to each region under the Vichy government’s control to promote forms that emphasize its uniqueness is somewhat unprecedented, given the initiatives that preceded it. The regions, in this case, could almost function as little “islands”, yet it is the administrative directive regarding limitations on their programming that both unifies them within a larger superstructure and maintains a level of

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centrality in its concentration of directive power to a single site. Again, such a centrality, had the war not ended when it did, could likely have been more pronounced had the plan to install theatre troupes in the regions been able to be carried out. A continually unstable economy prevented this latter point from coming to fruition, but nevertheless, a particular policy drafted by the Vichy government managed to hold out beyond the war and ultimately significantly shape the organization of theatre development in France, not necessarily in terms of geography, but rather with regard to administration. First ratified on December 27, 1943, but not officially adopted until October of 1945—during the interim French government following Liberation—the loi sur le spectacle (law on live performance) includes a provision that states, in brief, that in order to be appointed as the artistic director of a theatre, the individual in question had to have some kind of background or certified training/degree in the field. In other words, it is a provision designed to block those with purely commercial interests from taking the top posts that most directly influenced the makeup and content of a theatre’s season.10 With this, live performance can be said to have entered a process of carving out—from an official economic standpoint— its own sphere that distinguishes it from other sectors. The provision against “cross-contamination”, for instance, establishes characteristics to shape a specific narrative of training required for access, similar to that seen in other fields. On the one hand, the establishment of such requirements does have the effect of rendering the field itself somewhat exclusionary—where there once were few legal barriers to access, now there is a background-specific one—but on the other hand, one could argue that it is through this rendering as exclusive that the field itself becomes more precisely defined, and thus potentially capable of being legislated. Following the end of the Second World War, however, further initiatives towards theatrical and cultural reform risked losing a place in the greater post-war conversations on reconstruction and rehabilitation of a united France. General discourse centred, rather, around the need for modernization and innovation as an attempt to, through a collective step towards an unknown yet supposedly prosperous future, mend sectarian divisions that had plagued the country for close to a decade.11 Interestingly, for such an approach towards reunification to be successful, the State adopted an almost decentralized strategy by default. The difference here, however, is that instead of focusing on cultural diffusion and access, the

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discourse centred on the importance and uniqueness of France’s different regions, specifically how the characteristics and particularities of each were essential to the economic and industrial success of the country as a whole. At the same time, even though on an official State level regional focus was done to highlight their economic potential, a resurgence of sorts was occurring around efforts of theatre decentralization, some of which were backed with State support and funding. Of particular note was a contest for young or emerging theatre troupes and companies launched by the government in 1946. As a means of encouraging the formation—though not necessarily the stability or longevity—of theatre troupes across the country, the State announced an award of one year’s funding to any young company that chose to submit their work for consideration. Although the prize was awarded in Paris, the search committee would travel across France to judge the various troupes on-site, emphasizing, once again, the more general politics of out-from-centre movement of the day. While this contest did encourage a new generation of young artists to produce new work, it was not, from an economic standpoint, particularly stable. As the contest only awarded funding on a yearly basis, there was little assurance given to the troupes that they would be able to drum up enough support and publicity to sustain their operations after the year’s end. Furthermore, given the structure of the contest—namely that it was reserved only for young companies—as well as the lack of any large-scale programme dedicated to consistent funding of more established companies, there was little incentive for the establishment of more permanent artistic residencies.12 This is not to say, however, that no permanent theatre facilities or companies were established outside of Paris in the years immediately following the Second World War. The year 1947, for example, saw the founding of both the Centre dramatique de l’Est in Colmar and the Centre Dramatique National in Saint-Étienne, while the following year saw the reclassification of the Grenier de Toulouse, originally founded in 1943, into a national drama centre. As with similar events earlier in the century, these are notable precisely because of their exceptionality. What was still missing was a concerted State effort to support theatrical endeavours with the intent of facilitating their more permanent, sustainable, and regionally integrated presence outside the city of Paris.13

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Malraux and the Ministry of Culture It was this environment of uncertainty and instability with regard to the State’s official position towards theatre—and to Culture in general—that André Malraux encountered when he was appointed as head of the newly created Ministère des Affaires Culturelles (Ministry of Cultural Affairs, later to be renamed simply the Ministère de la Culture, or Ministry of Culture) under President Charles De Gaulle in 1959. Malraux’s primary tasks upon attaining the ministry were twofold: first, to define the overall goals of the new ministry, as well as the scope of the various departments it would oversee; second, to find a way to integrate culture into De Gaulle’s and the State’s larger politics around reaffirming France’s position as a world power through policies that emphasized at once localized uniqueness as well as a greater national unity. To the latter point, at least, the first article of the 1959 decree officially confirming the formation of the ministry provides a rather explicit form of guidance. Per the decree, the minister is charged with rendering the “great works” of the theatrical canon—and of France in particular—accessible to the greatest number of French citizens, broadening interest in cultural patrimony, and encouraging both the production of new works and the creative spirit that enriches this process. 14 Although one could argue that there is an allusion towards democratization underlying the directive, the word itself is never used explicitly. Rather, what is more strongly present is a politics of access and openness, with a veneer of a-historicity/a-nationality. The preference towards highlighting accessibility rather than a process of democratization can also be found in Malraux’s speech at Bourges, wherein the crux of one of his arguments lies in the positioning of Culture as something intrinsic, and the questions it raises present outside of the constructs of class and social order, including that of democracy. At the same time, however, it should be noted that one of the provisions of the article—that which declares the privileging of access to French culture/cultural products—does provide a somewhat national-historical restriction to said questions. In other words, it places them within the context of a particular linear narrative that, while not necessarily fully anchoring them to a specific historical moment, does not allow them to shed this history entirely. This brings with it another implication to the engagement of said questions, namely that in doing so, the individual also puts themselves in the context that a specific cultural product is derived from. The individual, then, in their freedom of

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engagement, has the subsequent freedom to appropriate that history and assert they too are a part of it. Such an approach is to a degree reflective of a rather universalist approach regarding the social/societal implications of cultural output. Namely: the cultural product is accessible based on the notion that despite social differences—for instance, class or gender15—all persons living within a given geographic territory share a common understanding that there are certain aspects of the human condition that transcend such differences. It is through this understanding that, in this model, an individual can begin to build a connection with another based on what is shared, thus creating the links that thereafter constitute a “community”. Such a conceptualization can, however, lean more towards the nationalism seen on the right, especially if the connecting values are conceived as having strict geographic (and/or ethnic) bounds. More precisely, in order to understand them, an individual must not only be from X territory, but also have a genealogical link to said territory, such that the necessary values were passed on and ingrained into them from a young age. Such a deviation creates an explicitly exclusionary, hard-border model, in which a “geography” results from internal creation rather than a strict walling off. By comparison, the “territory” created through the above process of decentralization and cultural diffusion could said to be rather amoebic as it is in a constant process of (re)creation and is furthermore not necessarily contained within an explicitly drawn set of borders. Yet, even a more seemingly porous and constantly evolving social territory carries within it its own set of boundaries. Thus, in the move towards an image of (a somewhat utopian) “union”, emphasizing the universal implies, in part, a momentary suspension of difference (in identity as well as in lived experience) in the individuals to whom it claims to apply. It is for this reason that, for such a promise of breadth of access to be possible, it is not just social or class privileges and barriers that must be broken, but geographic ones as well. This is not to discount the individual efforts discussed previously to bring culture—and especially theatre—to regions outside the city of Paris on a more permanent basis. Rather, it alludes to perhaps a reasoning as to why, under Malraux, a more concerted effort was made on the part of the State to take on the task of decentralizing theatre in a more concrete manner.16 Indeed, the decision to privilege attention to theatre was a rather deliberate one, especially when accounting for questions of cultural heritage and patrimony that are often at the basis of efforts of building—or in this

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case rebuilding—narratives of national identity. The necessity to combat over-commercialization and industrialization still remained, but more significantly, inserting theatre into the context of national reunification meant a privileging of the history of not just the neoclassical theatre of playwrights such as Racine and Corneille—and the upholding of said history as an example of a possibility for something other than what was dominating the French stages at the time—but also the classical tradition of Greece and Rome, of which France is placed as a descendant.17 Yet, in this latter point are also inscribed certain implications regarding the dynamics between the theatre—or more precisely, the stage—and the public. Said assumptions have their origin in part on a certain imagination of the role of theatre in Antiquity and that of tragedy in ancient Greece in particular. In brief, following Aristotle’s writings on tragedy in his Poetics, the subject of Greek tragedy must be someone of noble or superior standing, first so that his inevitable fall may be more pronounced and second because the nobility of his position was thought to be indicative of the virtuousness of his character. To this latter point, the characteristics displayed by these figures—for instance, a sense of hospitality, duty, justice, and, almost inevitably, hubris—were not necessarily unattainable, but rather more strongly pronounced through the plot and dialogue in the drama. The implication here is that these characteristics could, theoretically, be shared by all, albeit to a lesser degree of intensity. Therefore, the piece functions as both a model and a mirror to the society inhabited by its spectators, the supposition being that the higher nobility of the central tragic figure on the stage will not, in the end, prevent a citizen-spectator from forming a connection to the piece precisely because of the recognition of a shared ethical code. Here again, however, one sees a process defined primarily by the creation of a collective at the expense of division or difference, similar to that discussed previously. Indeed, what the above imagining of the theatre in ancient Greece does is promote an image of it as a place of assemblage of the singular citizenry. Of course, such an imagining does not quite account for the explicitly exclusionary nature of such an assembly, given that the title of “citizen” in Antiquity was reserved for free-born men. Similarly, what placing the classical Greek theatrical tradition on the same timeline as that leading up to the start of a potentially democratizing decentralization process does is favour a certain mythology regarding the prevalence of democracy in ancient Greece. There was only one city-state—Athens— that operated under a democratic government, and even then, access to

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the political sphere remained reserved for only a select few living in the city. That there happened to be several theatres in Athens does not, of course, mean that the theatrical form was upheld as a way to reflect the unity of the citizenry in public assembly via the performance of pieces that demonstrated common shared values. On the other hand, the preferencing of this imagined role of theatre as a “unifier” does serve its own purposes regarding the practical application of the decentralization project. There is, for one thing, the “legitimization” of the form via an emphasis on not simply a historical lineage, but one in which, at least according to this imagining, the potential of the theatre to function as a “unifier” in the social fabric had been previously tested. It could thus reasonably follow that, in a model that posits a universalist point of view, historical precedent means not only could the theatre hold such a status again, but that the potential itself is inherent to the form. What changes, of course, are the details regarding what precisely is the unifying/universal characteristic. In the case of the development of decentralized theatre in France, the characteristics (or values) that are arguably put forth most strongly are those that fall under the umbrella of “equality”: equal access to cultural production, which the decentralization project most explicitly attempts to address on a geographic level, but also equal opportunity for engagement and equal consideration as a subject and active participant in the creation of a national-cultural identity (though this latter form would not be explicitly addressed in official policy until the 1970s). In more concrete terms, however, what the privileging of theatre decentralization resulted in was a series of building projects, physical markers on the urban/geographic makeup of the country to attest to the State’s—or at least the ministry’s—commitment to the effort. These included the setting aside of funding for the building of four new municipal theatres in Paris—focusing not on the centre of the city, but primarily on the eastern and southeastern, or popular, sectors—the founding of five new national drama centres around France, and, perhaps most ambitiously, the building of thirty new Maisons de la Culture (Cultural Centres, or MCs), with at least one in every region of France. Although this latter project was never fully realized—during his decade-long tenure as minister, Malraux only oversaw the establishment and opening of seven MCs— this initiative did mark a point of concrete convergence between Malraux’s, and by extension the State’s, official politics with regard to theatre and earlier independent decentralization efforts. However, given not only the

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budgetary demands of such an undertaking, as well as general feelings of uncertainty as to its potential for success considering the as-yet-untested status of Malraux’s ministry, the project had to proceed with a sense of cautious but assured urgency. What this resulted in were, first, the decision in some cases to forego completely new construction in favour of refurbishing old buildings and, second, the offers of more permanent installations for otherwise financially unstable theatre troupes in these newly created MCs, though this latter policy was also extended to the national drama centres.18 Indeed, perhaps what Malraux—and by extension the MCs—most succeeded in was in the establishment of specific, more permanent sites for the creation and dissemination of new works, encouraging evolution and continuation of Cultural dialogue. At the same time, such dialogue was, to a certain degree, kept within the framework of an existing sociocultural/ historical institutional narrative. One can note this, for instance, in Gaëtan Picon’s—Director of Arts and Letters under Malraux’s ministry—qualification of the role of the MCs as universities. Yet, rather than engaging in the transmission of a “complete”—in the sense that it can be precisely defined and then classified—image of cultures of the past, the MCs would function as sites of transmission of the incomplete or in-progress image of the present directly to those who, consciously or otherwise, participate in its development.19 In many respects, Picon’s comparison of the MCs as universities—that is, established, recognized institutions—serves in large part to legitimize the former. Identifying the primary function of the MC as being that of a space dedicated to encouragement of dialogue and intellectual curiosity— a sort of university for the study of the present—rather than just a space for the production and performance of theatrical or artistic works certainly moves it farther away from notions of commercialization and commoditization. Yet, Picon’s comparison also speaks to a notion of simultaneous participation from both sides—those who create or live in the culture being represented or spoken on and those who create a commentary for it via performance—something that slightly deviates the MC from a university’s more explicitly didactic model. The key here lies in the fact that unlike a university—which as an institution oftentimes, but not always, carries with it the weight of bearing witness and amassing knowledge from hundreds of years of history—the MCs, as brand-new spaces, must work towards integration with the community in which they are situated to

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fulfil their part in the greater dialogue of Cultural commentary. It is here that the necessity for more permanent installation of theatre troupes and companies within the MCs comes into play, for with such stability comes the capacity to create a history or site-specific narrative for the space that grows in conjunction with everything that happens in the surrounding territory. Interweaving theatre into the fabric of daily life could also further serve to break down its status as an elitist or entirely out-of-touch form, thereby generating the impression that what it creates or presents in performance is a result in part of the influence of its geographic and social surroundings. In other words, influence, or the power to influence, circulates rather than remains in a fixed space. The theatre in the conceived model of the MC, then, is no longer simply there to entertain or provide instruction by speaking at its publics about things of which it assumes they are ignorant. It still has a possibility of assuming such positions—indeed, overtly didactic theatre still thrives to a certain degree—but these are not the only roles reserved for it. Rather, under this model, the theatre could open itself to influence and opinion from those it speaks to, inviting an exchange and evolution of ideas that extends even to what is programmed on stage and how. It is necessary to stress the relative level of autonomy granted to the MCs—and by extension, other state-funded theatres—as to both the content of their programming and the forms of theatrical and artistic expression they presented, as although the French government’s cultural politics under Malraux pushed for greater subsidies for the sake of facilitating access to cultural products, such funding was not made conditional based on the content of a particular production or theatre season. Even mediocre or terrible theatre deserved the same impartiality as theatre deemed to be excellent; what mattered more was the fact that new theatre was created in the first place. In any case, it was not the job of the State to explicitly pass judgement on aesthetic or contextual merit. If the theatre were to become truly accessible, the State had to adopt something approaching a politics of impartiality with regard to content, in other words, not delegate funding in such a way as to betray a value judgement with regard to acceptability of presenting or performing certain topics or approaches to topics in the theatres they sponsored. Of course, there are structural limits to this impartiality, but what counted at this moment was that the State at least adopted the air of such an attitude to distance itself from direct influence over the particularities of the programming in a subsidized theatre’s season.

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Development of Cultural Politics Post-Malraux The system of government funding for the support of public theatres has proven to be perhaps one of the more durable of Malraux’s decentralization initiatives during his tenure as Minister of Culture. While the MCs were also initially conceived of in part as a kind of series of physical geographical markers to decentralization, difficulties in securing regional support meant, unfortunately, that a monument to decentralization would not be fully realized. As to the MCs that did manage to be constructed, as of the early 1990s, they, along with what were formerly known as Centres de l’action et de développement culturels (Centres of Cultural Action and Development), were regrouped under the moniker of Scènes Nationales (National Stages, or SN). Some, however, such as the MC93 in Bobigny, to the north of Paris, have elected to nominally retain the title of MC, a small thread tying the building back to its origins. As for State funding, one could posit that the reason for its staying power is not just the fact that the theatres such funding supports depend on it both to finance their productions and to keep ticket costs down, but also the concrete benefits to potentially be reaped from having a working theatre integrated into a community. Less concerned with notions of access to Culture, this point of view stresses more the employment opportunities to be had, or the potential for tourist revenues through the advertising of varied cultural programming. This has not, unfortunately, kept the overall budget afforded to the Ministry of Culture from being subject to periodic slashing over the years—notably in 2007 under President Nicolas Sarkozy—but determining value based on potential monetary profitability does give the system a (very shaky) leg to stand on. The general instability of the ministry in the years immediately following Malraux’s tenure also did not do much by way of more permanent change, as ministers tended to cycle out every two or three years or so. Nevertheless, between 1969 and 1981—the start of Jack Lang’s, the next minister after Malraux to have a lengthy term in office, appointment as Minister of Culture—one could see the beginnings of a shift in cultural politics. What was, under Malraux, a politics of diffusion largely for the sake of greater access and affirmation of a cohesive identity via resurrection of a supposedly shared socio-historical narrative became slightly more about recognition of, though not necessarily an emphasis on, difference—in other words, a response to or a means to combat lingering perceptions of cultural elitism.

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Notable in this regard was minister Jacques Duhamel (1971–1973). Though his tenure was comparatively shorter than that of Malraux, it still managed to mark a policy shift with regard to the framing of the decentralization project. Said shift, however, did not directly evolve from the Ministry of Culture, but was rather a result of a larger set of State-adopted long-range planning goals known as the VIème Plan de développement économique et social (Sixth Plan for economic and social development), ratified on July 15, 1971. With regard to the role of cultural projects and politics, the Plan proposes an approach that favours coherence and coordination, positing that there was a possibility for consensus or “harmonization” to be found even among a seemingly diverse array of individual experiences. Culture, in this case, goes beyond its capacities for the refining of knowledge or the encouragement of a greater appreciation of artistic aesthetics. Engaging with it allows the individual to understand themselves better as well as how they relate to the society in which they live, particularly within the framework of the various spaces which aid in the development of their sense of self (their place of work, the home, nature, etc.), and in which they also encounter other members of their societal group. Consequently, the individual maintains a sense of liberty in their manner of interacting with Culture, but at the same time contributes to fostering a sense of harmony and consensus amongst other individuals who themselves are also engaged in these same interactions. Culture is therefore repositioned as an essential element to the construction of a functioning society rather than something set apart from it, a need rather than something reserved only for a privileged few. 20 Emphasis on the individual rather than just the collective in arguing for the necessity of a cultural politics represents perhaps the starkest break from a discourse that placed the value of cultural access in part on its capacity to bolster or reaffirm the cohesion or identity of a group. It also places the centre of critical construction of the larger social body on the one engaging with a cultural work rather than the work itself. In other words, so that the image of collective consensus may be created, it is not so much that cultural works project said values in the hopes of them being caught on to by the public, but that what must first happen is that the singular parts that make up the whole must formulate for themselves where and how they fit in to the larger framework. Thus, engagement with cultural works and sites becomes a “lived” or “present” experience, informed by a real-time placement of that which one is in contact with in relation to one’s own unique manner of living in and navigating one’s

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environment. At the same time, such a centring of critical activity also implies a simultaneous self-situating, wherein the individual contextualizes themselves to the work or site rather than the other way around. The resulting personal connections described here are themselves heterogeneous, but what they all have in common is their resulting in the individual in question subsequently situating themselves on a singular timeline or narrative that contains the histories of not only the sites/works they are engaging with but also their own and those of others engaging in similar acts of relation-building. Diverse experiences, as suggested by the text of the VIe Plan, still retain the possibility for an eventual harmonization or homogenization rather than maintenance of plurality. In other words, in the end, the ideal Républicain universalist model retains its status as supposedly “untouchable”. To go further, in reinforcing the link between the individual and the greater society of which they are part, the act of recognition of belonging is directly tied to a particular imagining or affirmation of existing structures (relational or otherwise). Said structures are themselves already codified, delimited, contain their own histories and aesthetics, or ways of being and doing things. Affirming one’s “fit”, therefore, can be read at once as an expression of (limited) autonomy within the outlines of a pre-­ determined space, as well as an act that runs counter to the use of access to and engagement with Culture as a means through which to pose alternative possibilities to that which already exists. At the same time, some may argue that the allowance for greater individual autonomy granted by such a repositioning of the role of cultural spaces speaks to a kind of social emancipation that allows for one to develop individual modes of critical engagement with one’s immediate lived world, even if the eventual scope of critique is somewhat limited. More precisely, it is not just individual but collective destiny that Culture allows for mastery of, meaning the image of the group has not entirely disappeared, and even in the case of individual destiny, mastery only comes insofar as it allows for the development of one’s capacities for creativity and happiness. Even so, the politics outlined here nonetheless remain in line with the general projects of economic and social development of the time, a recontextualization yet still a maintenance, rather than a disruption, of a specific status quo. As to the application of this political shift to cultural policy, Duhamel’s approach can be categorized into two separate axes. The first involved a rethinking of the notion of access to culture as being inherently unequal,

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particularly with regard to how its conception was influenced by factors other than the oft-cited sharing of a supposedly common history. For culture to be of and for all citizens—a close approximation to what, in French, Duhamel called a culture citoyenne—it must look beyond already established forms, not necessarily due to their status as “established”, but more precisely to their perception as being accessible solely to a certain “elite”. 21 Underscoring the call to move beyond “old” (read: traditional, or even “acceptable”) cultural forms is the fact that this process of establishing what does and does not “count” as Culture essentially calls for an exclusion or denial of “legitimacy” to other forms, moving from the “elite” to potentially the more “popular”. What is brought into the fold here, then, is the question of class. More precisely, what the inclusion of this micro-­ politics of the importance of socioeconomic factors, and not just geography, in determining accessibility does is twofold. First, it questions the “legitimacy” of the exclusivity of that which constitutes Culture: given that the precise definition of such content is decided on by a select few to be applied to society as a whole, the resulting constraints applied to Culture as a concept render it counter to imaginations of it as an “all-­ encompassing” or “equalizing” force. Second, the inclusion of socioeconomic considerations leaves open the possibility for expansion of what can be considered “Cultural” and can subsequently benefit from institutional (read: State) support. This proposed expanded definition does not, however, do away entirely with the notion of Culture’s ideal universality. Again, it is the question of the manner of application of Culture that is at play here, rather than the legitimacy of the concept itself. In other words, to say that cultural politics must go beyond previously accepted notions of “legitimized” forms is not to say that Culture as an idea is here considered no longer worth maintaining. The structure of the idea is still upheld as valid, but a few more steps may be required for it to reach its ideal potential. What this results in, at least on paper, is the acknowledgement that even though extensive geographical expansion in the name of more equitable cultural access was undertaken under Malraux, the fact it was done under the promotion of only certain creative or artistic forms as constituting Culture at the exclusion, or even unequal promotion, of others implied that it did not quite reach its utopian ideal. Assuming, then, that the earlier effort for geographic equitability in cultural access put into practice by Malraux was partially based on a definition of Culture derived from a privileging of some forms over others—the creation, in other words, of a hierarchal system—the next step towards realizing a potentially more equitable

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politics of access would be to work to shift the focus of “value” onto something other than a particular classification of form. It is in this process of shifting focus that one could also situate the second principal axis of Duhamel’s cultural politics: the re-situating of the locus of cultural action outside the singular site of the ministry, the integration of local municipal as well as private organizations, and, consequently, the creation of a somewhat more interdisciplinary and elastic form of cultural politics. 22 Here decentralization goes beyond the idea of simply expanding sites of cultural production out from the capital. Decisions regarding policy must also follow a similar outward movement in terms of how precisely power is concentrated. This proposal thus sees some delegation of final decision-­ making regarding what is to be programmed more explicitly granted back to smaller governing bodies, reflecting a comparatively more horizontal, exchange-based relationship. The artistic/cultural hierarchy is further destabilized by a specific imagining of the notion of plurality and in particular its penchant for expanding previously established boundaries. This is reflected twice in Duhamel’s policies: first, in the question of interdisciplinarity, in terms of produced content as well as in the relationship between the Ministry of Culture and other departments, and second, in the appeal to experimentation rather than adherence to certain accepted artistic forms. With the former, there is implied the idea that, as the ministry’s activities are, to a degree, critical to the cultivation of a French identity, there must be a co-operational effort, one that blends together certain elements of differing, otherwise distinct ministries, in order for a cultural politics to be effective. As to experimentation, the emphasis here lies again in the idea of blending formerly distinct—and thus hierarchized—artistic forms, allowing them to feed off each other and thereby create something new. However, in terms of concretization of the policies outlined above, that would not truly come into fruition until Jack Lang’s tenure as minister, due in part to the length of time in office (ten years total over the span of two terms, the first from May 1981 to March 1986 and the second from May 1988 to March 1993). Following Malraux, Lang marked the first time that a Minister of Culture held the position for a duration that would permit not only the creation of new policy, but also an increase in the chance for solidification and continued implementation of said policy. Indeed, Lang saw success relatively early in his tenure when, in 1982, he oversaw the doubling of the budget offered to the ministry, an increase that progressively continued until the end of his second term in 1993.

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More precisely, in 1981, the budget afforded to the ministry topped out at 2.6 billion francs, whereas by the time Lang left the ministry in 1993, that amount had increased almost sevenfold to 13.8 billion francs. Among other things, this allowed for a substantial increase in the number of theatre companies that could be afforded sponsorship from 200 to 600.23 Furthermore, in keeping with the project of de-hierarchization outlined by Duhamel, Lang oversaw the construction and founding of centres dedicated to artistic and cultural forms once deemed as less “noble”—such as jazz and popular music, decorative arts, and animation—with the intention being to widen the scope of a “cultured” public as well as popularize the concept of “Culture” more generally.24 This formal expansion of the cultural field also extended even further on a geographic level. Unlike his predecessors who generally placed more emphasis on a French-centric politics of cultural production and creation, Lang introduced a somewhat more open politics of culture as extending beyond national borders. This manifested itself concretely not just in the invitations sent out for other European or international companies to stage performances in France, but also in the appointment of artistic directors for some of the larger theatre houses. Notably, 1983 saw the appointment of Italian-Swiss Director Giorgio Strehler as artistic director of the Odéon. This collaboration would, in 1990, lead to the co-foundation, by Lang and Strehler, of the Union des Théâtres de l’Europe (Union of European Theatres), an organization of national public theatres across the European continent whose aim is to promote cross-cultural and artistic dialogue and exchange to demonstrate not just the universality of theatrical expression as an artistic form, but also the value and role of public theatre in general.25 There is further in the above the beginnings of a process of renegotiation of France’s position as a country within the larger framework of not only the European Union, but also the Schengen Zone, whose establishment granted border-free travel for legal residents of its member states. Said renegotiation additionally expanded the bounds for potential relationality/community-creating outwards. Although Lang’s tenure as minister ended two years before the official establishment of the Schengen agreement into practice in 1995, the move towards dissolving of international borders with regard to artistic works produced on the French public stage could be further classified as mirroring a similar freedom of movement sought after in the discourses preceding the ratification of the agreement. Freedom of exchange, in the case of Culture, could therefore be

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said to be modelled based on an assumption of the existence of common values that are not country-specific, thus placing greater emphasis on the prior-developed notion of universality. On a macro level, one could equate this renegotiation of France’s position to the rest of the Schengen Zone through a process of exchange of cultural works to that which operated on the micro/individual level in the model outlined in the VIe Plan. The result in this case, however, would be that through a process of recognition of universality in the shared cultural works, the nation of France as a whole—including each individual resident—recognizes its place on a narrative timeline that is occupied by other countries in the Zone, thus strengthening the image of the block as a unified front. This process also to some degree does away with—or makes less inhibiting—the boundaries in cross-cultural communication resulting from differences in spoken languages. As, at the national level, the universality said to be inherent in cultural production was imagined as being able to transcend regional or local particularities in its underlying communication of experiences that comprise the “human” rather than “regional” condition, so too could it transcend linguistic bounds. If a singular French cultural identity does exist at this stage, it does so not in isolation but in relation to and/or in conversation with those cultures with whom it occupies the same greater continental territory. Beyond this push towards the international, Lang’s terms as minister are also distinct in the way his cultural politics attempted to bridge the gap between artistic production and contemporary economic practices, notably in the classification of culture as an industry or a set of industries. For this, however, one cannot necessarily look to theatre as the form responsible for the origin of this shift, but rather to other forms such as cinema, television, and popular music production that had not only succeeded in dominating the sociocultural landscape but also proven themselves to be financially lucrative. Other than the social consequences of such a reframing—in particular with regard to the importance now given to the subject of monetary profitability, as opposed to personal or social enrichment and potential for creative promotion, as an expression of value—this initiative encouraged a closer cooperation between public centres or sites of cultural production and local or independent organizations, largely due to fiscal incentives accorded to those who opted to contribute to the sponsorship of a public cultural institution.26

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In brief, what the application of such incentives does is afford Culture a bit more clout in the neoliberal sociopolitical landscape, especially with regard to its potential to influence or sway public opinion. To specify even further on this latter point, one could also cite the implied potential for individual organizations—whether local governing bodies or private companies—to improve or maintain their social standing through sponsorship of an institution meant to serve a public need. One immediate result of this legitimization of public financial intervention in cultural affairs is what can be considered the closure of a metaphorical gap between local actors and artists/other cultural practitioners, itself reflective of a psychological and practical distance between official ministerial discourse and concrete practices of public policy.27 At the same time, however, it is debatable whether this specific rapprochement between the ministry as a figure and its actions on the ground resulting in part based on economic advantages to be gained did more harm than good to the state of cultural politics in France. As Urfalino (2011) posits, one of the consequences of such a move is a dilution of sorts of the concept of cultural politics in general via the shifting of its primary focus to being something other than a drive to act in the service of a social need.28 Rather than basing the successes of its efforts on the more abstract development of social and cultural cognizance amongst its publics, the measurement of success is now split, though not necessarily evenly, between this development and the more concrete marker of financial profitability. Two further consequences can be traced back to this split in focus. In the first place, there is, in this model, an almost return to a hierarchy of forms, only this time with value based on potential financial return, thereby repositioning Culture within a more explicitly capitalist framework rather than the national socio-historical one it occupied under Malraux. Secondly, because of this reframing, Culture as a more global form is now put almost in conflict with itself. More precisely, a certain balancing act must be undertaken between creation, specifically experimental creation—which, at least in France, occupies a central position in the act of cultural production—and consistent monetary profitability as proof of value, which risks favouring stability and consistency rather than unpredictable upheaval in order to thrive.

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Cultural Politics Post-Lang: Crisis? Disillusionment? Where to Go from Here As of 2022, there has not been a Minister of Culture who has held the position for as long as either Malraux or Lang. One could, for the sake of brevity, thus identify Lang as perhaps the last of the Ministers of Culture who implemented policy whose effects and repercussions were felt beyond the specific jurisdictions of the ministry itself. Other than the increased cooperation between cultural institutions and local governing bodies and/ or private organizations, arguably the most lasting effect of Lang’s politics was the repositioning of Culture as operating within the framework of a business or industry as opposed to a model that stresses its potential for creation and unification under a common (national) identity. That the now more explicit acknowledgement that Culture and its by-products operate within a capitalist/neoliberal model has consequently led to the development of a sort of tension within the term—as well as puts into stark relief the cracks in the universalist/unification model that had always been there but which the structures in place allowed for an ignorance of— represents the more existential side of the ramifications of such a shift. More concretely, however, where the effects of viewing Culture under the lens of a business have been more acutely felt is in relation to the question of funding. In an article written in 2004 summarizing the decade following Lang’s final term as minister, Philippe Poirrier describes the state of Culture and cultural politics in France as evolving primarily under the following axes: first, an increased professionalization of those in the fields of culture and the arts via both the increased autonomy given to sites of cultural production in terms of administration and the encouragement of the development of partnerships and contracts with private individuals and organizations in order to secure funding. Secondly, as a result of this latter shift, Poirrier notes a rising sentiment of disillusion amongst cultural actors which can be attributed to the convergence of several factors. First is the recognition of their professions as playing into certain capitalist models of exchange rather than ones that engage primarily with creativity and imagination of the possible. Second is the inevitable (yet necessary) confrontation between the idealized Républicain model and the realities of a multicultural France, and finally, it is a perpetual questioning over what forms of artistic expression the powers that be would choose (or not) to subsidize.29

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A reasonable conclusion to be drawn from the observation of both rising sentiments of structural destabilization and a general feeling of deliberate privileging of forms—a rewards-based system that doles out funding following a subjective, rather than objective, set of value judgements—is that the hierarchal system of formal classification has returned, albeit somewhat altered. Rather than choose to favour one form over another based on intellectually or historically minded criteria, as Malraux did with theatre, preference is decided in good part based on economic reasons. One need only consult the yearly breakdown of the ministry’s budget to see how this manifests itself concretely. To take the 2018 budget, for example—though this trend has been consistent since at least the mid-­2000s—of the 10 billion euros, a historical high, allocated to the Ministry of Culture, close to one-third of the budget are reserved exclusively for public audiovisual media such as public radio and television stations. Conversely, other than 1.6 billion euros set aside for fiscal expenses, the next-highest amount of funding is accorded to the creation of live artistic productions—including theatre, dance, and performance art pieces. For this, however, the amount set aside tops out at 779 million.30 Such a fiscal discrepancy could be explained in part by the costs required for the daily operations of centres of public audiovisual production versus in the creation of public performance pieces—especially considering the ephemerality of the latter—but one could also look to the increased encouragement of private patronage for public cultural endeavours as another possible explanation. Such patronage—the particularities and conditions of which were originally signed into law in 200331—operates under the understanding that, should the companies concerned wish to do so, their financial support for a particular work of cultural or public interest could be declared as a tax write-off. As to the cultural bodies eligible to receive said patronage—namely, public/national museums and monuments, sites of cultural production such as theatres, and certain public research centres dedicated to either preserving cultural patrimony or advancing cultural and/or scientific knowledge—their significance lies in the fact that these are, for the most part, the very same sites that the Ministry of Culture was created to subsidize in the first place. This is not to say that the ministry, through the encouragement of private patronage, is moving to divest itself entirely of its responsibility towards these institutions, but rather that its politics have shifted from a central—albeit somewhat paternalistic—position of primary originator of cultural promotion and preservation to that of a body that is at least one degree removed from

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such activity. What the issue comes down to here, then, is the notion of success, specifically what metric it is measured by. The shift of Culture to an economic framework also shifts the value metric to that which is quantifiable: profits. To illustrate this, one can look to, for example, a letter written on August 1, 2007, by the then recently elected Nicolas Sarkozy to his appointed Minister of Culture, Christine Albanel, the contents of which serve to outline his vision, and consequently her mission, as to what cultural politics under his presidency would look like. Following a summary of the history of cultural politics in France from Malraux to the time of his election, Sarkozy makes two significant statements. First, that democratization of culture has failed in large part because, though taxpayers contribute directly to the funding of cultural projects, said projects, once realized, only benefit a small portion of the population. The presumption here is that there is a correlation between a low level of consumption of cultural products and a programming whose content does not correspond directly to the market’s demands or expectations as to what it wants to put its money towards. This is made even clearer in Sarkozy’s second declaration, outlining his recommended course of action for Albanel to take, which opens with a redefinition of cultural democratization as the assurance that State subsidies will go towards projects that respond to the expectations of their targeted publics. Consequently, Albanel’s mission is broken up into the following tasks: 1. Create independent committees to oversee and reform the process in which subsidies are accorded 2. Demand that beneficiaries of State subsidies not only report back on the popularity of their work, but also set target goals for themselves 3. Suspend automatic yearly renewal of State subsidies Yet what is most striking in the letter is a final directive to look to the cinema industry—specifically, its structuring of State subsidies around expected public reception—as a guide for further “modernization” in the theatre. 32 Here, the principal criticism that cultural politics need reforming as they, in practice, do not meet the expectations of the greatest number of persons is derived not from the observation of the continued existence of underserved areas based on lack of geographic proximity to sites of cultural diffusion/production, but rather from the fact that only a small

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portion of the population pays to access certain cultural products. This manner of conceiving of a supposed “public” is already somewhat narrow in scope compared to those seen earlier, particularly in how it equates the construction of this public to a singular act of financial transaction. In other words, in the imagining that the primary preoccupation of those concerned by questions of cultural production and access is whether they will get their money’s worth, there lies the assumption that this public already has the necessary financial capital needed to access culture, but they just choose not to. The act of personal spending, then, here acts as an indicator of perceived social value. There is little consideration, in other words, for administrative reform in response to the historical (and current) realities of the theatre space as a site of inherent social exclusion, not just for the popular classes, but for other marginalized groups who have often been denied the necessary tools—including and beyond financial capital— needed to feel comfortable accessing, engaging with, and appropriating these spaces themselves. Yet, to exclude these considerations here is also arguably consistent with other forms of marginalization and exclusion across the sociopolitical sphere. What counts more here, then—in both Sarkozy’s letter and the policies it outlines—is the structuring of a certain set of implicit conditions needed to be considered as a member of this targeted public, as one who politically “counts”, in other words. Theatre, and by extension Culture at large, has become purely transactional. Furthermore, it is impossible to ignore the almost veiled threat that government subsidies, once thought of as a given in promotion of something seen as integral to “French” identity, can just as easily be revoked. There are now quotas to be met, proof of merit for continued existence. Consequently, subsidies now become more of a reward for meeting the needs of the consumer market instead of objective funds doled out to ensure a capacity for production and existence, independent of actual or projected consumer trends. Culture, therefore, rather than dialoguing with or challenging its publics, is now beholden to them, dependent on their (monetary) approval for survival. Yet, at the same time, it is not entirely clear what an alternative model of cultural politics would look like. Even in its inception, and initial heyday, under Malraux, the Ministry of Culture never quite realized its almost utopian vision of unity under a common cultural project. The difficulties in funding the MCs—prompted in part by local or regional resistance as to the imposition of these structures or institutions into communities that may not necessarily have asked for them—for example, have already been

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discussed at length. A more fundamental problem in Malraux’s, and by extension the Ministry’s up to and including Lang’s tenure, politics, and vision, however, lies in its goal of universality and unification under a common narrative. In the first place, art in general almost by nature invites discord, especially where questions of interpretation are concerned, or, conversely, recognizes the possibility for divergence and plurality for these same reasons. Second, the creation of a singular general socio-historical narrative that relies on the cultivation or promotion of a linear shared history implies a “monocultural” view of the body of persons said narrative ostensibly represents, at the expense of either divergent/marginalized or pluralized identities. France has, of course, never been monocultural. Even discounting immigration waves into the country, there are still enough regional differences to refute any claim of homogeneity. Increased attention on public platforms as to multicultural or intersectional discourses has drawn further attention to this point. Given this, could a general unifying consensus still be reached while taking into consideration possibilities of difference and heterogeneity? Perhaps, but such unification would happen in the service of what principle? The upholding of the Republic, as Malraux’s cultural-political vision initially geared itself towards? Yet, even the Republic as an entity has never quite lived up to its moniker of true equality amongst all its citizens. The narrative of culture in crisis has been re-trod several times over, but merits being evoked again here, especially where policy is concerned. Narrowing the focus back to theatre from culture in general, it is curious, then, to note that in his letter, Sarkozy deliberately mentions theatre as a cultural form in need of “modernization”. He does not get into specifics as to what he means by this, but given that he directs his Minister of Culture to look to cinema—a more or less lucrative industry where success is regularly measured by ticket sales and box office intake in conjunction with, and perhaps even above, critical response—it can be reasonably assumed that his desired result would be to see government-subsidized theatre as an “industry” be held to a similar standard in terms of measuring whether or not things are “working” as they should be. Such an equivocation, however, rests on a fundamental misunderstanding of the formal differences between theatre and cinema, the ignorance of which could potentially threaten the former with stagnancy. Unlike the cinema—whose final product is practically set when the film is distributed for release—the theatre has a certain malleability which is itself reflective of its inherent ephemerality. This is demonstrated in part through

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elements of design, integration of other artistic forms, conceptions of new usages of space, and, consequently, the negotiation-based dynamic between spectator and spectacle. Yet what it most clearly speaks to is that theatre is a “lived” form in that no one performance is possible to duplicate, dependent as its effects are to the specific spatiotemporal moment in which it is being played. Of course, this is not to imply that cinema cannot undertake its own forms of experimentation, but rather that the “live” element unique to theatre means that not only are the kinds of experimentation that can be undertaken different, but they are also likely to not reach as wide an audience in as quick or short a period. The difficulty with trying to recontextualize theatre within the same industrial model as cinema is that although being obligated to take consumer desires or trends into account could perhaps allow it to “survive” as a form, it is done so at the risk of sidelining the kind of experimentation that could, paradoxically, “modernize” it, in the sense that it is a form whose productions speak to and are of the time in which it currently exists. Not all experimentation works. Many tests of expansion of formal bounds inevitably fail. If, however, the question of mere survival was at stake, would risk then become a rarity? In the years following this latest push for theatre, and public theatre especially, to submit to rules that otherwise govern neoliberal and increasingly globalized industries, is it possible to say that it has managed to maintain a footing, a position outside this model? Or, conversely, despite an appearance of continued experimentation and testing, does the public theatre now exist firmly within, as part and parcel of that same system? As to this last question, there are some who would argue that a certain genre of theatre normally characterized as being critical or oppositional in form and/or content is now so by name or perceived reputation only. In his most recent publication, Contre le théâtre politique (2019), Olivier Neveux addresses this through a presentation of the case of the current state of a certain kind of political theatre produced on stages in France, one whose basis can best be described as allied with dominant extra-­ cultural political discourse. Although, one could say, the neutralization of political theatre at the expense of capacity for felt destabilization of established structure is not a recent phenomenon, Neveux argues that it has, instead, become more pronounced in part because of a reorganization of the sociopolitical body brought on by the election of President Emmanuel Macron. At the heart of the problem is, in part, a question of language,

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and in particular the usage of language of utility as a means of organizing and ascribing value.33 In short, Neveux identifies a correlation between “value” and quantifiable utility, with the latter referring to both a specific sector’s financial contributions and its place in the larger social fabric as corresponding to a certain, pre-determined, set of neoliberal values. It is a model that unites all sectors under the general umbrella of a system that privileges the pragmatic, the efficient, the assurance, above all, that the system functions and will continue to function as it marches forward. The sociopolitical body has thus become a machine, wherein value is placed on a capacity to perform work either to keep the machine running as-is or to set it on a pre-­ determined course for advancement. Relation-based interrogations have moved from an inner dialogue of examining one’s place in the world to a sort of internal “house cleaning”. That which does not fit within the constraints of what is defined as “useful” can be reasonably demoted in value and import, as it does not have a definite part to play in the generating of profit—the confirmation that the machine still works—sought after by the whole body. Curiosity, in this model, then, is threatened. Why engage with something if its immediate benefit is not easily recognized? Furthermore, the fact that, in Neveux’s model, utility is pre-determined rather than developed in real time has numerous consequences for the theatre. For one thing, as publicly funded theatre continues to make up part of the official State budget, a reorientation towards a use-based value system has yielded a turn in the discourse towards what Neveux identifies as a preoccupation or obsession with function. “What is the theatre good for?” in other words. As proof of usefulness is dependent in part on the tangible evidence of profit generation, said obsession in turn leads to a stronger lean towards a tendency for less creative programming and development based on practicality, on things that work, rather than on potentially risker, more formally/structurally critical productions. One of the ways this manifests itself concretely in the theatre is in the programming of pieces that though they may touch on current social or political issues, do so in such a way that maintains the greater superstructures that engendered those issues in the first place. Such work may advocate for change or action in its content, but it does so while relying on or projecting a narrative of sociopolitical or power relations with which the intended public is already familiar. The marginalized, for instance, remain marginalized in their continued depiction as those for whom access to the centre of the sociopolitical sphere is impossible, while those in the centre

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are given the moral task of helping initiate the process of granting access. That a great number of these pieces are also written by those in the centre also serves to solidify this perspective’s position in the realm of political theatre, yet it also carries implications about the resulting spectator/spectacle dynamic that can themselves apply to other genres of theatre, outside that labelled as “political”. The central point of view brings assurance with its already established dominance. One could, hypothetically speaking, anticipate a decent return on ticket sales for a piece that gives the impression of “shaking up” the status quo while nevertheless leaving untouched the greater order of the sociopolitical space those coming into the theatre are already familiar with. The theatre house, in that moment, thus becomes a place of safety, but a safety in stasis instead of in assurance of full freedom of expression or emancipation—in other words, a space that can truly be for any number or configuration of publics. Negotiation between individuals seated in the house and what is on stage is not taken up again, but rather follows a pre-established pattern. Consequently, the risk here is the continued closing off and alienation from the creative/cultural sphere of those who, in simplest terms, structure their work in such a way that, in its questioning of established order, risks jeopardizing the theatre’s imagined utilitarian value in the sociopolitical machine. That such persons—as well as the potential publics they could attract—are often also those that generate the above-mentioned conversations and critiques surrounding the notions of equality and universality with regard to the Republic (i.e. racial and ethnic minorities, LGBTQIA+ folks, those who occupy an economically precarious social status, etc.) is perhaps not a coincidence. Nevertheless, with regard to this study, there are two final consequences in the shift towards utility to consider in the question of centrality with regard to the theatre. First, the greater weight and import given to profit has opened the question of decentralization to include not just the works themselves, nor the potential publics they address, but also those who create said works. This also leads to a second consequence, namely that one can no longer limit the notion of the “centre” itself to a simple geographic distinction. The “centre” must also be defined as a particular kind of discourse. It is a discourse of privileging that which already exists, and that, to continue to do so, must shut out, to a certain degree, that which disagrees with it. Yet, with regard to the theatre, perhaps one of the better points of view from which to examine the effects or prevalence of such centring is from being in the house, from examination of the very relationship the

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decentralization project sought to address in the first place. It is a question of activity and renegotiation over neutrality, of the risk and unpredictability involved with opening of new possible avenues for interpretation versus that which may be the more assured, economically safer choice. Geographically based decentralization has not necessarily disappeared nor been rendered redundant by the addition of social-based centrality. Rather, the two must be considered in juxtaposition with one another. Construction of spaces with the intent of providing easier physical access can only go so far if a similar effort is not undertaken within the spaces themselves to create potential for their occupation by perspectives that do not necessarily adhere to a pre-existing pathway. Otherwise, the risk, for the public theatre at least, is a reverting back to the status of a limited, exclusionary form, a regularized production of work that ends up “shutting out” instead of “expanding outward”.

Notes 1. Malraux, André. 2006. Discours prononcé par André Malraux à l’occasion de l’inauguration de la Maison de la Culture de Bourges le 18 Avril 1964. Ministère De La Culture. www2.culture.gouv.fr/culture/actualites/dossiers/malraux2006/discours/a.m-­bourges.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. 2. Ibid. 3. Ibid. 4. Abirached, Robert. 2005. La génèse de la décentralisation. In La Décentralisation théâtrale, 1, ed. Robert Abirached, 11–50. Paris: Actes Sud. 5. Le Décret de Moscou. N°1083—Bulletin des Lois, N° 469. Décret impérial sur la Surveillance, l’Organisation, l’Administration, la Comptabilité, la Police et la Discipline du Théâtre-Français. Au quartier Impérial de Moscou, le 15 octobre 1812. Fondation Napoléon, 2018. www.napoleon.org/histoire-­des-­2-­empires/articles/le-­ decret-­de-­ moscou-­de-­la-­comedie-­francaise-­15-­octobre-­1812-­legende-­et-­realite/. Accessed 20 July 2022. 6. Abirached, op cit. 7. Ory, Pascal. 2005. Le Front Populaire. In Abirached, op cit. 29–40. 8. Ibid. 9. Added, Serge. 2005. Les premiers pas de la décentralisation dans les années Vichy. In Abirached, op cit. 41–50. 10. Ibid. For a complete text of the law, see Ordonnance N°45-2339 du 13 octobre 1945. Legifrance. www.legifrance.gouv.fr/affichTexte.do?cidText e=JORFTEXT000000888967. Accessed 20 July 2022.

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11. Rioux, Jean-Pierre. 2005. Le théâtre national de la décentralisation (1945–1952). In Abirached op cit. 53–65. 12. Ibid. 13. Ibid. 14. Décret n°59-212 du 3 février 1959 relatif aux attributions d’un ministre d’état (Ministre de la Culture). Legifrance, www.legifrance.gouv.fr/jo_pdf. do?id=JORFTEXT000000309377&pageCourante=01556. Accessed 20 July 2022. 15. One should also include race in this list; however, given that France does not collect census data on race to measure out its populations, the category does not, in an official capacity, carry the same sociopolitical weight when it comes to policy drafting. Officially, the State does not “see” colour, as what comes first is the individual’s French nationality. This position does not, however, negate the fact that the lived experiences of French people of colour differ at times greatly from those of white French citizens. Consequences resulting from confrontations between the universalist ideal and the reality of lived experience as they apply to the theatre will be discussed further in Chap. 5. 16. Although the Front Populaire did put forth some proposals to this same end in the 1930s, arguably what made Malraux’s efforts in the 1960s more successful was the fact that there was an ideological structure in place to theoretically aid in the justification of their necessity. In other words, the efforts to decentralize were in the latter case intertwined with an official, documented mandate as to what the identity of post-war France should look like. 17. Urfalino, Philippe. 2005. Les maisons de la culture et le théâtre (1960–1966): des affinités électives au marriage. In La Décentralisation théâtrale, 2. Les Années Malraux (1959–1968), ed. Robert Abirached, 39–64. Paris: Actes Sud. 18. Ibid. 19. Girard, Augustin. 2004. Les politiques culturelles d’André Malraux à Jack Lang: histoire d’une modernisation. In Institutions et vie culturelles, ed. Guy Saez, 15. Paris: La Documentation Française. 20. Le développement culturel, VIe Plan de développement économique et social (1971–1975). France Stratégie, www.strategie.gouv.fr/sites/strategie.gouv.fr/files/atoms/files/sixieme-­plan-­1971-­1975.pdf. Accessed 20 July 2022. 21. Girard, Augustin. op cit., 16. 22. Ibid. 23. Jack Lang. Ministère de la Culture. www.culture.gouv.fr/Nous-­connaitre/ Decouvrir-­le-­ministere/Histoire-­du-­ministere/L-­histoire-­du-­ministere/ Les-­ministres/Jack-­Lang2/Axes-­prioritaires-­de-­sa-­politique. Accessed 20 July 2022.

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24. Girard, Augustin, op cit. It should be noted, however, that as with the MCs, some of these endeavours were more successful than others. What counts is that in the funding and construction of these spaces dedicated to otherwise marginalized or ignored forms is engrained the possibility for further creation of new kinds of spaces, ones that do not necessarily fit within the bounds or constraints of what had been created prior. At least, that is, so long as they can ultimately fit within the established cultural universalist narrative. 25. Union des Théâtres de l’Europe. www.union-­theatres-­europe.eu/home. Accessed 20 July 2022. 26. Girard, Augustin, op cit. 18–20. 27. Urfalino, Philippe. 2011. De Malraux à Lang, de l’invention à la dissolution. In L’Invention de la politique culturelle, 372. Paris: Pluriel. 28. Ibid. 29. Poirrier, Philippe. 2004. Le ministère de la Culture: entre “refondation” et désenchantement (1993–2004). In Institutions et vie culturelles, ed. Guy Saez, 15. Paris: La Documentation Française. 30. Les Chiffres clés. PLF 2018 un budget de transformation. Ministère de la Culture, 5. Archived at https://web.archive.org/web/2019*/http:// www.culturecommunication.gouv.fr/var/culture/storage/pub/ plf_2018/files/html5/index.html. Accessed 20 July 2022. 31. Loi n° 2003-709 du 1er août 2003 relative au mécénat, aux associations et aux fondations. Legifrance. www.legifrance.gouv.fr/affichTexte.do?cidTex te=JORFTEXT000000791289&categorieLien=id, accessed 20 July 2022. 32. Lettre de mission de Nicolas Sarkozy adressée à Christine Albanel, ministre de la culture et de la communication. Le Monde. April 4, 2008. www.lemonde.fr/sarkozy-­u n-­a n-­a -­l -­e lysee/article/2008/04/29/lettre-­d e-­ mission-­d e-­n icolas-­s arkozy-­a dressee-­a -­c hristine-­a lbanel_1039208_ 1036775.html, accessed 20 July 2022. 33. Neveux, Olivier. 2019. Contre le théâtre politique, 52. Paris: La Fabrique.

CHAPTER 3

Assemble: La Colline, Théâtre National, Paris (20th Arrondissement)

Back to the Roots Artistic Director: Wajdi Mouawad (2016–Present) Located in the middle of a side street at 15 Rue Malte-Brun near the busy Place Gambetta, less than five minutes from the mairie of the 20th arrondissement, La Colline, Théâtre National (or simply La Colline) can be almost easy to miss. Yet, once in front of it, it cuts a rather imposing figure. Its large façade—about 12 m high—is made entirely of glass and steel, with the concrete framing running across the top floor evoking the period of the theatre’s most recent large-scale renovation in the 1980s. Originally built to house a cinema, the space was first transformed into a theatre in 1963, when director Guy Rétoré moved his theatre company into the building, yet without having made any significant architectural changes. Dubbed the Théâtre de l’Est Parisien, it acquired its official subsidized status first as a Centre Dramatique National in 1964 and later as a Théâtre National (joining the ranks of the Comédie-Française, the Odéon, Chaillot, and the Théâtre National de Strasbourg) in 1971 before closing for renovations following a 1983 design contest set by then-Minister of Culture Jack Lang. The theatre was re-inaugurated under its current name in 1988.1 It currently houses two performance spaces—a large main stage that can seat 655  in a steep, stadium-style seating arrangement and a smaller studio theatre on the upper level that can seat 190—a café/restaurant, a small bookstore, a lounge on the upper floor, and a basement-level © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 I. Gonis, Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0_3

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rehearsal space. Finally, as a designated Théâtre National, La Colline has, as stipulated in its charter, a programming mission of staging and promoting new works from France/the francophone world as well as abroad. Its current artistic director, playwright/novelist/filmmaker/sometimes-­ performer Wajdi Mouawad, has been at his post since 2016. One can almost sense the emphasis placed on the importance of the act of “creation” of new works the moment one enters the building. Rather than walking into a spacious foyer, the entryway that welcomes visitors is instead rather narrow, yet at the same time incredibly tall, the height reflective of that of the main stage whose area takes up most of the available space on the ground and lower levels. Walking down the stairs on either side of the main foyer will bring one to a lower mezzanine level in which a short set of stairs lead to the café/dining area and restrooms, and a slightly larger set to the coat-check. While this latter area is rather spacious, it does not do much to detract from the impression that the focus of the building is its main stage—that is, its preference, from a design standpoint, for its spaces devoted to performance over its spaces that most directly interact with the territory outside its glass front. It is, in brief, a functional space in that its design most clearly is one that allows for the facilitation of its intended purpose, though a consequence of this is whether it has inadvertently distanced itself somewhat from the surrounding neighbourhood. Originally a working-class neighbourhood, the area immediately surrounding Place Gambetta has in recent years seen a steady wave of gentrification that has transformed it into a decidedly more middle-class neighbourhood. Yet, when Rétoré first moved his company there, the decision was characterized by some—including André Malraux—as an example of a kind of decentralization from within, given the image, at the time, of the eastern part of the city being devoid of institutions of cultural production. At the time, Malraux’s designation of Rétoré’s theatre as a CDN could be read as a means to inscribe the theatre within the larger narrative that positioned the theatre as a necessary space in the service of a public good and by extension fully accessible to the said public. Today, however, where this perspective notably encounters some tension is in the context of ticket pricing. With current prices for a mainstage performance for adult (that is, over thirty and under sixty-five) non-subscribers running at around 30 euros, La Colline is, along with the Théâtre de la Bastille, the priciest of the theatres included in this study. Such a base pricing level arguably has

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the potential to exclude large swaths of the local population—contrary to the original mission of the theatre—but, as with the Bastille and other theatres (notably the MC93), La Colline counteracts this via a subscription structure, with theirs asking for a single 25 euro payment, per calendar year, for access to tickets at half price (15 euros) for single adults.2 Unique among the other theatres in this study, La Colline also offers the option of a Duo subscription ticket (at 40 euros instead of 50), which can be viewed both as a means to incite more patrons to sign up and as an emphasis on the collective nature of the theatre-going experience. Coincidentally, collectivity—or assemblage—also happens to underscore a large part of the theatre’s current artistic and directorial ethos. This is in part due not only to its historical origins but also to the continued resonance of these origins on a larger, universalist imagination. In brief, those familiar with Mouawad’s theatre will no doubt note the influence of classical Greek tragedy in structure and plot elements of his work. Several of his plays—notably Incendies (2003), Le Cycle des femmes (2011), Tous des oiseaux (2018), and Fauves (2019)—tackle questions of mistaken or hidden identities, incest, and the consequences of familial/generational trauma such as one may find, for instance, in the Oedipus cycle or the Oresteia, while his 2016 solo piece, L’Inflammation du verbe vivre, which begins with a quest to finish a translation/adaptation of Sophocles’ Philoctetes, includes a modern-day depiction of Odysseus’ descent into Hades, as well as his larger journey to return “home”. That Mouawad continues to seek inspiration in classical Greek theatre—and in Sophocles in particular—when creating new works is testament enough to his own perception of their thematic relevance, especially when considered in tandem with current realities. In a 2019 interview with Études, for instance, Mouawad specifically recontextualizes thinking around the question of a global climate catastrophe by putting it in conversation with notions of power and excess as treated in Greek tragedy. Contrary to a Christian point of view that still offers the possibility for repentance—thus a potential reversal of fortune—he states, the classical Greek perspective offers no such recourse, due in part to man’s hubris and refusal to listen to repeated warnings about the impending disaster (what Mouawad calls the “oracles”). Consequently, like Icarus, this formulation sees man reach an apex of excess before ultimately collapsing.3 Yet, along with this recontextualization of the themes of power and hubris, what the above formulation also does is implicitly introduce the question of the position of the spectator in the context of classical tragic

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performance. Said implication is found in Mouawad’s evoking of the figure of the oracle, an imparter of wisdom or prophecy who, in mythology as well as in classical Greek society, was thought to be in direct communication with the gods. Though her pronouncements—often rather vague— were thought to speak to a certain “truth”, whether to accept this truth or not was largely dependent on the individual receiving the pronouncement. As Mouawad elaborates earlier in the interview with Études, often the progression of Greek tragedy involves the central hero—aware of the oracle’s pronouncements and/or warnings—choosing to remain in a state of “blindness” either by ignoring them or by actively taking steps to undermine them. It is then in their moment of most pronounced hubris—that is, when they have the most confidence or self-assurance that they have managed to go beyond what their fate has laid out for them—that the truth of their situation is revealed and the subsequent fall and reversal of fortunes occur. As the Greek gods do not practise repentance as a rule, the fall thus carries with it an element of retroactive reflection, a realization of what one’s course of action should have been and the weight of one’s own responsibility in creating the present situation. Because Greek tragedies centre on this process of blindness ➔ revelation of truth ➔ fall, Mouawad’s continued drawing from them, and their recontextualization with present-day human activity, creates something of a layered relationship when it comes to the question of the performance of these themes in live theatre. Characterizing current manners of confronting catastrophe using the structure of the tragic hero’s arc is itself a suggestion that the structure of classical tragedy can act as a mirror to society at large, yet Mouawad’s continued readapting of these themes in live performance goes further. In this case, it is not so much a question of whether a direct mirroring exists or not, but more so the potential for the creation of a stratified, recognition-based relational dynamic between those seated in the house during a performance and the actions on the stage. More precisely, the initial moment of recognition comes first on the part of the spectator identifying the thematic similarities or links between the newer piece they are presently watching and its much older source of inspiration. Here, of course, it is presumed given that the spectator has entered the theatre with the necessary cultural capital to recognize the original sources in the first place. What would follow then would be a further reflection as to the why behind the presence of these similarities in a contemporary-set narrative, the creation of a link between the past source and the current reality at the time of the performance, and, potentially, a temporal

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re-situating of the original oracle’s pronouncement. What happens after that—whether the warning is heeded or not—depends on the individuals in question. It is, in other words, a transferal of the imperative to act—to incite an action or change deemed as necessary by virtue of its potential for betterment—to the collective of those watching both because they have a capacity for action that surpasses the spatial and/or territorial limitations of the piece and because it is assumed there is a shared moral compass between the stage and the house. What this points to, therefore, is a conceptualization of theatre that grants it the potential to set off a transformative process in the individuals seated in the house, though not necessarily one that speaks to a maintenance of plurality. And it is here that one can begin to discern why Mouawad prefers Sophocles over any of the other well-known classical Greek dramatists. Citing, during a podcast interview with France Culture’s Arnaud Laporte,4 what he believes to be Aeschylus’ dogmatism and Euripides’ focus on the violence of mankind and the absence of gods as comparisons, Mouawad situates Sophocles as demonstrating a more humanist relationship to mankind through his theatre, particularly through his manner of depicting the gods. More precisely, Mouawad summarizes Sophocles’ position as one in which it is not so much the question of whether the gods are actually present that matters, but rather whether or not one still believes in their possibility, especially following a moment of tragic reversal. Though Mouawad’s theatre does not, in its revisiting of Sophocles, create a space in which to “re-stage” this exact dialogue, what it does arguably do is replace the “potential for gods” with a “potential for a spirituality/enchantment” that exists outside the realm of lived human existence. This is not, however, to suggest a particular theology underscoring his approach to theatre. Rather, the spirituality referred to here is one that transcends more material-based ideologies, thus broadening the scope for its potential access and, further, localizing it as the source for the transformative potential Mouawad identifies in the theatre. It is in this latter point that one can most clearly see why Mouawad’s conception of his “territory” can be said to extend far beyond the immediate surroundings of La Colline. In particular, when considering the manner in which he synthesizes the theatre’s upcoming season in his yearly communiqués—or manifestos, as he titles them—there is enough to suggest that not only does the programming suggest the scope of La Colline’s territorial “reach” as being much larger than its immediate environs, but

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it also directly relates back to Mouawad’s other formulations on the intrinsic transformative potential of theatrical representation. This study will concern itself with the first of the manifestos Mouawad penned to accompany the announcement of the 2017–2018 season, published in March 2017. Titled “Ode à l’ennemie” (“Ode to the enemy”),5 the piece opens with an excerpt from Julien Benda’s La Trahison des clercs (1927), more precisely the commentary on an anecdote in which a young Leo Tolstoy, citing the Gospels, chastises an army officer for striking a fellow recruit, to which the officer retorts by asking Tolstoy whether he has read the military code. The anecdote then functions as a comparative example to illustrate Benda’s commentary on what he believes to be an intellectual trend towards turning away from discourses on the natures of “truth”, “beauty”, “justice”, and so on and towards more materialist-­ based ideologies—in particular, nationalism and fascism—that eclipse the metaphysical or spiritual in favour of seeking dominance over the “real”. While certain contemporary events—Mouawad cites, a bit further in the essay, the election of Donald Trump, Brexit, and the resurgence of the far right—make the choice in opening with Benda and recalling the interwar years in Europe more or less evident from a sociopolitical standpoint, what Mouawad grasps onto more tightly, however, is precisely the question of ideology and, in particular, the question of theatre being a space in which one can go beyond ideology. Said question is formulated primarily through the figure of the “Other”—or the “enemy” in the piece’s title—in other words, that which stands in the way or in opposition of a subject in a structural model based on seeking dominance or superiority. Here, however, Mouawad opens by citing a genealogy of claims of racial/ethnic/moral “superiority” over an Other—“Beast” ➔ “Monkey” ➔ “Barbarian” ➔ “Savage” ➔ “Christian” ➔ “Slave” ➔ “Witch” ➔ “Libertine” ➔ “Woman” ➔ “Negro” ➔ “Jew” ➔ “Arab” ➔ “Islam”—the actual critique that builds on Benda’s commentary on ideology is much more internalized. More precisely, it takes on the form of a kind of self-reflection that centres on the space of the theatre as being one which can (and to some degree does) facilitate the creation of an “Other” or “enemy”, as well as a certain level of complacency in perpetuating this structure. Mouawad opens said self-reflection by first referring to a sociocultural “gap” within contemporary society, largely characterized as a division between, on the one hand, a segment of the population that could largely be thought of as “educated” that regularly accesses—or has the disposable means to access—culture and, on the

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other hand, a less economically well-off and often comparatively less educated segment. Yet rather than focusing the critique on the motivations and ideology of the latter, Mouawad begins with a “taking to task” of sorts of the former (himself included among them). This group is not only characterized as deaf to the criticisms, anger, and rejection of the supposedly “lesser” group; they are also so self-insulated that it renders connection almost impossible. This group may see itself as hospitable, but before it can welcome newcomers in, it must come to terms with the coldness and severity it projects to those outside its fold.6 What the above critique largely touches on is the question of access. Socially, the theatre as a space can be perceived as—and to some extent is—relatively exclusionary. Such exclusion can often be economically based, yet more resonant here is the question of sociocultural exclusion, that is, one in which the decision to not go to the theatre is made not for want of funds but from the perception that one does not belong there. Such a perception further transforms the theatre into an “elite” space, with those who regularly enter it seen from the outside as not only belonging to a world set apart from the rest of the immediate territory, but also participating in a process of stigmatizing or “Othering” of those who do not enter the space with them based on the perception that this latter group “lacks” something.7 Often this something translates into a “lack of culture”—here to be read as a lack of cultural capital of “acceptable” or “high” culture versus popular culture—the result of which being an assumed incapacity to engage with or understand the works being proposed in a theatre. Attempts to remedy this may involve targeted campaigns to attempt to draw in these “forgotten” publics, yet what this does not necessarily do is dismantle the stigma—and to some degree, the patronizing perspective—that underscores this top-down relationality in the first place. The theatre thus operates within the context of a structure that assumes a relationship of the privileged “haves” versus the “have nots”, that is, within the vertical structure of a power-based ideology. The question for Mouawad then, especially given his primary artistic influences, becomes how to take steps to transform the theatre space into one that goes beyond the bounds of ideology or rather one that sees a return to questions of the immaterial (“truth”, “justice”, etc.), that is, the kind of spirituality or “enchantment” that is supposedly not directly tied to a particular material-based ideology. A first step towards this, as Mouawad states later in the text, is for those on the “inside”, the regular theatre-going public in this case, to perform the intellectual work of

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“closing the gap” between themselves and those they have identified as “enemies” through the realization that though some in the latter may vote for right/far-right policies of withdrawal, rejection, and nationalism, they are nonetheless those same individuals—or their siblings, spouses, parents, and so on—of a socioeconomic class that theatre-makers and their publics claim to want to defend.8 Such a process can be considered a call towards a more utopian conception of humanity in the fact that it places emphasis on the notion of connection in spite of material or ideological difference. Indeed, Mouawad addresses this as much in his closing of the manifesto, wherein he proclaims that La Colline is prepared to throw itself fully into the “battle” to create a space of openness, “generosity”, “hospitality”, and “welcoming”,9 in other words, something other than an ideological division that allows for a divisive power structure to exist in the first place. And it is here in the context of the implications of this move beyond ideology that one can return to Mouawad’s conceptions of the transformative potential of a theatre, itself based on the presence, or the performance, of some “universally applicable” element. This time, however, the imagining of the position of the spectator shifts slightly. In the interview with Études, for instance, Mouawad responds to a question on the impulse or necessity to “speak” (“prendre la parole”) within the theatrical space with a formulation that sees the theatre as a form of attack (“un attentat”) into which the spectator walks innocently and then leaves internally shaken or moved by what they have seen or heard during the performance.10 What is of note here is the imagining of the spectator as a sort of “blank slate”, stripped, in other words, of his individual markers in order to be firmly anchored, for the run of the performance, within the present spatiotemporal moment. Such a conception slightly deviates from one in which the spectator’s capacity for real-time critical engagement is emphasized, as here the relationship between the spectator and the spectacle is anchored on the emotional-response potential of the former. The relationship, then, is somewhat one-sided, as it positions the spectator as the figure that is, in the moment, acted upon, therefore directly affected and potentially transformed. As to the “attack”, this is realized in part from something inherent in the aesthetics of the piece—its text, technical design, staging, and so on—in other words, a creative gesture that speaks to a certain truth that can still be reached even and especially when everything else has been stripped away. What happens after this moment, that is, when the spectator leaves the theatre and what they may or may not do in response to that

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moment of upheaval, depends upon the individual in question, yet what ultimately counts is the existence of a transformative potential. Yet said potential is not necessarily without its own complications regarding the extent to which it imagines the spectator/spectacle relationship. Notably, of the artistic directors featured in this study, Mouawad is arguably the one whose approach parallels most closely the vision of the public theatre as set out by Malraux. Mouawad’s “universal” notions, in other words, are designated as such based on an assumption that every individual who walks into the theatre has the foreknowledge to recognize them as such in the first place. Given the explicit situating of these notions—at least for a theatrical context—in the theatre of ancient Greece, one must also recognize both the distinctly Occidental-centric framework and its larger implications on the question of difference within the theatre space. More precisely, what is at stake is whether a theatre with a goal of transcendence can grant space for plurality and thus the possibility for individual spectator emancipation or, alternatively, whether a universality centred on a supposed common denominator impedes such emancipation. This question is particularly poignant when considering pieces programmed at La Colline that address politically charged subjects. The spring 2018 programme, for instance, was rounded out with two productions that, though differing distinctively in terms of artistic aesthetic, directly and indirectly addressed the question of revolt or revolution and the limitations of its performance in a theatrical setting. The first of these productions, Mouawad’s Notre Innocence, frames this question within the context of a piece that attempts to give voice to the concerns of the Millennial generation facing an uncertain and potentially hostile future. The second, Vincent Macaigne’s Je suis un pays, and its companion piece Voilà ce que jamais je ne te dirai, positions revolt and destruction at the centre of its narrative. Yet, as to the question of the possible tensions resulting from these actions, this arose more from processes of renegotiation of the spectator/spectacle dynamic that, though at first glance seemed to push to extend acts of deconstruction beyond the bounds of the stage, operated under an imbalanced system of control.

Stun Through Speech Notre Innocence, written and directed by Wajdi Mouawad, La Colline, March 16, 2018

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Returning to the influence of classical Greek texts on Mouawad’s work, one element that has become particularly prominent in his recent pieces is that of the epic or, more precisely, the potential for the epic. What the emphasis on capacity denotes here is twofold: first, it is the question of whether it is possible for the elements in a story to create the conditions for which said story can ascend to the status of “epic”. In this case, we can take “epic” as referencing the grandeur not only of the central character in the narrative, but also that in its potential socio-historical scope. Second, it is also whether the conditions of possibility still exist for those to whom the story is told to collectively recognize elements that speak to a commonality in each of their individual experiences, thus elevating the tale to a universal status that transcends individual subjectivity and instead encompasses the whole. For this to occur in a theatre, then, what is needed is a moment first in which the very negotiation process between the individual spectators and the spectacle is thrown into a state of suspension. This moment must arguably be initiated from the spectacle itself, though said initiation is not necessarily synonymous with a complete shutdown of the pathways of spectator/spectacle exchange. These pathways are still open, but what changes is that the information being sent through them is done so to such a large degree that independently processing it becomes almost impossible in real-time. Yet, the alternative here is not total disengagement, but rather the adoption of another, though not necessarily new, mode of relationality that builds a network of connection based on something other than a process of immediate critical reasoning. Mouawad’s Notre Innocence is an adaptation of his 2017 work Victoires, written during a workshop held with third-year students at the Conservatoire national d’art dramatique in 2015. Said workshop was, unfortunately, marred by two events: the November 13 attacks in Paris and the untimely death of one of the students, Camille, of cardiac arrest following the close of the workshop. Although the presented work differs a bit from the published text, certain core elements of the central narrative remain intact. These primarily occur during the second half of the piece, which focuses on a group of Conservatoire students grappling with the aftermath of the suicide of one of their classmates, Victoire, and how to relay the news to Victoire’s nine-year-old daughter, Alabama. As the students await their turns to speak to a team of investigators, tensions rise as one by one they begin to air their grievances over Victoire—who was not, as it turns out, universally liked—as well as over the responsibility they

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accuse others in the group of having over pushing her to end her life. Verbal, rather than physical, violence is here placed front and centre. Yet, before any of this even begins, there is a markedly different first half of the production. This portion, although it shares some thematic and aesthetic elements with the second—a violent verbal onslaught being a very prominent one—is also one that presents a somewhat troubling conclusion as to the position of the Millennial generation vis-à-vis the world around them. The production opens on a bare stage flooded in a warm wash of light. The house lights are not dimmed—in fact, they remain on throughout the duration of this first half—maintaining, for the moment, a spatiotemporal union between those in the house and those on stage. The designation of a fictional space on the stage as delimited through lighting has, in other words, not yet been established. A lone actor walks out to centre stage. She begins by giving the spectators a fictionalized introduction to the background of the piece we were about to see, about walking in to “Wajdi’s”—here rendered somewhere between a real and fictionalized version of himself—office and seeing him grow sick, and vomit, at the thought of recalling the suicide of a friend of his. This in turn leads her to mention the suicide of “Camille”—again both the real Camille and the fictionalized account of her that will serve as a catalyst for what is to come—following the first presentation of the results of the workshop. She then proceeds to a summary of the process of casting and designing the show, a portion of which includes reference to La Colline and its publics. As she does this, one by one, her fellow performers—all of whom, as she specifies, are between the ages of twenty-­ three and thirty—join her on stage, forming a tight clump at the centre, all facing the house straight-on. This stark frontality takes on a more confrontational air when, following the slightest of beats, the troupe launches into a unified diatribe against what they identify to be the undue burden hoisted upon the shoulders of their generation from the ones that came before it. In short, they were deprived of a future—or, to summarize the speech itself, deprived of the chance to ascend to a mythical or heroic status—before even having the opportunity to strike out on their own. Furthermore, what makes this deprivation worse are the accusations of laziness, or lack of direction or potential thrown at them from their predecessors, accusations that do not account for the accusers’ responsibility in rendering or restructuring the world to its current status.

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Here the target is very explicitly the generation that was on the streets protesting in May 1968—the fiftieth anniversary of which was already being marked by several artistic and theatrical events throughout the city at the time of this production. The references to Generation 1968—and the consequences of its mythologizing—are laid bare during the first third of the chorus’ diatribe. It was they (the more direct “vous” is used in the speech) who were young then, after all, during that “sacred” month that they hang over the heads of the young like a “crushing” weight because they “revolted”, they “understood” the meaning of “sharing” and “camaraderie”. This contrasts with the group on the stage, the “us” (“nous”) who have nothing better to do but stay “glued to [their] phones”, the “poor idiots” who have known nothing and done nothing of consequence with their lives. Their curse is to be the children of Generation 1968, to live in this “transitory period”, good for nothing beyond assuring the “perpetuation of the human race”, occupying a status lower than that of the “toilettes” (“les chiottes”), which at least remain “sacred” in their necessity. Meanwhile, “vous”, the former youth of 1968, the “impertinent” or “fuck you” generation who once protested for their freedoms, is still in the streets, but this time fighting for their pensions, and though the new generation, “nous”, is by their side fighting with them, the former still claims to want to “shape” them, to “select” among them, to “train them like dogs”, and to set them against each other. They (“vous”) have gone against the very principals they claim to have incarnated, and for that, they are labelled as “traitors”. 11 It should be stressed here that the above represents a short summation of what was around twenty minutes of sustained speech recited, in unison, by the twenty actors on stage. Given the precision at which they spoke and maintained a steady rhythm, individual voices all blended to create a single block of sound, a not-so-subtle reference to the choruses of the theatre of ancient Greece. Here, however, the chorus does not direct its commentary inward—that is, towards the action taking place on stage—but outward, against those for whom its presence is meant to aid in the understanding and interpretation of the dramatic action. In other words, the chorus is acting in defiance of its prescribed function while upholding the dramatic convention—a group of individuals speaking in such a way as to form a singular unit—that identifies it as such. More precisely, however, what this outward pouring of information is most akin to is a model of presenting information that eventually leads to an impediment in critical processing. This is further highlighted by the

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fact that the unity in the chorus’ speech extends to a unity in terms of pausing, breathing, in other words, metering time. Additionally, because this metering is vocalized, what the sequence becomes is not quite an excess of sound, but more a moment in which the spectators are themselves also united in the sense that, at this time, they have only one action available to them: hearing. This is distinct from the action of “listening” in that the latter implies a further step of processing information that cannot easily occur if one’s singular capacity to temporally dictate or meter said processing has been momentarily suspended. In this sequence, then, vocalized speech has become something of a wall, constantly pushing forward, while allowing little to no option other than facing it head-on, at least for the time being. In addition, there is also a sort of code-changing reflected in the text of the speech itself. One of the cruxes of the argument put forth against Generation 1968 rests on the idea that the latter have made it almost impossible for the current generation to find an identity other than that of a transitory—read: unremarkable—generation. This is attributed as a result of, first, a collective upholding of May 1968 as the generation-­ defining moment of action and, second, an adherence to notions of collective identity that do not take into account drastic changes in how individuals relate to one another. The evoked derision of modern technology is part of this latter point. While there are some arguments to be made as to the extent to which the use of technology can lead to isolation, what the advent of technologies like the Internet or smartphones has done is to some degree expand the notion of what connectivity or community-­ building can be beyond the realm of physically lived experiences. It is not that the present generation is doing things differently, but that they are perceived as incapable of doing anything at all precisely because their manner of “being in the world” is one that purportedly runs counter to the notions of what this meant to Generation 1968. The problem with this, however, lies in a basic question of timing. That is, the tools or technologies that are supposedly leading to the present generation’s incapacity for ascendency were put in place not by the present generation but by those that preceded them, if not by Generation 1968, then the generation(s) immediately following. Of course, the paradox here is that the use and integration of these same tools is precisely what has made Millennials “unworthy” of being considered having the capacity to be anything other than proof of the continuation of the human race, passively moving through the world instead of directly acting upon it.

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Judging by the reactions in the room, however, the aggression being launched out from the stage was met with, if not outright approval, a certain level of recognition regarding the argument being put forth. This reception, at least on the night of my attendance, may have had something to do with the spectator make up, which that evening skewed much younger. Based on the applause and laughter elicited, especially from those who looked to be around the same age as the actors on stage, one could perhaps consider the recitation of the above monologue as a moment of collective catharsis, wherein the act of giving voice to anger and frustration functions as a kind of cleansing not only for those performing said act but also for those who identify with but are otherwise incapable of performing a similar act of voiced cleansing. Furthermore, said catharsis works all the better precisely because it is taking place in a theatre. Through their presence on the stage, the group of actors are granted a degree of power and control through speech: the determination of what, precisely, the spectators will have to hear and how. This is not to say that those in the house are entirely deprived of a capacity to react vocally to what is, in this case, being verbally thrown at them. Rather, though this has certainly not been the case in the entirety of theatre history, in taking the position of spectator today, there is an implicit acquiescence to relinquishing the possibility for verbal dialogue. Indeed, one of the few ways for a spectator to refuse auditory consumption of what those on stage are producing is by abandoning their position, that is, exiting the theatre space. At the same time, within the notion of momentary abandon of capacity to engage in dialogue, there is also the implication that, to a certain extent, what the silence of the spectators versus the vocalization of those on stage also implies is a spatiotemporal separation between the two groups. In other words, it positions the impossibility of true verbal dialogue or exchange as lying in the perception that what is on stage is situated in a “fictional” space, as opposed to the “reality” occupied by those in the house. Given this, does the act of staying silent, of not responding vocally, keep the discourse contained to the stage to the point where, though it threatens to spill over, it will not do so because a certain set of codes and conventions of attending a theatrical performance are kept? Less a rallying cry, the acerbic text is rendered, in speech and on the stage of La Colline, into a presentation of anger. More precisely, is it possible to say that, in this case, though it grants power to a group that, in its own words, is denied a potential for action and influence, the theatrical medium also holds the capacity to work against this same group?

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At the heart of the above paradox is, of course, the question of spatial relationality between the work on the stage and those in the house watching, receiving, and eventually interpreting the information that is being performed frontally to them. What is further added here, however, is the notion of possibility, that is, that of the creation of room for action, especially on the part of the spectator. Yet, it is not so much the presence of said possibility itself but more so its potential scope that reveals a source of tension, namely the limitation of the capacity afforded to the individual spectator for freedom in perception and critique in favour of a conditional model wherein the locus of power remains on the stage. In short, the problem is a political one. Given the sociopolitical nature of this piece, it would arguably not be too far off to employ here a definition of the political in the context of spectator/spectacle dynamics similar to that used by Christine Servais in a 2013 essay in which she defines the political dimension of a work as being dependent on its relationship with the person receiving the work. More precisely, the “political” is situated in the extent to which the receiver—whether they be a reader, a spectator, or a film/ television viewer—can dialogue or create a unique link with a given work.12 In the case of Notre Innocence, what can be added to the above definition is not just the how with regard to the spectator’s (or “receiver’s”, to use Servais’ term) potential active development of a singular relationality to the work, but also the range of possibilities, extensions, and/or limitations inherent in said “how”, along with who sets them. In other words, does the answer to the question of how these individual relations are formed involve the imposition as well as recognition of a set of conditions so the process of relation-development can begin? Here one must return to the opening monologue, especially the call for the destruction of an old order for the purpose of constructing a new one that carries its greatest emancipatory potential. At the moment of the monologue, the act of speaking in favour of defying convention is not emancipatory in itself, as it, again, performs anger/diatribe/revolt and more while ascribing to a mode of staging that follows an established model of distinct separation between the stage and the house. So that the possibility for its dissemination out from its current confines may be created, the staging must be such that it allows for—or otherwise explicitly questions—the very forms of structural separation it exists within. Should it not do so, the staging nevertheless could allow for some possibilities for the development of direct spectator/spectacle dynamics, but its consequential maintenance of

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a structure of separation risks said dynamics approaching either a prescriptive or a didactic model. This dilemma gains greater prominence at the closing of the play after the narrative passes to the story of Victoire’s suicide and the reactions of her classmates. By this time, the house lights have been turned down, reestablishing a spatiotemporal divide that further obscures any porosity the stage space previously shared with the house. The transition to a more distinctly character-driven narrative style was further highlighted in the interpersonal relationships exhibited by the performers on stage. No longer a unified chorus, by this time they had taken on the personas of twenty distinct individuals and, in contrast to the synchronicity of the first half, spent a majority of the time attacking each other or airing out personal conflicts. To reiterate, other than the question of how to respond to eventual questions from the investigating committee as to Victoire’s potential motives, the conversation is driven by what to do about Alabama, Victoire’s nine-year-old daughter, and specifically what, if any, responsibility the group should assume over her. For the most part, the second half of Notre Innocence maintains focus on the core group of twenty students, with one exception. Towards the final third of the production, the scene shifts to the interior of a bedroom, where a young girl—Alabama—wakes up from a nightmare calling for her mother. Upstage of her bed, a scrim bathed in coloured light separates her from the other twenty actors, though the silhouettes of the latter can still be made out engaging in a heated argument. Although Alabama momentarily faces upstage to observe them, aware of their presence, though intangible, the same cannot be said for the reverse relationship, that is, one of the silhouettes turning downstage to Alabama in a gesture of recognition of her presence. This implication of a unilateral awareness, one that uses theatrical convention and stage design to suggest a capacity for sight that transcends geographic limitations, is the first, subtle, indication that Alabama may not herself exist in the same way as those that occupied the stage prior to her appearance. Though she may occupy the same physical space as the others, her ability to see—partially—and react to their behaviours and actions suggests that she is temporally apart from them. A second indication comes from the fact that Alabama’s gesture of facing upstage to look back at the silhouettes on the scrim aligns her momentarily with those in the house in terms of the shared act of observation that both parties are, in that moment, currently performing. This simultaneous partaking in a

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shared act reopens, slightly, the porous connections that were temporarily severed with the passage from part one of the production to part two, though the establishment of Alabama’s temporal position as being one that straddles the “fiction” being played out on stage with the “reality” in the house is destabilized following her running exit from the stage and the return to the group of twenty actors. It is during this final scene that one of the actors puts forth the idea that Alabama may not exist at all, that Victoire may have never even had a child in the first place. As a response, another actor posits that the question of Alabama’s existence is not what matters in the end. What counts is to believe in her, in her potential for action, and subsequently trying to do something for her—“her” in this case now referring not to the singular Alabama but the whole of the generation she stands for. It is as this “avatar” of a generation that Alabama reenters the scene, joining the rest of the troupe on stage. The staging of this final tableau further emphasizes her status as a singular stand-in for a multitude, for she stands not directly on the stage with the others, but atop a block, with the lighting shifting to put her into brighter focus (though she is not under a full spotlight). The lighting coupled with her elevation above the others—who are all gathered around and looking up at her—give her something of an air of divinity, a link to the ascendance that, in part one, was purportedly denied to those in the generation preceding hers. Her final words are, in sum, to not forget that there was another generation waiting, watching, that we—her use of the article “vous” in her final address coupled with the fact that she remains facing front implies that the pronoun refers not only to those on stage with her but also to the rest of those in the house watching—had to be responsible for them. More precisely, “our” acts had to leave a place for those for whom she stands for to have the capacity to reach a potential for transcendence/ascendance. Thus, the performance closes in a stage set-up whose dynamics are somewhat similar to those it opened with. Both cases are characterized by a distinctly frontal spectator/spectacle dynamic, though where they differ is in the effect behind such a choice. Whereas the first presented a case of a frontal dynamic used to establish, simultaneously, a confrontational as well as a communally cathartic relationship, the second presented a much less ambiguous case of a more didactic relationship. Through her speech, Alabama is prescribing a certain kind of behaviour or attitude, ideally to be emulated—or at the very least reflected upon—once the performance has ended. The crux of the lesson is relatively simple—to never forget about

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those who are set to come after—but it also sets the end of the piece in conflict with what was presented in part one. Given that the chorus primarily focused on what they identified as a perceived lack of recognition of their potential for anything beyond that of passive, transitory “caretakers”, their very assemblage could be considered, then, an attempt at actualization, or of gaining subjectivity through, if not forced, then unavoidable recognition that their acts had the potential for some impact, a process this final speech throws into suspension. If the first frontal dynamic functioned as something of a rallying cry for a generation on the verge of disappearance, the second takes this step of self-extraction from imposed passivity and stops it from going any further. Indeed, if any ascendancy—or rather, move towards the process of ascendancy—happens at all, it is manifested most directly through the figure of Alabama, particularly in her final moment of physical elevation and her simultaneous transformation as a bearer of knowledge. She, in other words, manifests a capacity to attain a status that exists beyond specific generational identification, one that in part bestows a raison d’être to those around her. The difficulty with that in this case, however, is that although her speech addresses the need of becoming something whose existence contains some intrinsic meaning or significance, the role her words place those demanding significance in does not differ much from the one they were fighting against. There is, to a degree, a subtle difference to be noted in the fact that rather than existing as proof of the continued propagation of the human race, those on stage with Alabama are now given the task of readying the world for the arrival of those to follow. Yet, in both cases, the former chorus maintains a certain existence that is characterized not by its own singularity but rather by its objectified relation to another group. To be clear, what is at the centre of this conflict is not so much the ethics of thinking beyond one’s own time frame, but rather the delegitimization or neutralization of concerns brought forth by the chorus when juxtaposed with the spatial dynamics of the closing speech of the show. The search for possibility for ascendency in part one can, in this case, be seen as a moment in which the power to label, to bestow an identity, is localized within the collective body of the formerly less-powerful group. This, however, only lasts so long as the group remains a unified collective on the stage and only so long as the inner spatial divide—that is, the one between the stage and the house—remains relatively blurred. The dimming of the house lights that follows the closing of part one reverts the

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dynamic back to one of an observing party and a party whose actions are being observed, with the splitting of the chorus back into individual characters moving the group on stage back to a status of individuals who are losing—or have already lost—the potential for ascendancy the opening monologue attempted to return to them. By the performance’s conclusion, the group is granted a meaning, or something like one, but it’s one that ultimately reaffirms the need for their occupation of a status they were initially rebelling against. Returning to the question of those in the house, the closing of the piece via a re-centring of an order that was previously decried carries its own implications regarding their potential relationality. Much as Alabama imparts a lesson onto the group that surrounds her, thereby defining for them what their “role” or relationship to her is to be, so the piece as a whole can be said to act as a “macro-Alabama” in relation to those in the house. If, for instance, the opening monologue, confrontational though it may have been, provided something of an opportunity for individual projection or relationship-building between the chorus and one (or several) individuals in the house, what the dimming of the house lights that followed could be further suggested to do would be not only maintenance of a stage/house gap but also maintenance of those on stage as sort of “avatars”. The stage has thus become something of a mirror to the public(s) seated in front of it, as well as the elements of the society of this latter group that allow for the possibility of initial identification. Yet, the pathways as to where such identification may go or develop remain rather limited; that is, access to them is based on the meeting of certain conditions. In this case, those conditions are pronounced by Alabama, her instructing those on stage to think of the generation to come thus also extending out to those who have—or potentially could—actively engaged in the act of identification of themselves with those on the stage. To do so, the final speech implies, is to also begin a process of engagement and acknowledgement of the lesson that had just been imparted onto those whom one has identified as reflections of oneself. Doing otherwise, that is, not acknowledging Alabama’s message for what it is, closes off pathways to inter-stage/house relationship-building precisely because the conditions needed for this to happen are not being met. The piece may thus be categorized as didactic, not so much in its ultimate maintenance of order, but insofar as it participates in a regulation of capacity for engagement on the part of its spectators for the purposes of highlighting preference for a specific mode of behaviour.

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And it is in this process of regulation and consequently of narrowing down pathways to engagement that the piece, through its staging, begins to engage with the transcendent nature of the epic. Of course, for that to happen, the spectators themselves must also be put through a process that, while it does not fully erase the differences amongst them, does attempt to orient individual processes of perception towards a model that chooses to set aside subjective divergences, preferring instead to focus on what supersedes or transcends them. This process can, in a sense, be characterized as a-political, especially in light of the final moment of the piece, which can be read as a call to think beyond material ideology in favour of that which it views as constant or universally applicable. The future, to be more precise, will always need thinking after. This statement is presented as holding true regardless of the details that distinguish the “hows” from one another and subsequently form the bases for various ideologies. Once again, here Mouawad uses the theatrical form as a medium through which to expand not just on its own bounds of representation via a recontextualizing of classic forms, but further on the manners in which its publics reclassify themselves. That plurality in the house exists is undeniable, but at the same time, that does not, in his view, alter a larger aim of moving temporally beyond plurality, even if it may risk the possibility for individual emancipation.

An Excess of Stimuli Je suis un pays and Voilà ce que jamais je ne te dirai, written and directed by Vincent Macaigne, La Colline, June 8 (Voilà…) and 14 (Je suis…) 2018. In the case of Notre Innocence, the momentary suspension of individualized critical engagement is derived from a concentrated focus on a single source of sensory stimulation. Conversely to this, a similar sort of suspension can occur through the simultaneous use of multiple stimuli at once. While the end result in terms of opening a possibility towards transcendence beyond present pluralities or heterogeneities remains more or less the same, what shifts with the addition of other stimuli is the process through which said possible transcendence is eventually reached. Namely, in tapping into multiple senses either at once or in rapid succession, what the aesthetic of a piece of this kind attempts to do is incite a rush of adrenaline on the part of those in the house, creating a feeling of excitement as to what will come next. This latter point is further heightened by the fact that because the shifts in stimuli happen as quickly as they do and

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with no discernible pattern, the emphasis remains more squarely on the unknown or unpredictable. In other words, what is generated is a feeling of “newness” derived from an impression that what one sees happening on stage, largely because of its pacing, has never been seen before. At the same time, when considering the actions that make up these sensory stimulations—and especially their implications on the dynamics of the spectator/spectacle relationship—one will note that they are not perhaps as “new” as they first appear to be when presented all at once. Indeed, they lie much closer to a reaffirming of classical modes of relationality than they do to boundary-breaking innovation. Yet, this impression of the “new” has aided in establishing the popularity of playwright/director/ performer/filmmaker, Vincent Macaigne. Known largely for pieces that operate under a destructive aesthetic, Macaigne’s theatre work is also distinct in that even before the piece officially begins, its presence makes itself known through unmissable sensorial markers, beginning the process of adrenaline access even before anyone enters the theatre. To that end, Macaigne’s Je suis un pays is, in the simplest of terms, a collage-fable for the Internet age. Adapted from one of his earlier works, Friche 22.66—written during his early years as a playwright, though never produced—the frequency and almost child-like rate at which Macaigne mixes cultural references, abandons temporal coherence, and favours visual and auditory stimulation was characterized by some in the press as being a tad too much (Le Temps.ch, Libération)13 while others (Tribune de Génève, Mediapart, I/O Gazette)14 lauded its almost punk-like nature. This latter point, however, takes on a decidedly more complex air when considering the relationship of the production to the spectators in attendance. Though aesthetically the piece makes use of elements that are certainly evocative of an image of a supposed rule and boundary-defying “punk” attitude, the contrasting level of control taken with relegating or influencing the behaviour of those in the house ultimately suggests a piece that maintains existing structures and dynamics rather than attempts to open new paths out of them. The atmosphere is set not upon entering the theatre, but in the lobby, where patrons await the opening of the house doors to a musical track of snippets of synth versions of various national anthems—among those picked out were those of the United States, France, Greece, and the United Kingdom. The allusion to a futuristic/post-apocalyptic setting was further heightened through the placement of large, graffiti-covered canvases in the lobby, one of which also functioned as a video screen,

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projecting images of military parades and other official State/government processions. When the time came to begin gathering towards the doors, a shout cut through the soundtrack. At the rear of the crowd, one of the actors began frantically crying out that a nuclear fallout had occurred, the lobby—and consequently the rest of the world—had been contaminated and that we, the remaining survivors, had to quickly get ourselves inside the safety of the theatre. As we were herded in, the ushers handed out packets of earplugs to counteract the blaring techno music coming out of the theatre. Indeed, the decision to leave the house lights down from the start of the show coupled with the choice in music gave the space the air of a nightclub or a concert venue. If one were to climb all the way to the back of the house and looked carefully, one could also potentially make out Macaigne himself manning the sound booth, the writer/creator-­ turned-­DJ quite literally setting the tempo for the progression of his production. Seating was, contrary to most performances held in the main theatre at La Colline, unassigned. Spectators were encouraged to stay standing and dance and clap along to the music as everyone filed in. In contrast to the party atmosphere that reigned in the house, the stage, for the time being, remained relatively orderly. The general design evoked a cabinet room in the United Nations, with a long table upstage flanked by flags of several member states. Additionally, televisions silently playing news clips—the general theme being disastrous or catastrophic events that had occurred sometime within the last few years—were hung on either side of the proscenium, images of chaos contrasting with the perceived cleanliness on the stage. Once everyone had been seated and the house doors closed, another actor came out to greet the spectators, a microphone in her hand. She introduced herself as a member of the janitorial staff and—in perhaps one of the clearer moments of exposition or character establishment in the piece—gave a short summary of the present situation. The year was 2837, the world had suffered a democratic and ecological collapse, and, in the midst of this chaos, she, in a direct appeal to the spectators, needed to find her two children, a boy, Eddy (or rather, Oedi, as in Oedipe), 15 and a girl, Marie. These two, as it turned out, were seated in the house, but quickly joined their mother onstage, sometimes climbing over patrons to do so. Once the trio was reunited, the mother informed her children that, in order to save herself, she would be abandoning them, but that they should stay close to one another even though it was foretold that the two of

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them—the daughter especially—would be subject to rather violent ordeals that were nevertheless necessary to save the world. With that, she gives them a final kiss and bids them farewell. Shortly after, the first of what will become several explosions occurs, during which an angelic figure emerges out of the fog and proceeds to rape the daughter to fulfil the prophecy that she will be the bearer of the future Saviour. Following this, the girl is taken away to deliver the child, her progress broadcast live via the video screens as she, with her newborn, winds her way out of the medical tent and through a darkened backstage labyrinth to evade capture. Much as with the stories of other “saviours”—the story of Jesus Christ as recounted in the Bible is the first that comes to mind, especially given how the daughter was impregnated, but one could also include those of Horus or Dionysus—the child’s life is in danger from the moment of its birth. Contrary to those stories, however, rather than hide the child or otherwise arrange for it to be cared for by another until it is of age to take up the mantle and restore order, the girl instead openly abandons it, choosing instead to strike out on her own. There is no explicit confirmation given as to whether the child survives, but what counts in her act of abandonment is the fact that it telegraphs a theme that would be repeated several times over throughout the course of the evening: the futility of hope-­ driven myths or styles of storytelling. It is difficult from this point to encapsulate the rest of the performance into a cohesive summary, as linear narrative is more or less abandoned in favour of a more burlesque barrage of visual and auditory stimuli. The stage, after having been subject to an initial destructive blast, continues to come apart, its material instability brought to the forefront through set changes that see, first, the opening of a trap door downstage under which is hidden a shallow pool and, second, the raising of the back wall and subsequent lowering of a set of risers. Liquid materials such as soap bubbles, fake blood, and tar invade or are otherwise tracked and spattered across the stage, later to be intermixed with the dirt that covers the apron—and the edge of the first row of seats—as well as metallic gold confetti streamers. Stage props—chairs, podiums, dumpsters, plastic fold-away tables, the aforementioned flags, and, perhaps the most direct reference to the flimsy plasticity of any semblance of ordered structure the piece momentarily constructs, life-sized cardboard cut-outs of current and past world leaders—are thrown about, pushed and piled on top of each other. Nothing in other words is given any sanctity or deference, aside, perhaps, from the acts of destruction or of dirtying things up.

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Conversely, what becomes clearer to track are the constant renegotiations of the spectators’ relationship to this chaotic progression, particularly with regard to the necessity of former’s direct involvement for the destruction being perpetuated on the stage to be pushed even further. The calls to stand up and dance—less a direct order and more in the style of an emcee working to maintain a constant level of heightened enthusiasm— for example, shifted the spectator/spectacle relationship to one in which the former openly and actively respond to stimuli rather than remain seated and refrain from outwardly manifesting a reaction until the curtain call. In other words, the invitation to dance brought the spectators more closely into the world being created on the stage, blurring the lines of separation between the two groups to the point where, during one particular sequence, active participation and real-time reaction were almost necessary for it to go on. Said sequence involved the transformation of the stage into the soundstage of a game show in which a contestant—played by one of the actors— was chosen to try their hand at attempting to assassinate a supposedly immortal king. The attempt took place in a sort of cage situated at the top of the set of risers, its entrance reached by climbing a scaffolding backstage. Throughout all this, the contestant’s progress was transmitted live on a screen via cameras that follow him backstage as well as into the cage, with the feed periodically cutting back to the hosts surrounded by members of the public. The latter was comprised not of actors, but of spectators who, when the lead host of the game show—played by the same actor who earlier played the role of the mother—gave the go-ahead, crossed over from the house and onto the stage, enmeshing themselves, momentarily, within the action. Those who remained in the house—either seated or dancing to Psy’s “Gangnam Style”, the song of choice for the segment—conversely were placed an extra degree of distance away from what was occurring on stage. The host, though her body was frontally facing those remaining in the house while she spoke, addressed the group off the stage while speaking into a camera, the result being that a direct meeting of her gaze would be attained only if one looked at the screen above her. In sum, the dual redirection of the gazes from both parties, either into or at a sort of mediatic middleman, heightened the status of those who elected to remain seated in a somewhat defaulted role of observer. For those who chose not to cross into the stage space, though there was an opportunity to dance, clap, or cheer along with those of their former peers who had made the crossing, the choice as to whether or not to “perform”

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in the way the host attempted to incite them to arguably did not have quite as much bearing as to whether the scene would successfully play out as did the actions of those on the stage. This latter group—one could call them spectators turned momentary background extras—on the contrary occupied a position accessed not through an outright act of transgression but rather through the perceived performance of one. Rather than resulting from a spontaneous drive to further perpetuate the micro-destructions taking place on stage, the supposed “dismantling” of the barrier between the house and the stage— whose crossing is normally restricted—is the result of a speech act that renders movement of spectators from the house to the stage permissible, but under certain conditions. First, the invitation was not simply to join the actors on stage, but to come onstage dancing, in keeping with the festive, club-like atmosphere set by the music, as well as the overtly enthusiastic tone with which the host addressed the crowd. Second, although entrance onto the stage implied an integration into the fiction in the process of being played out, said integration did not come with an authorization to full autonomy. More precisely, though these newly designated “extras” were invited to share the stage, their spatial occupation was restricted to approximately the downstage right quadrant, that is, within the frame of the camera operator. The dynamics of their presence, then, were to a degree chosen or preset for them, their “characters” implicitly assigned to them upon the moment the images of their dancing were broadcast onto the screen behind them. Less a manifestation of new possibilities for movement and spatial renegotiations, the invitation of spectators onto the stage was a necessary step not only in the process of transformation of the stage itself into the setting of a televised programme, but also in the development of the show’s commentary on said form of media. It is not so much the dissonance that surrounds the juxtaposition of claps, cheers, and dancing with a man excitedly gushing over the fact that very soon he will finally realize his dream of committing an explicit act of violence that the spectator presence on the stage serves to highlight, however. On the contrary, the way spectators were invited up combined with the gradual revelation of what precisely they were needed to cheer for, as well as their continued performance of said cheering even as the situation escalated, shifted the perspective of their presence to something other than a manifestation of a newly acquired freedom. Heeding the call to come on stage became, in this case, more of an act of blind acceptance, especially when considering that the conditions and the implications of

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participation were revealed after the crossing was completed. If one of the goals of this segment was to function as something of a burlesque commentary on the state of popular media, lying by omission to create the required conditions to illustrate this was almost a necessity. A celebratory environment had to first be established and a pattern of call and active response put into motion under somewhat innocuous conditions to sharply contrast with the context in which they would eventually be used at the closing of the scene. Arguably, this set-up of conditions to demonstrate a descent into an acceptance of abject violence was done more for the benefit of those who remained outside of the action taking place on the stage than those who chose to participate in it. Indeed, it is precisely because, in the choice to not alter their physical position vis-à-vis the stage, the former group was able to maintain a degree of distance that allowed for a more global observation of what was happening. It was here, then, that the act of critique would take place, as it was only those still remaining in the house who had the capacity to see at once: the live dancing and celebrating on the stage, the transmission of said celebrating on the screen, the backstage feed of the contestant heading to the cage, the fight as transmitted on the screen and live in the cage itself, and finally those on the stage turning their heads back in order to see the “broadcast” of what was happening just behind them. To do nothing, in this case, carried with it a retention of the capacity to critique, something made more evident when, upon the sequence’s conclusion, those who had come on stage were quickly ushered off, their body-props no longer needed, at least not for the time being. Renegotiation of spectator dynamics came directly into play once again during the final half hour or so of the production, once again through the creation of a quasi-bifrontal relationship involving the appearance of some spectators on the stage. The groundwork for this negotiation, however, was laid in the theatre lobby about an hour prior, and it was here that Macaigne’s companion piece, Voilà ce que jamais je ne te dirai, came into play. Performances of Je suis and Voilà were always scheduled on the same evening, with the start time for the latter set two hours after that of the former. Consequently—given that Je suis had an estimated run time of just under four hours—attending both performances on the same day was not possible, but on the other hand, it did result in about fifteen minutes of space-sharing wherein the two groups of spectators encountered one another in the theatre lobby.

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For those attending Voilà, it was advised to arrive at the theatre with around fifteen or twenty minutes to spare, as there were some “preparatory” steps that had to be undertaken in order that they may ready themselves to enter their theatre space. Upon arrival, they were given a wristband and directed down the stairs to the coat-check, whereupon they were asked to turn in any cumbersome objects in exchange for a hazmat suit and headlamp. Other than being instructed to head back upstairs no later than five minutes before showtime, patrons were free to mill about as they wished, with many testing out their headlamps or snapping selfies in their suits. Most patrons in the lobby at that time, however, had their hazmat suits zipped at least halfway up, a visible marker of their belonging to this specific group. The dominant occupation of the lobby by the Voilà group did not last long, however, as shortly after they began arriving, the theatre doors opened to let the Je suis patrons out for intermission. Many of the latter proceeded to make their way to the bar, which, like the coat-check, is located on the level directly below the main entrance. This movement resulted in the first of the confrontations that the two groups would find themselves in. On the one hand, spectators who exited the theatre during the intermission for Je suis were confronted not with an empty lobby, but rather a group of people whose “uniforms” distinguished them as being not of their group. Depending on whether those exiting Je suis had also already attended a performance of Voilà—this was not made explicit, but given Voilà’s structure, attending it first before seeing Je suis would arguably be the most ideal scenario—there was also a likelihood that they may not have known the reason behind the need for the suits. In contrast, spectators of Voilà, although they were waiting in the lobby with those who had just exited the main stage, could not necessarily be privy to their conversations or share in them because of the difference in their circumstances, that is, the information that each group did or did not have access to. In sum, though the two groups were sharing the same space, the circumstances that led to this sharing were such that inter-group communication was rendered not necessarily impossible, but at the very least rather difficult. The sort of mutual observation that resulted from the meeting of the two groups in the lobby continued up until the moment when the main theatre doors opened to welcome those attending Je suis back inside, coupled with the gathering of the hazmat-wearing patrons—whose total number was far below that of the former group—upstairs. After the doors

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of the main theatre had closed, an usher led those in hazmat suits down a ramp at the side of the theatre and into an area of the loading dock backstage. In this area were a few rows of benches as well as a screen onto which was playing an interview between two of the performers of Je suis in which one played the role of a journalist, and the other, an art history expert. As the interview—the topic of which centred around the works of an obscure artist who existed within the temporality of the larger play— progressed, sounds, mostly shouts, cheers, and the occasional thumping bass, filtered in from the mainstage. This not only made the video difficult to hear—the space was not particularly ideal for isolating sound—but it also worked to create a general atmosphere of confusion, as no context had yet been given as to why there was so much chaos happening just beyond the stage door. Eventually, however, an explanation of sorts was provided when, with her hair and green sequined dress covered in tar, the actor who those at Je suis would have recognized as the game show host entered the space, stepped in front of the screen, and gave a short summary of the situation. In brief, following the collapse of the world, we had been deemed worthy enough to carry out the task of repopulating it. At this point, we were instructed to stand up and file out of the room, an usher leading the group back into the lobby and up the stairs to the left-side entrance of the main theatre. The door was opened, and we were told to switch on our headlamps and file in very carefully, the reason for the emphasis on caution being that the stage and the house were enveloped in a very thick, almost stifling cloud of fog. After making our way down the stairs towards the stage, we were ushered to the risers in the back and invited to take a seat. It was here that the renegotiation of spatial dynamics began to take shape, for as the fog began to dissipate, what the spectators of Je suis were greeted with on the stage was another group of individuals in strange outfits staring directly back at them. On the other side, those who had finished taking their seats in the risers were greeted first with an image of a stage in shambles, as though a bomb had just gone off. Beyond that, given that only the stage lights and not the house lights were illuminated, spectators in the house were plunged into relative darkness. Some individual faces could be made out, in particular those seated in the front row, but even so, clarity of observation was decidedly one-sided. As with the earlier game show sequence, what the resulting spatial dynamics could be best described as would be an imbalanced bi-frontality. As before, the presence of the group on the stage was required to further

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the development of the action, with staging used to enhance this effect, particularly in the manner in which the Voilà group reached their final places. They, the so-called chosen ones, were, first, seated not simply behind the action taking place on the stage, but slightly above it by virtue of the raked seating arrangements in the risers. This, in conjunction with their white outfits, their almost ethereal entrance, and their general silence—unlike the earlier instance in which a group joined the actors on stage, these individuals were never prompted to speak, cheer, or otherwise draw attention to their presence through vocalization—gave the impression of gods watching over the proceedings without directly intervening. They were able to see but at the same time were protected from “contamination” from anything beyond (or within) the universe of on the stage. Pushing the evocation, or indeed, the parody, of divine imagery even further was the fact that, after everyone was seated, libations were offered to the recent arrivals in the form of a cold can of Heineken. They were, in other words, singled out not simply because of their uniform style of dress or their occupation of a normally off-limits to those not performing, but more so because of this instance of preferential treatment, of receiving a gesture of hospitality that had not yet been extended to their compatriots in spectatorship. This was of course despite the fact that, upon their entrance into the main theatre, they theoretically had little to no knowledge as to what happened prior to their arrival. On that front, those who remained seated held the advantage. Regardless, though the two groups spent the last portion of the production directly facing each other, the conditions underlying their spatial arrangement were such that a relationship suggesting that one group was the mirror of the other was impossible. On the contrary, what the disparities in terms of foreknowledge, seating arrangement, and relationship—or lack thereof—with the performers onstage resulted in was a situation in which lack of inter-relation, or alienation, of one group to the other was put at the forefront. To a certain degree, the costumed group could have been considered as approaching more closely a full integration with the performers on stage, given that their style of dress had already signalled them as being “apart from” those seated in the house. At the same time, said integration was hindered by the staging’s suggestion that said group was there solely as observers, that is, those without the capacity, through physical, outward action, to directly affect or influence the course of events as they were happening. Upon the play’s conclusion—which followed, among other things, a political speech, a final confrontation between Marie and her hunters, and the arrival of a young girl who, literally, announced that it was over—the

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theatre went through a final transformation. After the curtain calls, the lights were dimmed again, and the music turned up, signalling a return to the nightclub atmosphere that characterized much of the opening of the production. At this point, access to the stage was opened to all, a makeshift bar was set up downstage right serving more Heineken, and as the Voilà attendees unzipped their hazmat suits, and the stagehands got to work cleaning up the mess, the small post-show revelry began. This time, the stage belonged almost exclusively to the spectators, to those who were formerly prevented from accessing it when and how they wanted. There was no implication that the theatre had to be emptied right away, that the normal course of events of gathering one’s personal items and exiting had to be followed just yet. The permission to linger allowed instead for the final act of, at least performatively, reducing the stage/house gap through the granting of open movement to those in the latter. Of course, this movement occurred only upon the exiting of the actors from the stage, their absence rendering the spectators’ movement and occupation possible. This latter point along with that of how and under what conditions the stage was rendered accessible is arguably key to understanding why this final moment and the other two spectator-centric moments previously discussed are only the illusions of a revolution. The question of granting permission is one thing, but that permission is conditional, and one group exclusively owns the power to grant or revoke it. It exists, in other words, solely in the context of the universe being created on stage. The reverse relationship, whereupon spectators can invade or impose their temporality on that of the stage is not possible. For it to have been so, the initial act of granting a passage to access the stage had to have been done in a way that at least implied that the spectators’ passage from house to stage was perpetually open, that the choice to either maintain or ignore it was theirs. Returning to the closing dance party, though spectators were given almost free reign of the place, this was done only when the “theatrics” were over, when there was no longer a process of crafting a fiction or a story happening on the stage at the same time. The temporality of the “real”—or rather, the “non-theatrical”—world not only dominated the space but had also fully invaded it. The actors, as previously mentioned, were missing. Their transition back into the temporality outside of that of their characters had begun with the curtain call but could not continue until they had exited and disappeared fully backstage, that one area of the space that was still exclusively theirs. Consequently, the opportunity for a more fluid and somewhat more balanced sharing of space was denied.

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Yet, in this closing of the evening in a manner almost identical to that which started it, there is also the question of the degree to which Je suis could be identified as a post-political—or indeed, boundary-breaking in the more general sense—work of theatre. To borrow a definition from Bérénice Hamidi-Kim (2011), such a theatre would have to be founded on a post-modern conception of culture, theatre, and politics that breaks away from the Enlightenment framework that formally defined these terms. This vision further distinguishes itself by its eschewing of both grand and/or foundational mythologies and a teleological conception of History, its faith in reason, and its orientation towards an end conceived as both a limit and a finality.16 Yet, it is the question of the break from a teleological conception of History that is particularly telling here, especially when considering the ending of Macaigne’s work. “L’avenir est à nous!” (“The future is ours!”) cries the young girl at the close of the performance, yet the future— Macaigne’s future of 2837—is also a vision of a world that has reappropriated and recycled symbols and figures from “foundational sources”—Abrahamic religions (Marie, mother of a “saviour”), Greek mythology (Eddy/Oedipe), and political figureheads (the King)—and that celebrates the final “purge” by returning back to the same atmosphere that it started with. It is a world modelled on a cycle, that is, a model with no discernible end, one whose dramaturgy, rather than seeking to deconstruct the present in order to better reconfigure a new, more just world, instead highlights both how impossible and inconceivable it would be to fully escape the chaotic here and now.17 The implications of a lack of a discernible “escape” are further reflected back into the division of the spectators into two different groups: the privileged who “survive” and the rest who are left to die. Of course, that distinction itself was somewhat arbitrary, largely depending on how each spectator chose to spend their money when reserving their tickets, yet once the choice was made, the spectator’s “fate” was more or less sealed, at least in terms of their individual relationship to the production in front of them. The fate may be a sort of “end”, but it is also of a kind that, in the greater structure of the piece, allows not for the arrival of the new, but a replay of what happened prior. In this question of fate, one must return to the question of Macaigne’s presence at the sound booth in the back of the house. He is the “god-­ figure”, the one almost literally pulling the strings that launch the many technical cues that mark the course of the four hours, as well as the one

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with (comparatively) the most all-encompassing perspective as to what is happening in the room in real time. It is the “creator” both marvelling and still partaking in the act of creating his work, the locus of power fixed squarely within him. Less punk, it is more a return to an almost theocentric model. The spectator, in such a model—and especially those in Je suis—may have an illusion of self-determination regarding the way in which they negotiate their relationship or distance with the production, but as Macaigne’s self-positioning extends the boundaries of his creation, and thus his control, to include the house as well as the stage, said negotiation has the potential to be limited or vetoed. It would arguably be rather difficult, then, to identify the spectator/spectacle dynamics as they are structured here as having a capacity for the emancipation of the former, as said structure is predicated on the notion that the spectators have entered a space wherein their access to the position of autonomous subject is impeded if not rendered almost impossible by the work itself. Returning to the final dance party, if there is any autonomy or subject realization during this piece, it arguably comes at this moment, in the choice to not re-­ perform the opening of the piece, but rather to leave, that is, to go through a sequence of actions that normally characterize the process of exiting the theatre as a spectator, instead of hopping up onto the stage. Paradoxically, of course, such a dissenting move marks a return to another convention in itself, yet short of leaving during the middle of the show, there is no other alternative present in the model laid out here. Even in its sequence of destructions, what Je suis does not, in the end, suggest is the degree of possibility for something else or other than that which already is. And it is in this sense that Je suis can be considered something of a mirror to, though not quite a direct contrast from, Mouawad’s Notre Innocence. To a certain degree, both pieces ultimately end within the context of a reconfiguration of spectator/spectacle dynamics that sees the former recategorized as a singular, assembled group, after having entered the space as distinct individuals, reflecting artistic points of view that position the theatre as a space that actively engages in a transformative process. In these particular cases, that said process is almost synonymous with a return to formerly established dynamics of relationality is somewhat logical. Given the base assumption that a theatre space is one that occupies a territory that is increasingly defined by questions of plurality, for a process to be fully transformative, it must result in aesthetically creating a space that fosters something other than or more precisely beyond that. It is in this regard that La Colline further distinguishes itself from the other theatres

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in this study, all of which, to one degree or another, emphasize or expand on the presence of plurality on the part of their publics rather than consider it more as a “given condition” to move past. This, once again, is due in large part to Mouawad’s directorial focus on the theatre as a site of classically rooted transcendence and in particular its reorienting of attention on the universal—and arguably universalism by extension—as a common thread rather than on potential divergences, idiosyncracies, and instabilities resulting from the presence of difference.

Notes 1. Seban, Michel. 1998. Théâtre National de la Colline. In Lieux de spectacle à Paris. Abris et édifices, ed. Michel Seban, 135–138. Paris: Éditions du Pavillon de l’Arsenal. 2. As for subscribers under thirty, as well as those currently on unemployment status, they are instead charged a 12 euro initial fee, followed by 10 euros per performance. 3. Sarthou-Lajus, Nathalie. March 2019. Le Théâtre est une forme d’attentat. Études, 97. 4. Laporte, Arnaud. 2019. Wajdi Mouawad: “Il y a une ligne, une éthique qui se joint au geste de la création et qui devient une véritable vocation.” Les Masterclass. France Culture, July 30. France Culture www.franceculture.fr/emissions/les-­masterclasses/wajdi-­mouawad-­il-­y-­a-­une-­ligne-­ une-­e thique-­q ui-­s e-­j oint-­a u-­g este-­d e-­l a-­c reation-­e t-­q ui-­d evient-­u ne. Accessed 20 July 2022. 5. Mouawad, Wajdi. March 2017. Manifeste 2017–2018. Ode à l’ennemie. La Colline Théâtre National. www.colline.fr/manifeste-­2017-­2018. Accessed 20 July 2022. 6. Ibid. 7. Saada, Serge. 2011. Vers un spectateur possible. In Et si on partageait la culture? Essai sur la médiation culturelle et le potentiel du spectateur, 11–64. Toulouse: Éditions de l’Attribut. 8. Mouawad, Wajdi. 2017. Op. cit. 9. Ibid. 10. Sarthou-Lajus, Nathalie. March 2019. Op. cit. p. 96. 11. Program for Wajdi Mouawad’s Notre Innocence at La Colline, Théâtre National, Paris. La Colline, 2018. 12. Servais, Christine. 2013. Relation oeuvre/spectateur: quels modèles pour décrire une réception active? In Le Théâtre et ses publics: la création partagée, ed. Nancy Delhalle and Aline Dethise, 178. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs.

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13. Demidoff, Alexandre. 2017. Vincent Macaigne, la griffe d’un diable à Vidy. Le Temps.ch, September 25. https://www.letemps.ch/culture/2017/09/25/theatre-­v incent-­m acaigne-­g riffe-­d un-­d iable-­v idy; Guillot, Augustin. 2017. “Je suis un pays” de Vincent Macaigne, point de future. Libération. November 30. https://www.liberation.fr/theatre/2017/11/30/je-­suis-­un-­pays-­de-­vincent-­macaigne-­point-­de-­futur_ 1613693/?redirected=1&redirected=1. Accessed 5 August 2022. 14. Berger, Katia. 2017. Macaigne: je suis le pays du romantisme punk. Tribune de Génève. September 15. https://www.tdg.ch/macaigne-­je-­suis-­le-­pays-­ du-­romantisme-­punk-­712935634940; Brianchon, Jean-Christophe. 2017. Rendez-vous avec le désastre. I/O Gazette. October 4. http://www. iogazette.fr/festivals/2017/rendez-­vous-­avec-­le-­desastre/; Thibaudet, Jean-Pierre. 2017. Vincent Macaigne, un artiste en état d’urgence permanent. Mediapart. September 23. https://blogs.mediapart.fr/jean-­pierre-­ thibaudat/blog/230917/vincent-­macaigne-­un-­artiste-­en-­etat-­d-­urgence-­ permanent. Accessed 5 August 2022. 15. The connection between Eddy and his namesake becomes even more clear when, towards the end of this first sequence, his eyes are gouged out. The loss, however, is not permanent, as the same actor (presumably playing the same character) is seen on stage later, eyes intact and fully useable. 16. Hamidi-Kim, Bérénice. 2011. Deux conceptions du théâtre politique à l’épreuve. Théâtre postpolitique et théâtre de lutte politique. In Théâtres politiques (en) Mouvement(s), ed. Christine Douxami, 170. Besançon: Presses Universitaires de Franche-Comté. 17. Ibid., p. 172.

CHAPTER 4

Build: Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers, Nanterre

Stirring the Pot Artistic Director: Philippe Quesne (2014–December 2020) The Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers sits at something of a territorial crossroads. At the back, it abuts the Parc André Malraux, with its expansive green lawns and a sizeable artificial pond. Directly facing the theatre is a hotel, and to the left of that stands a large office building, set back from the street by a parking lot. As far as offerings for leisure or cultural activities go, other than the park, the theatre stands relatively isolated. There are no restaurants or bars in the immediate vicinity—the most convenient place from which to grab a meal or a drink before a performance is from the theatre’s own small bar/restaurant—nor are there any cinemas, museums, or other spaces that suggest the possible presence of activity outside of normal working hours. Said isolation is further punctuated by the fact that to reach the theatre from the closest train station—the Nanterre-Prefecture stop off the RER A commuter rail line—one must either walk about ten to fifteen minutes through the park or else wait for a shuttle bus to make its rounds from the theatre to the station. Consequently, on days in which a performance is scheduled, the theatre becomes a regular hub of activity, in sharp contrast with the quiet that surrounds it.

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When the idea to build a theatre in Nanterre was first developed by Pierre Debauche in 1965, isolation—or more precisely, a proximity to greenery—was something of an advantage. Originally, Debauche sought to use the open space for the organization of a small theatre festival, with the works being staged in a large circus tent. The following year, the festival moved to occupy a group of abandoned hangars near the campus of Paris Nanterre University. 1969 saw the opening of the first (provisional) home of the eventual Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers, this one founded under the Maison de la Culture initiative started by André Malraux and locally spearheaded through an accord between the State and the city of Nanterre, as well as Debauche, who was then made co-artistic director along with writer/director Pierre Laville. 1971 saw the additional inauguration of a Centre Dramatique National (CDN) in the city, followed by the construction of the building that presently houses the theatre—located at 7 avenue Pablo Picasso—in 1975. Though the latter was built with the intention to eventually house the Maison de la Culture, these plans ultimately did not come to fruition quite as expected. In 1982, both the individual Maison de la Culture and the CDN were dissolved, and then reunited, in the theatre’s current location, under the moniker of the latter and bearing the name Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers.1 Today, the theatre houses a main stage, a smaller, transformable black box theatre, and, as a sort of vestige from its brief period as a Maison de la Culture, a small planetarium that is sometimes used to screen short films. Additionally, during his tenure as artistic director, Philippe Quesne occasionally used the front room of the theatre’s in-house scenic design shop as an additional performance space. As a CDN, the Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers benefits from funding support by the State, the majority contributor, as well as the city of Nanterre, and the Hauts-de-Seine department. Its artistic directors, including Quesne, have all been confirmed via a nomination process and review between the city of Nanterre and the Ministry of Culture (though it is the latter that officially confirms the appointment) under a renewable three-year contract which grants general artistic freedom in terms of programming, as well as stipulates the production of three new works by the sitting artistic director.2 Such appointments at Nanterre have largely occurred without incident; however, Quesne’s appointment in 2014 by then Minister of Culture Aurelie Filippetti stands as a notable exception, particularly with regard to the questions it raises concerning the theatre’s greater relationship not just to the State, but to its locality in Nanterre.

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To examine this case, however, it would perhaps be better to start at the end rather than at the beginning. On July 12, 2019, during the Avignon theatre festival, Quesne announced his decision to essentially break with tradition and not renew his contract for a third term. In an interview granted to Libération,3 Quesne cited a general feeling of hostility on the part of the mayor of Nanterre, Patrick Jarry, towards his artistic projects as the chief reasoning behind his decision, in addition to a lack of mediating presence on the part of the State to settle any tensions or disagreements between the two. He continued by citing a reluctance to implement what he calls an “exchangist” policy, whereby he would invite a fellow director of another CDN to present his work at Nanterre, and then he would do the same with his own work at said director’s CDN, consequently preferencing, in brief, highlighting of a geographic network over propositions that favoured innovation in artistic and theatrical expression.4 In a response to Quesne’s accusations, the mayor’s office released a communiqué the day following the publication of the Libération interview, citing on their end a lack of connection (or interest) on Quesne’s part to connecting directly with the community of Nanterre.5 As evidence for this, the mayor’s office cites the fact that attendance from those who refer to themselves as “locals” had fallen to 10%—in comparison, the office cites local attendance at the CDNs in Montreuil, Saint-Denis, and Aubervilliers as 41%, 38%, and 36%, respectively—while in his original interview, Quesne cited a 40% increase in spectators under the age of thirty as evidence for the theatre’s renewal of spectator interest. Nevertheless, the city still maintained it kept a relatively hands-off stance when it came to Quesne’s programming decisions, granting him full independence as had been a tradition in the theatre since it first officially opened. Yet, it is also in this question of programming where the heart of the conflict lies, more precisely within the question of “community”, or rather who the theatre is supposedly “for” as evidenced by what it puts on offer for public viewing. One could arguably trace the origins of said conflict back to the particularities surrounding Quesne’s nomination, one that, in a break with precedent, put the city of Nanterre at odds with the Ministry of Culture. Initial signs of tension can first be seen in a March 2013 communiqué released from Mayor Jarry’s office, declaring opposition to the Ministry’s decision to not renew the contract of Quesne’s predecessor, Jean-Louis Martinelli, for another term. Citing a lack of transparency on the part of the Ministry, the text further deplores the fact that at no point, it claims, had the Ministry consulted with city representatives nor responded to

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written requests for a meeting regarding the operations of an institution that they (along with the State) are financially responsible for.6 The city’s official position rests primarily on what the communiqué refers to as the “exceptional quality” of Martinelli’s work while at his post, the evidence for this being the “faithfulness” of the public, in other words, a territorial connection between the theatre and the greater city of Nanterre. The distance between the city and the Ministry only became more pronounced during the nomination process when, after the call for applications was put out and a shortlist made, the two sides each set their sights on their own respective candidates: the duo of Marcial Di Fonzo Bo and Elise Vigier for the city of Nanterre, and Quesne for the Ministry. When Quesne was officially granted the position by Filippetti, some in the press decried the decision as an “imposition”,7 the implication being that power and finality in decision-making was momentarily re-centralized in a context in which the institution at the heart of the debate ought to be distributing power a certain degree away from the centre. In a final communiqué published on November 29, 2013, Jarry, though officially acknowledging the Ministry’s decision, nevertheless explicitly mentions that for the first time, the decision as to who would direct the theatre was made without the agreement of the city.8 In other words, it is a statement that maintains a gap of sorts, not necessarily between the building of the Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers and the city, but more so between the building as an integral part of the architecture-scape of the city of Nanterre and the artistic director (Quesne) as an unwelcome tenant. A further implication of discord can also be found earlier in the document, in a brief statement outlining what would have been the city’s priorities with regard to who would be taking over following Martinelli’s tenure. Given what the mayor’s office qualifies as the “remarkable” work done under Martinelli, the nomination of a new director should have been (devait) founded on a project that continued to affirm not only the theatre’s “singular” status in France, but also its status as both a theatre of its community in the banlieu and one that was artistically “open” to the world.9 The use here of the imperfect devait is rather notable in that it creates something of a catch-22. For one thing, because this statement immediately precedes the confirmation that the final nomination was made without agreement from the city, it can be assumed that it also runs counter to the above, that is, that the city does not necessarily believe that Quesne is, at that moment, prepared to meet its expectations. This puts Quesne in something of a bind regarding his programming. On the one hand, he

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could set aside the above statements, develop his programme independently, and thereby risk “failure” in the eyes of the city of Nanterre, thus maintaining the strain in the relationship. On the other hand, he could also choose to forego full independence in programming choices in favour of employing a strategy that met, or at least more closely approached, the expectations set out by the mayor’s office. Yet this would potentially be at the expense of him accomplishing his own projects, as well as running counter to the image of creative and directorial freedom the CDNs are meant to foster. Given Quesne’s statements following the announcement of his departure—particularly the comment regarding his opposition to an “exchangist” style of programming—it can be reasonably assumed that he chose the former option. Such a result is not entirely unexpected, however, given Quesne’s professional background. Unlike the former artistic directors of Nanterre-Amandiers, Quesne originally studied visual arts before entering the world of theatre, first as a set designer and then as a director. Consequently, his pieces have a certain hybridity to them, integrating moments of visual and/or gestural language with instances of more dramatic/text-based language and thereby eschewing established formal classification. This proposition of something other than that which already exists or can be found on stages in France extends beyond his own work to a large part of the pieces he elects to programme. What results from this is the transformation of the theatre itself as a space to house a kind of “community”, though not necessarily the one evoked by the mayor’s office during the nomination process. Indeed, the Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers became, by virtue of Quesne’s artistic project, a space of experimentation. There is an interconnectivity here between theatre, performance art, and visual arts, extending to the work Quesne himself also creates. Less “dramatic” in the sense that there is no script or traditionally moving plot, his pieces are more living dioramas, or terrariums, avoiding (for the most part) the temporal accelerations of dramatic time, and subsequently leaving his spectators in the dual role of observers/constructors. His 2019 work Crash Park, for instance, tackled the question of what would happen if a group of strangers ended up stranded on a tropical island following an aeroplane crash. Although this piece does speed up time a bit—mostly to suggest the passing of several days—when the survivors are seen communing in their new environment or engaging in activities, it is all done in real-time. What is missing, however, is distinct dialogue. The performers will speak to one another, but the speech is, by and large, not projected outwards and therefore

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indecipherable. It is thus left on the part of the individuals seated in the house to perform the work of “reading” the body language of the persons on stage during their interactions and constructing for themselves what the particulars of the interpersonal relationships will be. Thus, what ends up proliferating in the house is a heterogeneity reflective of that on the stage—with the latter occurring on a formal level rather than in the realm of individual reception or interpretation. Yet arguably, where this effect is demonstrated, and where one can most clearly glean a sense of Quesne’s perspective regarding theatre as a medium through which the idea of communion can be expanded upon, is in his earlier work, La Nuit des taupes (Night of the Moles). La Nuit des taupes, Concept and Direction by Philippe Quesne, NanterreAmandiers, April 18, 2019 Originally developed in 2016, La Nuit des taupes returned to Nanterre in the spring of 2019 as part of a larger tour that included stops in Spain, Israel, the United States, and Chile. As with Quesne’s other works, this piece is structured around a series of connected “moments” rather than a plot. What distinguishes this piece from the others, however, is in the degree to which it heightens the distance created by the terrarium effect even further through what at first appears to be a removal of the “human” element entirely. Instead of actors dressed in costume—but whose physical forms are still more or less recognizable—the stage is populated by performers dressed in head-to-toe mole costumes. Their design—which includes full coverage of not just the face and body, but also extremities such as hands and feet—while initially alienating is, however, a key element in the piece’s overall project of re-evaluating the terms of spectator relationality, especially with regard to the question of possibilities for communion. Upon entering the house of the main stage, spectators are greeted with a set design that resembles the interior of a cave. At the centre is a three-­ sided cardboard structure, a further emphasis on the terrarium-like nature of the piece in that it is missing a fourth wall, leaving its interiors open to observation. Offstage left is a more open area that will eventually house a drum kit and other musical equipment, while upstage right stands a taller structure resembling a fat stalactite that will later be used as a site of play (with the moles occasionally climbing up and sliding down it) as well as a site of work (the moles using its height to aid in the hanging up or removal of objects inside the cave). At one point in the first third of the piece, a sign is hung down from above: “Welcome to Caveland”, written in

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lettering that drips in a way to visually reflect both the hanging stalagmites and the moisture characteristic of environments that far below the earth’s surface, outside the scope of immediate human observation. This is not, in other words, upon first glance a space that outwardly evokes human hospitability. Yet, as the moles begin to interact with one another and play around with the space, the latter begins to transform, not necessarily into a direct mirror of the upper world, but rather more like an extension of it. Said process can itself be further characterized as a sort of gradual de-­ alienation, though where it starts is on the side of the individual spectators. More precisely, it is in their manner of engaging with the sequences of actions happening on the stage, especially if said engagement involves assigning “story” to what is happening. The opportunity for this begins early on, from the moment the moles start moving about the space. Although the actors’ human forms have been entirely hidden underneath their costumes, this is not to say that the attempt to closely resemble a mole extended to include their physicality. On the contrary, upon making their entrance, the moles adopted a physicality that included two traits that can be read as the initial signalling towards a bridging of the gap between themselves and their spectators: bipedalism and the use of opposable thumbs. This initial “break” from the “primitive” animal world is later emphasized in moments when, for instance, the moles use tools such as a pickaxe instead of their teeth to demolish their cardboard structure, or when a mole hops on a kick-scooter and begins to deftly weave in and out of the surrounding stalactites. At the same time, this does not necessarily imply that the moles undergo a larger transformation towards a becoming-­ human. Instead, these initial moments of adopting postures that evoke human behaviour are relatively unique in terms of how they can seem to “remove” the moles from their lived environment. For comparison, the rest of their actions—except the final moment of the piece when the moles come together to form a (literally) underground rock group—can be classified as belonging to both their underground world and the above-­ ground world that the spectators occupy and interact with daily. The moles, individually and in a group, engage in acts of play, work, sex, and even at one point giving birth.10 What is notably absent here, however, is any indication of psychology, motivation, or intent behind these actions that would ground them more firmly within the realm of the human. At the same time, because the moles on the stage have already been physically established as being not quite of the natural underground world, there are possibilities to “fill in the gaps”, so to speak, between these

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actions, adding the human element of narrative back through a process of individual engagement and interpretation. This also marks a moment in which not only the individuals seated in the house at the time appropriate the actions on the stage into themselves, but also when the piece as a whole begins to pluralize. As there is no explicit psychology behind the drive in the actions on the stage, said actions, in the moment of performance, are concentrated down to their core status as acts. One can relate this back to the very environment the moles inhabit, though this time not in terms of its status as a normally hidden space. Here, however, one must momentarily turn to Plato. One of the most enduring images from Plato’s famous allegory of the cave is that of the use of shadow projections of objects to impart information to the prisoners in the cave as to what said objects are. This process of projection not only relies on the imaging of the object in question in its simplest or “ideal” form—that is, as a two-dimensional, or flat, outline— but also removes from it any materiality or plasticity that would otherwise anchor it in the “real”. So long as the prisoners in the cave remain where they are, unaware of the fact that what they see in front of them is an image of the real, their frame of knowledge will be confined only within the immediate bounds of what is displayed in front of them. In other words, there can be no re-situating of the flat projection of the object with its material equivalent and by extension the positioning of the cave as a site of transmission of a certain imaging of the real, so long as the subject to whom the information is being transmitted is denied the possibility for actively situating themselves within the greater territorial context of their environment. Given this, one can thus read the positioning of the individual spectators as being somewhat akin to those who, to borrow from Plato’s model, have first left the cave and then returned with a more complete understanding of their larger environs. As with the latter case, the spectators, in the act of watching the piece, are put in a position in which they can easily identify distinct “acts” in a basic—that is, not psychologically motivated— form, but they can also transform said acts into signs that correspond to lived instances in which those same acts were performed in the “real” world. Where this arguably differs from Plato, however, is in the degree of subjectivity that remains inherent in this process. While the staging of the action leaves it open for the layering of interpretation, in its primacy, it does not necessarily imply the existence of a larger, objective truth to which it functions as an image or representation of. Essentially, what this

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means is an absence of a system of validity in interpretation. Where one spectator may potentially see the destruction of the cardboard house as a commentary on the present destruction of our own, ecological, living space, another may choose to layer on it a reading that sees it as an act of freedom, of pushing out beyond material or metaphorical boundaries to expand possibilities for appropriation of one’s surroundings. What counts more is that in the process of crafting this interpretation, the respective spectator has entered into direct engagement with the piece and, further, has a certain level of control in determining how said engagement will evolve. It is here, then, that one can begin to see the focus on community-­ building that underscores the greater project that Quesne has undertaken at Nanterre at work. Of course, the notion of community is already evident in the subject of the piece itself. Where it is elaborated on in this case, however, is in the pluralization of its building process. So that said plurality can be possible, the conditions must be put in place to create an environment that is as bare of clear one-to-one symbolic signification as possible. In this case, this meant doing away with dramatic narrative forms and heightening the terrarium style of presentation to its apex. Yet, at the same time, it is in this stripping away of the need for transmitting signification that the piece positions itself as a manifestation of a distinctly human trait: to ascribe human emotion and psychology to other things that “live” in the same world in order to try and understand not just those non-­ human things but also our place in relation to them. It is an internal process of relational community-building that occurs largely on an individual, micro level and, at the same time, in its uniqueness, assumes the simultaneous existence of multiple other micro-communities that are not necessarily just like it. Furthermore, it is a perspective that leaves open possibilities for inclusivity. When, for instance, at the end of the piece the moles pick up instruments—guitar, bass, and drums, among others—and begin the arguably most human-centric sequence of the piece, their gesture is accepted in part because everything that came before lays the groundwork for engagement towards their becoming-human and thus the expansion of the possible actions they can perform. Here then is also where one can most clearly see one of the social aims of Quesne’s aesthetic. In the localizing of his terrarium underground, Quesne not only focuses his attention on the physical and metaphorical distance that separates the above-ground world from this “other” or “excluded” space, but he also aesthetically doubles down on said distance to posit that perhaps it

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is not as vast as it initially seems. The key, though, is the willingness on the part of those who initially recognize the “otherness” of that space to engage with the possibilities for reduction of distance in the first place. The eschewing of dramatic formalism as seen in La Nuit des taupes not only creates space for the hybridity in possible connection-building and communion evident in Quesne’s works to exist, but it also speaks in a more general sense to a certain importance granted to the question of space. A good number of the pieces programmed at Nanterre during Quesne’s tenure were, in many ways, created specifically with the thought of a spatial occupation in mind or, indeed, cannot exist in a form, such as a printed and bound text, that removes or does not require the necessity for physical/corporeal presence of a living body in a space. It was rare, for instance, to find printed copies of the pieces included in the programme in the theatre’s small bookstore. One would be more likely to find more theoretically minded companion texts. The works programmed were, consequently, also pieces that placed greater weight on the need for the presence of an observer, both to take in the visual “vocabulary” and to enter the piece into a transformative process of becoming-performance. Maintenance of and emphasis on such a dynamic allowed, in part, for the theatre itself to become a haven of sorts for that which is not entirely any of the smaller parts that make it up, as well as adopt a programming that was not quite like those proposed elsewhere, grouping works by Quesne together with those of artists/theatre-makers such as Milo Rau, Laetitia Dosch, Joël Pommerat, Phia Ménard, and Rodrigo Garcia, to name a few. It is a programming that, to paraphrase Quesne in a 2016 interview with France Culture, seeks to discover the possible through a dismantling of boundaries and hierarchies that otherwise categorize artistic works and, further, dictate or influence approaches of interpretation.11 To return momentarily to Quesne’s pieces evoked earlier, though the lack of narrative text—or at the very least, text that is vocally projected outward with consciousness of an audience—results in a “closing” of the fourth wall between the stage and the house, what distancing there is is undercut somewhat by the fact that construction of narrative is also to a degree “pushed out” of the stage space and into each individual member seated in the house. It is, quite simply, a different manner of “communing with” a work of performance. At the same time, said communing is not without its own tensions. For one thing, it arguably does lean more heavily towards an artist-centred communion rather than an artist-city-spectator communion, given the

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preference placed on granting space for the former. In other words, the programming is such that it more reflects the direction of the theatre rather than a hybrid of the theatre as well as the sociocultural identity of its territory. Yet, even in this exploration of the possible through “unlikeliness”, there also lies the question of the relationship that the works themselves, in performance, construct with their audiences. Though much of the programming at Nanterre-Amandiers had, under Quesne, taken as its point of departure a supposed restructuring or indeed destruction of the separation between spectator and spectacle, what varies is whether, during a performance, said destruction is fully carried out or whether the already established relationship is simply renegotiated. Following that, what is then further engaged with in the space at large is the very conceptualization of community in the first place.

Threads of Connectivity Dying Together, Directed by Lotte van den Berg, Nanterre-Amandiers, March 31, 2019 Once the context for community-building shifts into the pure present, a similar shift also occurs in terms of the degree of focus on the individual players involved in this building. More precisely, what starts to become more central is the question of heterogeneity amongst those individuals and, furthermore, the ways of navigating through it in the process of communal creation. Such engagement also implies not only a more spontaneous or improvisational structure on the part of the piece that will explore this process, but also one in which constant exchanges and positional renegotiations amongst participants are recognized as the individuals involved begin to “learn” more about each other through real-time interaction. This becomes even more evident in cases in which the piece in question is largely structured around spectator participation. In contrast to a piece that encourages participation in an already set structure,12 a more process-oriented form grants enough opportunity for individual appropriation of the performance event that the piece becomes characterized primarily by the constant encounters and negotiations with the unplanned, the singular, that arise during the event. In this way, a piece structured around process-oriented participation also becomes, to a degree, of the people in the room, those who, in real-time, took part in its formulation. It can thus be further read as an example of a collective

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process that, rather than attempting to hide difference or heterogeneity, works in harmony with it. It is with the above in mind that one can more closely examine Lotte van den Berg’s experimental and participatory Dying Together, programmed at Nanterre-Amandiers in the spring of 2019, beginning with its title. The term vivre ensemble (“living together”) comes up quite frequently in the programme and introductory text accompanying van den Berg’s piece. Evoking the bonds—visible, invisible, hereditary/familial, and so on—that link individuals to one another, the term is most often used in discourses advocating for community, for coexistence. It is one that emphasizes a sense of unity despite differences on a personal level. Yet, it is also one that is firmly rooted in the present, in the here and now that belongs to the living. Community, in this sense, is created through conscious interaction with others, navigating through the nuances of the other person either to forge links or bonds or to find reason for exclusion and seek connection elsewhere. Indeed, to address this latter point, it is rather difficult to discuss conceptions of community without acknowledging the inherent acts of exclusion in the notion itself. Such a simultaneous process of inclusion/exclusion extends, of course, out from the micro or personal level as well, though the limits of range of this scope—that is, beyond the individual, familial, urban, or national level—can, at times, be difficult to pin down. What van den Berg attempts in this production is, in part, a dual re-­ examination of the notion of vivre ensemble first through a shifting of its context and at the same time through what could be described as a reductive yet expansive imagining of the breadth of its scope. The title of the piece, Dying Together, refers rather openly to the first element of this re-­ examination, reframing the notion within the realm of the dead—that is, those who can no longer actively participate in the process of community-­ making. At the same time, as van den Berg also notes in the show programme, death is the one thing that does, inevitably, unite all individuals, regardless of age, class, race, location, and so on. Where she goes even further is in the focusing of this piece on recent instances of mass deaths in which different groups of individuals—some with several degrees of geographical and/or temporal separation between them—were implicated. Her choice in how to represent said incidents, however, physically pares them down in terms of geography as well as body count. In brief, for the three-hour duration of the production, the main stage of Nanterre-­ Amandiers was transformed into a laboratory of sorts, with all those

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within—performers as well as spectators—functioning as stand-ins in this experiment where, through small-scale reproduction and incarnation, the idea is to transform death into less a solitary event and more another avenue through which to find and build connection. To that end, the overarching structure of Dying Together resembled something akin to a guided exercise in collective remembering in the experimental, heightened awareness spirit of Viewpoints.13 In short, to borrow a term from Adam Alston (2016), the primary activity involves a kind of “productive participation” on the side of the spectators—or visiteurs (visitors) as van den Berg calls them14—that extends beyond internalized modes of engagement that involve observing then mentally engaging, critiquing, re-fashioning, and/or interpreting for oneself what is currently being played out. Instead, the kind of productivity seen here also includes an active, externalized form of participation in which those who normally observe instead take part in an act of co-creation of the final piece.15 It all began in the lobby of the theatre. While the tickets indicated the performance would take place on the theatre’s main stage, there was no usual front-desk announcement to signal the opening of the house doors. Instead, ticket holders, many of whom were already waiting near the front desk for some indication to start queuing up, were asked by van den Berg to gather around near the main entrance of the building. We were instructed to follow her and her team out the door and around the back to the rear loading door of the main stage. As each person entered, a first member of the troupe would gesture to them where they could leave their things, following which a second would hand them a programme and instruct them to find an empty space in the room, make themselves comfortable, and read over the text. As for décor, there was none, save for a few rolling crates stacked with drinking glasses and carafes of water lining the walls. Otherwise, the room was bare. The stage itself was covered in a light grey vinyl flooring and the fire curtain dropped as a barrier blocking any view of the empty house. The walls were left black. This space, then, was for the moment a blank canvas, a proscenium-style stage, yet one whose “fourth wall” gave it the potential malleability of a black box theatre. Regarding the provided text, it served two purposes: first, to introduce van den Berg’s critical approach and, second, to give an indication as to how the rest of the afternoon would proceed. Unlike the rest of the experience, which, owing in part to the international make-up of van den Berg’s troupe, was conducted in English, this introductory text was

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provided only in French. It opened by citing two events that van den Berg classifies as belonging to the category of vivre ensemble, the first of which speaks of a group of people who, fleeing from a fire on the Greek coast, find themselves trapped at the edge of a cliff. They cling to each other, conscious of the fact that the fire is quickly approaching. Later, their burnt corpses would be found still interlinked. The second event references a suicide bomber who detonates his vest in the middle of a crowd. Pieces of his body are splayed everywhere, with some sharp bits of bone penetrating the bodies of those in the crowd around him. Taking these two events together, van den Berg then posits that the notion of vivre ensemble is first and foremost an awareness of the fact that, regardless of the circumstances, we will all meet the same fate in death. Therefore, to what degree could the observation of the ways in which we “die” together help us to further our understanding of the ways in which we “live” together?16 Notable here is that van den Berg opens her text by evoking experiences of violence, each of which interrogates the notion of a collective, particularly its formation via an unexpected circumstance. Said formation is less focused on individual identity and more so on singularity of action— even if, in these cases, that action is dying. Arguably, shifting the focus to the physical—or the external—rather than the subjective, personal, or internal could be seen as a way to avoid a so-called intellectual “dead-end” of community creation primarily via the notion of a unified, intrinsic/ internal identity, defined, for instance, by Estelle Zhong Mengual (2018) as the inevitable point in which such a process results in said community becoming markedly exclusive/exclusionary or otherwise false and/or illusory.17 Contrarily, the fact that physical action is externalized facilitates not only the spotting of similarities, but also a process of real-time creation that has, as a consequence rather than a definitive end, the forming of a sort of union. The difference here, however, is that the union is short-­ lived, as the result of the action being performed is the death of the body, and subsequent loss of capacity to consciously make a choice, to evolve the action and/or build from it. The emphasis on action as that which ties together is more evident upon examination of the events mentioned above. In the first case—likely referring to a massive 2016 fire at a refugee camp on the island of Lesbos, Greece—it is not quite the fire itself that ties the individuals who perished together, but more so van den Berg’s interpretation of their final moments as being a conscious acknowledgement that the otherwise disparate courses of each of their lives have converged and will come to an end

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following a singular course of events. Community-creation here, then— and especially for a community as ephemeral as this one—is at once born of a collective singularizing of action (shielding bodies from the approaching fire) as well as by an outside force which acts upon the individuals and thus brings about unification. Conversely, in the second example referenced, there is no presence of a mutual intention of forming community based on a circumstantial sharing of fates. Instead, what intention does exist lies primarily within the suicide bomber and his action of detonating his vest for the purpose of causing destruction. The “community” that results from this—the suicide bomber and those who happen to be in the crowd when the attack occurs—is, to a certain degree, arbitrary. This mostly reflects the fact that those who perished during the attack along with the bomber were hit at random, yet in this case, one must also consider the fact that the group of those whose bodies physically carried out the process of dying is formally identified by persons outside the group. It could be the first responders who arrive on the scene to assess the damage or reporters writing up about the event and tallying up statistics to communicate to a wider public, but in either case, consciousness of a connectivity, of the existence of a tie linking the dead together rests squarely in the realm of the living. Yet, to return to van den Berg’s text, such a placement of consciousness in the realization of the vivre ensemble could pose a bit of a problem. If, for instance, said consciousness involves a recognition of the fact that “we” all share the same fate whether we like or have chosen it or not, is it possible, in this second scenario, to place said consciousness elsewhere other than the realm of the living, or the “outsiders”? In other words, could one conceive of a hypothetical collective consciousness that precedes the moment of death that involves the simultaneous recognition of what is about to happen to one’s own body, as well as what will equally happen to several other bodies in the immediate vicinity? Of course, such a localization of consciousness involves several assumptions about the real-time mental activity of those who can no longer speak on that experience. Given this, as well as the fact that the overarching theme of the experience is an exploration of the effect of deaths en masse, it is arguable that the consciousness she refers to stems slightly more from those outside the situation in question. In other words, it is a sort of empathetic consciousness, one that involves—on the part of the outsider—a recognition of what could have been, or a mental projection of their own body, of the

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likelihood of the body to undergo a similar series of death/shutdown processes, in the place of the body that was directly touched by tragedy. Such an integration of the notion of empathy into the process of forming consciousness arguably also lies at the heart of the practical elements of the experience/experiment of Dying Together, especially with regard to how they involved the spectators. As stated in the closing of the introductory text, the session revolved around the exploration of three events, all of which resulted in mass casualties: the 2015 Germanwings aircraft crash, the 2013 Lampedusa migrant shipwreck, and the November 2015 attacks at the Bataclan. The first of these explorations acted as a sort of demonstration. First, one member of the troupe would read a summary of the basic details surrounding the event. In this case, the summary went more or less as follows: On March 24, 2015, a Germanwings flight on its way from Barcelona to Dusseldorf crashed in the French Alps northwest of Nice, killing all passengers and crewmembers on board. The aeroplane was deliberately driven into the side of a mountain by the co-pilot, who, due to suicidal tendencies, had been declared unfit for work, yet failed to divulge this information to his superiors. Once the aircraft had reached cruising altitude, the pilot stepped out of the cabin for a moment, during which the co-pilot locked the door and began a controlled descent which resulted in the fatal crash.18

The description and summary of events remain relatively distant. No names are mentioned—whether it be of the perpetrators of the attack or any of the victims—with the information divulged about those involved generally consisting of an approximation of the individual’s age, their gender—if known—their origins, and in some cases their occupation. Maintaining such a distanced or neutral approach was arguably done to assure a greater chance of openness of exploration in what followed: an abstract representation of those involved in the event, though not exactly the event itself. One by one, the troupe member leading the exercise would pick up a notecard onto which was written a bare-bones description of a person to be potentially “played” or represented by a spectator. For this initial activity, the first roles were given out to other troupe members, with spectator participants being integrated towards the end. More essential than the descriptions here, however, was the ritual involved in the gathering of participants. As the leader read off the card, they would hand it off to another member of the troupe who would then approach

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someone seated in the space and ask whether they would like to play it after re-reading the information written on the card. Though the following is not a direct transcription, the exchange went something like this: LEADER: A passenger, aged fifteen, flying home to Germany after having completed her exchange programme with a local school in Spain. (The LEADER hands off the notecard to a nearby TROUPE MEMBER, who then approaches someone seated in the space. After making eye contact, they kneel down in front of the potential PARTICIPANT and ask): TROUPE MEMBER: Do you want to play a passenger, aged fifteen, who is flying home to Germany after having completed her exchange programme with a local school in Spain? PARTICIPANT: Yes. TROUPE MEMBER: Please follow me then. (The TROUPE MEMBER leads the PARTICIPANT to the designated area of the space where the scene is being built and gives them initial instructions as to how to position their body.) You are going to stand here, upright, facing the back corner, there (directs the PARTICIPANT’S gaze), and this is the position you will start with.

Though the particulars of the initial starting positions varied—during the other exercises, some participants were asked to start by kneeling, laying down, or deliberately facing in another direction from everyone else in the room—what did not change was the confirmation of consent to participate that was asked every time, to each potential participant, regardless of whether they had already consented to participate in an earlier exercise. A response of “No” would simply mean that the role would be proposed to someone else, though it did not necessarily mean that the person who refused would not be proposed another part in the same activity. At the same time, those who did not want to participate at all were given the option of moving to sit against one of the walls, extracting themselves from the most direct form of participation in the experience, though not necessarily from the entire experience itself. Indeed, rather than exclusion and relegation to a non-collaborative position of productive participation, to say “No” constituted a legitimized choice in and of itself and indeed— as will be discussed further—a necessary choice needed for the intended structure of the session to fully materialize. Yet, there is also in this supposed freedom to decide a certain process of limitation that often underscores such moments in immersive or participatory performance.19 One has no choice but to choose, thus one limits one’s own access to the space, at least for a time. Once the choice is made, it cannot necessarily be

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undone, except in cases where someone who previously refused is approached again for another role. Even in this case, there is still an inevitable finality in the decision an individual makes at that moment regarding the extent to which they, and their body, will spatially relate to everything else that is happening in the room. Once everyone was in their starting positions, the leader would give the go-ahead for those participating to begin a physical exploration of their— and/or their “character’s”—relationship both to the event itself and to everyone else currently participating with them in a loosely guided “flow”. It was here that the experiences most closely resembled a typical Viewpoints session, and in particular, the emphasis placed on spatial relationships and the different possibilities for navigating them through movement. Though the initial starting positions, much like the descriptions themselves, were relatively non-specific, on a larger scale, the positioning was such that, at the very least to an outside observer, if not to those directly participating, there was something of a suggestion of a relational dynamics between all those involved. To put it more concretely, the co-pilot, for instance, was placed in such a way that his gaze was facing away from the person representing the fifteen-year-old passenger. A third participant, playing the passenger’s mother, was placed at an angle between the two, creating a sort of triangular relationship. In this position, the “mother” had a view of both her “daughter” and the “pilot”, the “daughter” could see her “mother”, as well as potentially the “pilot” in her peripheral vision, and the “pilot” remained, for the moment, isolated, not having a clear view of either of them. The integration of other participants—representing other passengers, flight crew, family members of the deceased, or political figures involved in the aftermath of the event—played further with this suggestion of connectivity both through physical proximity in terms of placement and through directions of the gaze. These initial positions would, inevitably, shift once the possibility for movement was added in. Much as with the act of asking for consent, the structure underlying the “flows” for each of the three experiences remained the same. Participants would first be placed in the moments leading up to the event, before moving on to the event itself and finally the aftermath. Again, the idea here was less a close-to-accurate recreation and more an exploration of the extent to which the description of the person a participant was assigned, their starting physical position in relation to everyone else, and the temporal moment evoked by the troupe leader could inform said participant’s movements. This, in other words, was an instinct-based

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physical theatre exercise, the focus squarely on the bodies’ actions in real-­ time in response to present stimuli. Participants could change positions— go from sitting to standing or vice versa, shift their gaze, or move about the room—as the exercise proceeded, should they feel the impulse or desire to do so. The only real restriction that was expressly given was that they not use voice (though deliberate full contact was also implicitly left off the table). On the one hand, a multitude of voices would make it difficult to hear the leader’s calls for when the temporality shifted or when the exercise had finished and all participants could return to a seated position on the floor. On the other hand, the exclusion of voice could also be interpreted as a pre-emptive attempt to curb any of the three experiences skewing more towards the territory of an attempt at re-enactment rather than an abstract representation. Yet there was also something of a paradox in these communal/almost-­ but-­not-quite immersive activities, its origins found in certain implications regarding the conceptualization of the spatial dynamics and/or relations between participants. Although the freedom afforded to individuals involved in the different scenes to move or change positions as they wished certainly evoked comparisons to that found in a Viewpoints “flow”, this term was never employed by van den Berg or her team in their descriptions of the activity. Instead, during her introduction, van den Berg used the term “constellations” to describe what the group of bodies/participants on stage would be forming. The use of such a term gives pause for a few reasons, chief of which involves its relationship to what could be described as perceived—as in illusory or not quite concrete—structures. When one thinks of the term “constellations”, it is likely that the first thing to come to mind would be the groups of stars in the night sky that, when visually connected, seem to form a certain identifiable pattern. The individual stars themselves are, of course, separated by billions of miles and not actually touching. Yet, physical or direct contact between the individual parts of such a grouping is not necessary for a process of pattern identification to take place. It is, rather, the human eye that adds in the connecting “links” between each star based on its perception of what, to it, are recognizable signs or patterns, thus in a sense “building” the constellation and distinguishing the collective of individual stars that make it up as being separate from the rest in the sky. At the same time, in this act of pattern recognition and constellation building is also embedded a process of comparison and exclusion. One determines the existence of a constellation-type pattern among a certain group of stars in part because there

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is something about the spatial relationships of each of those stars in relation to every other visible star in a particular area of the sky that causes one to make the determination that they are unlike everything else that surrounds them and can thus be considered apart from the rest. In brief, the key factor here is that for a constellation to be perceived at all, the observer must be spatially situated at some distance away that allows for both macro- (taking in the sight of thousands of stars in the sky as a whole) and micro-observations (finding patterns and forming connections that allow for smaller groupings). Returning to Dying Together, given the above, what does evoking an image of otherwise isolated objects that only appear to be linked because an outside eye has found and recognized patterns in the way said objects are placed in space thus imply? If the aim of the exercises is the use of participation to form perpetually mutable constellations, the recognition of patterns needed to extract said constellations from everything else happening around them cannot necessarily come from those same participants. When inside the exercise, one can only truly situate one’s own body in its unique spatial relationship with regard to other bodies. Such spatial awareness can further inform how and where one moves, as how one’s singular approach both to the situation being explored and to the role they were assigned can affect what degree of closeness or distance they wish to have with others also involved in the scene and reacting/responding at the same time as them. Such a perspective, however, is incredibly singular or subjective. Whether or not someone within the exercise feels any sort of connection—to their “character”, to the others participating, or even to the situation itself—does not change the fact that they cannot see the very constellation that they are supposedly in the process of creating and recreating. What is missing is a certain degree of objectivity that is afforded to those who are placed at a distance, in other words, those who chose to not participate. Sitting on the sidelines, then, becomes almost necessary, at least as far as the capacity for discerning patterns and creating connections is concerned. What this further implies is that even when one elects not to participate directly in the “playing out” of a scene, one is not quite fully separated from the experience itself. One is still participating in van den Berg’s exercise of community creation through actively observing what is going on and subsequently mentally recognizing the connections or patterns necessary for the desired constellations to exist in the first place. Indeed, one could go so far as to argue that van den Berg’s

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experiment works best when there is at least one person who does the opposite of what she asks for, namely, not participate directly. At the same time, however, despite the existence of the potential for the emergence of constellations and different patterns of interconnectivity in these exercises, said emergence remains relatively isolated. More precisely, assuming there is active observational engagement on the part of a person sitting the exercise out, any resulting links or connections that are made remain firmly interiorized, the removal of voice bringing with it a lack of real-time open sharing of observations and possible forming of consensus in interpretation as to what is happening in the playing space. Yet, such a degree of isolation is not quite unfounded given the level of disconnect inherent in the constellation metaphor itself. Indeed, the emphasis on one’s aloneness is not even restricted to only those watching, but rather applies to everyone in the room. For one thing, one’s experience of the flow is determined in large part by their manner of spatial navigation that is for the most part independent of that of the others. There is no appointed leader within the flow once the movement gets started. One could choose to follow or imitate another participant, yet such a choice is constantly renegotiated or abandoned depending on an individual’s reaction to what is happening around them at any given moment. But perhaps the most evident sign of how present solitude is in this experiment on vivre ensemble is the fact that following each of the three scenes, everyone returns to sit in their unique spot on the ground. This return to solitude as a bookend to each of the experiences is, to a degree, almost antithetical to the idea of vivre ensemble as it emphasizes both the impermanence of any connections created or observed during the exercises and the endurance, indeed the inevitability, of a state of being apart from others. What starts to become clear here is that even in acts of sharing or mutual occupation of space, the “gap” still exists. The individual, in other words, does not cease to be even within the collective. Spotting a constellation in the sky does not preclude one from singling out individual stars while still maintaining traces of the whole shape in the back of their mind. The emphasis on the presence of the individual even within a perceived collective did not end with the exercises, either. Following the conclusion of the third flow, participants were given two choices. First, using provided pencils and pieces of paper, was to anonymously write down any thoughts they may have had about the experience as a whole or about a moment that marked them in some way. Comments were then collected in a small box in the centre of the room, supposedly to later be used by the

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troupe to inform either any small tweaks to this project or future projects in development. Second, those who wished were invited to stay on after the writing exercise finished for a talk-back with van den Berg and the rest of her troupe. What this final portion of the session reveals is a facet of this production that potentially separates it from other similar endeavours of community-­ creation through participatory theatre: cognizance of the possibility of failure. It is also arguably this same cognizance that could ultimately see Dying Together categorized more as an experiment than an immersive performance. Though van den Berg’s choice in events to represent give the opportunity for critical engagement in the expansion of what is included in personal conceptions of vivre ensemble, there are a few elements of the structure of the performance that risk the chances of such engagement happening at all on the part of the spectators. If, in the way van den Berg has structured her exercises, the individual participant retains some level of autonomy with regard to their movement or the extent of their reactions/ interactions with others occupying the playing space, said autonomy must also include possibility for degrees of disengagement. Said disengagement could occur on a performance level: a participant, for instance, may choose to take part in the exercise but does not actively choose to “take on” their assigned role, instead maintaining a fuller connection with themselves, as they are, in that given moment. Conversely, a participant could attempt to forge a connection between themselves and the role they are given to allow it greater influence over their subsequent movements and/or reactions, fail to do so, and still participate regardless. Even full individual engagement with one’s assigned role could potentially lead to a hyper-­ focusing on the physical sensations one is feeling in the present moment as their “character”, to the exclusion of the necessary mental passage between being “in” and “out of” character also required to attempt to decipher any spatial/corporal structures that one might notice while one is inside the flow. Of course, as posited earlier, the most advantageous point from which to notice any such structures—or constellations—would be from outside the exercise, that is, from a position of indirect participation. Yet even the question of participation at large poses its own set of obstacles towards the realization of the kind of critical engagement desired here. The more obvious of the obstacles would be a situation in which no spectator agreed to participate, leaving the troupe members to instead take on the roles themselves, turning the flow into a more traditionally structured performance

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with a maintenance of a distinction between those who were there to “play” and those who came to “watch”. At the same time, however, such a situation would also see the most spectators in the “ideal” situation for spotting constellations. What could be potentially more problematic would be the opposite situation: one in which every spectator participates, leaving no one to observe except perhaps one or two troupe members. Here, the difficulty lies in the fact that those watching would be those who are intimately familiar with the piece and thus are more prepared to spot any constellations that form because they know to look for them in the first place. Unfortunately, this keeps the underlining aim of the piece relatively insular. If observation of constellations and critical engagement with the implications of such self-created connections through pattern recognition are necessary elements for entering into a process of re-interpreting vivre ensemble, containing that within only those who already know to look for such things creates a sort of feedback loop. Ideally, the observer unfamiliar with the piece will spot said patterns organically, without explicitly being told when to look for them or when they will appear. Of course, the introductory text does allude to possibilities for new and unexpected connections, but it does so in the form of a hypothesis: Can observing the way(s) we die together reveal more to us about how we live together? In other words, it implies the possibility to answer with a “No”. To answer at all, however, requires engagement on an individual level, and in the best case from the perspective of one who is new to the experiment, that is, who may have the least chance of bias to try and influence their final observations one way or another. One could thus argue that it is in its implicit recognition of its own inherent structural limitations in universally realizing its intended goal that distinguishes Dying Together from more didactic or solution-oriented participatory exercises. That there is an underlying vision for an ideal restructuring of what it means not just to be in the world but to “be-with-­ others” in the world that drives the experience does not in itself negate the fact that it also keeps in mind the high variability of the individual. What the piece does, in other words, is suggest rather than implore, leaving the degree to which said suggestion takes hold up to the choice of each participant. In a sense, this almost reflects the general heterogeneity present in various “communities” themselves, which can sometimes be masked in attempts for “unity”, allowing the space to exist simultaneously with instances of interpersonal connectivity.

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It is also via this perspective that one could conceive of the programming of this piece as a means through which the Amandiers engages with the sort of direct connection with its publics that, under Quesne, it received local criticism for supposedly not doing. While the kinds of connections developed through the course of this piece may still not quite reach the level of territorial connectivity desired by the mayor of Nanterre, what they do instead is bring forward possibilities for plurality that are present independent of territorial location. Similar to the earlier discussed processes at play in La Nuit des taupes, what counts here is more the very act of engaging with possibilities for opening avenues for connection rather than an attempt to anchor them to a specific spatiotemporal context. In a sense, one can liken the territorial distancing here to that proposed by Jean-Marie Hordé at the Théâtre de la Bastille20 in terms of how neither of the two directors proposes an interpretation of their theatre as being a direct mirror of their surrounding territory. Instead, both propose, to an extent, an alternative point that sees the theatre less as a direct reflection of and more as another piece of the larger territorial puzzle, engaging with the pluralities and incongruities of that which surrounds it. Where the two differ is in the fact that Quesne has crafted his perspective from the point of view of the theatre as a space that allows for fostering of communities of formal plurality whose point of origin is found in modes of artistic expression and then from there extends outwards to the publics that frequent the theatre.

Breaking Common Narratives Contes Immoraux – Partie I: Maison Mère, Directed by Phia Ménard, May 13, 2019 At the same time, alongside this use of the theatre space as an avenue through which to explore pluralities of communities that either have already been formed or are engaged in a process of formation, there is also the question of the extent to which the theatre space can allow for a true destabilization of the specific ideals and imaginations that underscore the building of a community in the first place. While it is true that Dying Together does engage its performers and participants in a process of exploring a pre-established understanding of vivre ensemble, it does not necessarily go so far as to question the fundamental legitimacy of this notion. Instead, it expands the possibilities for its definition (hence the piece’s title), pluralizing it, rather than suggesting its possible need for

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replacement with some entirely different manner of conceiving of interpersonal connectivity. Given Quesne’s directorial approach regarding rethinking of ideas of community within the dual context of the theatrical event as well as in programming, it is almost inevitable that a piece that pushes the conceptual engagement with the notion of community seen in Dying Together further would be included in a season’s offering. The key, however, is whether “going further” becomes entangled—intentionally or not—with a kind of didactic approach that both Dying Together and Quesne’s La Nuit des taupes managed to more or less avoid. This is partially due to the inherent nature of what it means to “go further” in this specific context. If it is a piece that proposes comparatively high fundamental instability, it is also one that much more directly engages with effect because of how starkly it breaks with what, in earlier instances, has been re-imagined as malleable. In other words, the resulting “break” in the comparative violence of this shift as opposed to a certain more gradual elasticity seen earlier is almost given to incite a reaction. The question, then, is whether, based on both the moment of the shift and the aesthetics of the piece— and in particular the spectator/spectacle relationship(s) it establishes—it is seeking a particular reaction, thus seeing the return of a vertical rather than a horizontal, or emancipatory, model of transmission of knowledge from spectacle to spectators. The risk is that the piece loses its emancipatory potential through its reduction of the “political” to its own prescribed mode of relationality and, by extension, its imagination of its audience as a homogeneous rather than heterogeneous group. This is the risk that Phia Ménard’s Contes Immoraux – Partie I: Maison Mère undertakes, and if one were to go by the title, one could be forgiven for thinking it flirts rather closely with—if not falls into the trappings of—a didactic model. Yet, the fact that Ménard classifies this piece (as well as the other two parts that make up the trilogy, Temple Père and La Rencontre Interdite) as part of a series of Contes Immoraux (Immoral Tales) is not incidental. Within the word contes, for instance, one finds allusions to, among others, Perrault, Grimm, and Andersen. In short, they are the tales that not only are an integral part of the Western (the emphasis is critical here) cultural canon, particularly as they make up some of the first “collectively shared” stories that children in these communities are exposed to and entertained by, but also serve as a means through which to transmit a certain imagination of this community, its values, and how it sees itself.

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Yet, rather than serving as a means through which to impart some kind of lesson—albeit in a less direct way than in a fable, for instance—Ménard instead qualifies her tales as immoraux. This negation could be interpreted in one of two ways. The first, and arguably most obvious, would be to think of the “immoral” in the title as that which simply runs counter to what has been socially codified as “good sense”. One could think here of the eighteenth-century Libertines, for instance,21 whose writings prominently featured characters “behaving badly” largely to push back against an institutional and/or clerical over-regulation of, among other things, the body and its desires. This is not, however, the connotation of “immoral” at play in Ménard’s case, despite the reference. There is, arguably, a second way to interpret the qualifier as simply referring to an absence, not necessarily to any notion of morality itself, but to a clear, easy to understand lesson to wrap the whole “tale” together. In the context of this interpretation, the result is a performance that, though it concludes with a sequence that is designed to incite an affect, remains ambiguous as to precisely what response it seeks from its publics, though its aesthetics do strongly suggest one possible “lesson” to take away from the experience. The use of “lesson” here is not inconsequential either, as it harkens back to one of the origins of Contes Immoraux. In 2016, Ménard’s Compagnie Non Nova was contacted by the organizing team of the documenta contemporary art exhibition, with a proposition to create a performance installation for documenta 14 to be held—in a break from tradition—in Athens, Greece, as well as its traditional home of Kassel, Germany, from April to September 2017. Participating artists were instructed to guide the development of their work based on the two themes driving the 2017 edition—Apprendre d’Athènes (Learning from Athens) and Pour un Parlement de Corps (For a Parlament of Bodies)— with Ménard’s piece leaning slightly more towards the former. Yet, in this directive to “learn” from Athens, there also lies something of a dilemma: which Athens? On the one hand, “Athens” refers, of course, to the capital of the modern Greek State, here taking on the additional signification as a site for a major quinquennial arts festival as well as the political centre of the country. Yet, “Athens” also refers to an imagined Athens: the Athens of Antiquity not as it necessarily was, but rather, as it has been mythologized, the “cradle of Europe”, as Ménard refers to it,22 though this “Athens” has also been known as the “cradle” of “Democracy” and “Western civilization”. Regardless of what the city has been thought to have given birth to, what remains constant in this dual imagining of Athens

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is that the symbolism of the latter, particularly in the formation of the notions of Europe and of the European Union, often eclipses the lived realities of the former. However, rather than continue in this vein, Ménard orients the genesis of her piece in such a way that gives more weight to “Athens” in the contemporary sense while not completely removing allusions to the mythologized “Athens” all together. In her explanatory text on the inspirations behind the piece, Ménard opens by referencing the 1943 carpet bombings carried out by Allied troops in Nazi-occupied Western Europe. She highlights these events not only because of their direct personal connection to her own family history (her maternal grandfather was killed during the bombing of Nantes), but also because of what happened after the war ended: the launch of the Marshall Plan to aid European recovery by the same actors that had destroyed its infrastructure five years earlier. “Europe” here is not just “reborn” but “reconstructed” according to a certain imagining that extends not only to architecture (particularly in the design and building of new housing blocs), but also to the socioeconomic structuring of the countries where aid was given, pro-industry and pro-free trade in contrast to the economic policies of the Soviet Union and its post-war satellite states. At the same time, this process of destruction and rebuilding or, at minimum, reorganizing, was not, as Ménard suggests, limited to the immediate post-war period. She additionally cites 1986 (the destruction following the Chernobyl disaster), 1989 (the fall of the Berlin Wall), and 2001 (the signing of the Patriot Act, though the reference likely speaks more to its consequences on international relations and notions of “security” than on its domestic effect in the United States), before concluding with 2015, the year Ménard marks as the end of democratic choice in Greece. Here she refers to a July 2015 acceptance of an austerity-driven bailout package by the Tsipras government in response to the financial crisis, despite the fact that a similar, albeit less harsh, package was resoundingly rejected by voters in a referendum earlier that month. What is striking about putting the Greek economic crisis on the same timeline that began with the Marshall Plan, however, is not only that both revolve around questions of economic recovery (despite their strikingly oppositional approaches to the problem), but that what underscores them is an interlacing of their respective projects with the future of Europe, not only in the concrete senses of economics or trade, but rather of Europe as an idea (the trilogy as a whole also includes the parenthetical Pour l’Europe/For Europe in its title). In other

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words, it is the imaginings that characterize the mythologized “Athens” that are posed as a kind of goal that the two economic projects are meant to be in the service of. Given this contextualization, then, the question now becomes how does one develop a piece that addresses the two “Athens” referenced both in the thematic prompt and in the moments described above while avoiding a didactic approach that has become synonymous with the idea of “Learning” that frames said prompt? One, as it turns out, builds a house. Upon entry into the Amandiers’ salle transformable, what immediately stands out is how bare the space is, save for a flat pile of rather large squares of cardboard at the centre. There is only one section designated for spectators—a small set of risers—maintaining a distinctly frontal relationship between Ménard and her publics, not so much because the architecture of the space cannot accommodate more, but more because of the practical necessities of the performance. Ménard needs as much of the space as possible to manoeuver around and accomplish (one of) the piece’s objective(s), especially in a space as intimate as the salle transformable, something that becomes very evident rather quickly. When Ménard enters the playing space, she is outfitted rather strikingly in a studded red leather vest, spiked choker, white corset with black bralette, black leather fingerless gloves, flared leather skirt, fishnets, and knee-high combat boots. Only the knee pads and arm guards, as well as a roll of packing tape attached to her belt, signal the effort to come. Critics have likened her appearance to that of Furiosa in Mad Max (the black band painted across her eyes arguably the most direct nod to the 2015 film),23 though perhaps the moniker of “punk Athena” fits better in this context.24 Without saying a word, Ménard immediately gets to work on what appears to be the main objective of her performance: turning the large cardboard flats into a freestanding house complete with a roof. Yet, though the objective may seem rather simple—indeed, the runtime of just around ninety minutes seems almost excessive (at first)—the nature of the materials she is working with turns what could otherwise be compared to the building of a large piece of flat-pack Ikea furniture into a much more Herculean effort. While the structure contains no design frills other than the basic four walls and roof to identify its form as “house”, the weight of her materials relative to their size is such that the piece transforms into a confrontation between Ménard’s fixed objective—to build or create—and the omnipresent though not inherently antagonistic physical forces that

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have the potential to severely impede if not destroy her creation. Other than the aforementioned packing tape, Ménard has only a set of adjustable poles to aid her in stabilizing her construction before she tapes (and re-­ tapes) the joints together, turns it, and, eventually, flips it upright. Yet, while there is a sense of choreography in her movements in terms of what elements of the house she tackles when and with what kind(s) of support, the relative instability of the materials—the need to get a wall standing on its thin edge just so—means that the piece remains firmly anchored both in the unpredictable and in the present-ness of the process of the action of building and the physical effort needed to undertake that process. Indeed, some of the only sounds in the piece are Ménard’s own grunts and huffs as she undertakes a particularly arduous manoeuver, the rip of the tape as she tears it with her teeth, the thumping of her boots, and the thuds as the cardboard falls—intentionally or not—to the ground. There is no verbal commentary offered, nor any additional symbolism (yet) added to the series of cardboard flats. The “aim” of the piece is thus pared down to its most basic foundation—in fact, even the “enemy” that creates obstacles towards its realization is almost rendered inconsequential in the centrality of the task and Ménard’s visible physical efforts at completing it. The “story” being built in front of the spectators, after all, is our “heroine” at the centre of this “tale” building something. Conventions as to the structures of such tales suggest she will eventually succeed. At the same time, the lack of verbal commentary in favour of the performance of effort carries in this context its own potential to alter the relations between those in the house and what is happening on the playing space. Here it would be pertinent to note the fact that the house lights were never fully dimmed once the performance started, absorbing those seated in the house—to a certain degree—into the temporality being created on the stage. This process of blurring the separation between stage and house further extended to the way various spectators watched the piece, a manner that can best be described as a kind of indirect, though active, participation that, while it may not have been as directly consequential to the outcome as the participation seen in Dying Together, did not make those seated in the house any less implicated in what was happening. Spectators would lean over periodically and whisper advice to their seat partner as to how they would go about the task, for instance, or point out a weak spot that was sure to succumb to the laws of gravity (it often did) before Ménard had the chance to reinforce it. There were gasps when a visibly (and audibly) difficult step was undertaken and sighs when

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it went to plan. In short, in keeping the objective (for the most part) clear from the start, Ménard’s goal became the public’s goal in that they seemed to want her to succeed, even though it was not immediately clear precisely what she was building. Rather than be exclusionary, the focus and singularity of Ménard’s purpose in this first part of her piece is what makes it possible to draw the otherwise disparate group of individuals observing her in the first place. Her actions—or her persona’s actions—at that moment, make it very clear what she wants and because the micro-actions themselves, though somewhat exaggerated in terms of scale, are anchored in more or less quotidian experiences, open up more pathways towards identification for those in the house. It is unity based, in a sense, on finding a common denominator. Broadly speaking, this process of indirect participation and then reunion under a common understanding of what is happening and where it ought to lead reflects what some may argue is one of the basic results of the theatrical event: the creation of a (temporary) community, the ephemerality here further emphasized by both the temporal immediacy and the totality of the action in performance.25 Yet, the process of community-creation does not stop upon what appears to be the completion of the initial objective. Once the cardboard structure stands upright in a position that renders its form immediately recognizable as that of a “house”, Ménard picks up the final tool in her arsenal—a chainsaw—and begins carving out a series of long rectangles along the outer walls. The gesture and the relative violence of its accompanying noise are not, however, testaments to an act of destruction but to one of transformation. No longer a stand-in for a house, the structure instead becomes, via this architectural modification, a specific house: the Parthenon. “Punk Athena” has (re)constructed her own temple, the roughness in its final design almost reflecting the visible exertion the endeavour to build it had on her body. While it may not be a “house” in the sense that it is a place of residence, the cultural signification of the Parthenon goes beyond its function as a temple now turned popular tourist site. The Parthenon is Athens. More so, it is the Athens of imagination, the “Athens-as-birthplace” or foundational site for the values that are now—in not just a French but a European perspective—deemed universal: “Democracy” and the origin of “Western” civilization. In “birthing” it from a cardboard house, Ménard’s “Athena” thus endows her Parthenon as well as its referent with a dual nature of shelter or incubator, as well as that of “Mother”, that is, the one who brings forth and nurtures. The cardboard contains multitudes, in other words. Furthermore, given that

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this act of architectural transformation is also not accompanied by anything resembling text, one could interpret its absence as an understanding that it is simply not needed. Those seated in the house are assumed to be of a background and/or possess the requisite knowledge to recognize both this cardboard build as a facsimile of the Parthenon and the cultural significance the original Parthenon has in Europe at large. In fact, it is this foreknowledge that, in the end, Ménard’s piece demands confrontation with. The Parthenon finished, Ménard squats down on a pile of leftover cardboard, body glistening with sweat, to contemplate her creation. There is a moment of stillness which often precedes a shift—given its timing, one would assume that the shift would be to the closing of the piece. Then, the rains come. Hung visibly directly above the cardboard Parthenon is an adjusted sprinkler system that begins to spray over the playing space, with the greatest concentration of water focused on the makeshift temple. Given the nature of the building materials, it does not take long for the structure to sag and collapse, turning the result of ninety minutes of intense effort into a soggy pile. The temple cannot hold. There is a clear allusion to the impending effects of climate change in Ménard’s final gesture, yet this is also the moment when the piece itself is most at risk of falling into pure pedagogy and moralizing. On the surface, the “lesson” that, should there be no action taken to subvert its effects, climate change will have profound consequences on global populations is rather obvious. Yet, why, then, precede the “lesson” with ninety minutes of structure- and community-building? One can, of course, accept the immediate messaging of the final gesture as is, but the fact that it comes when it does, and more precisely, Ménard’s reaction (or lack thereof) when it happens, carry with them further implications, especially with regard to the spectators. Firstly, as mentioned previously, the sprinkler mechanism was never explicitly hidden from view (though there was no pointed gesturing to it either). The “threat”, in other words, was always there, even if it was never spatially or visually acknowledged until its presence led to direct consequences on the physical make-up of the space. Secondly, there were never any illusions made as to the fragile nature of what was being built. The precarity of the house-turned-Parthenon was, rather, on frontal display throughout the performance and, given spectators’ real-time reactions to what was happening, was at least recognized in the immediate term by

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those in the house. Theoretically, then, there should be no surprise when the structure begins to fall—despite the illusion of stability it gives, first when Ménard stands it upright and second when she takes the chainsaw to it—precisely because the possibility for its destruction is aesthetically presented as a constant given. At the same time, the theatre space is also one that is directly engaged in the art of “illusion”. One can momentarily accept the fact that the cardboard Parthenon is meant to stand in for the one in Athens, as well as suspend one’s disbelief enough to assume that the former will have the assumed material sturdiness of the latter. Yet even the actual Parthenon has, despite the comparative durability of its materials, been destabilized and even in large parts destroyed in the centuries following its initial construction. Who is to say, then, that the same level of destabilization cannot befall its imagined counterpart, the symbolic “house” that nurtured what would later be deemed the “community” of Western Europe? In the end, the spectators in the house, by virtue of the nature of their indirect participation in and engagement with the piece, are directly confronted with the limitations of their own specific imaginings (in the context of this performance) as well as any broader cultural imaginings they may either share or at least be familiar with. Yet, though the Contes Immoraux may be directed “to Europe”—and by extension, to the European, or at least Western, spectators that the piece presumes are sitting in the house, and of which Ménard herself is also part—there is no visual or verbal indication from Ménard’s “Athena” as to how to react to or interpret this destruction of the foundations on which this community rests. She, instead, remains expressionless (though she does move about the space a bit to examine the destruction, getting soaked in the process). It is this lack of “aid” on the part of the piece that arguably brings it closer to what Olivier Neveux (2013) identifies as a non-vertical model of political theatre.26 While the final moment does produce an effect, the lack of visual cues from Ménard to accompany the arrival of the rain leaves the field open as to precisely what effect, thus removing the air of homogeneity the piece had previously constructed. It subverts, in other words, its own expectations precisely because of the performance choice to end by not reacting, by not giving one last visual aid, whereas it had previously given several to (re)construct the sense of community around its “house(s)”. That it had to do so while first adopting an aesthetics that assumed those in the house comprised a homogeneous “mass” with a shared cultural history does perhaps affect the degree to which the final

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gesture results in a horizontalized and fully pluralized spectator/spectacle relationship. Yet, none of the structures built—nor their symbolic significance—are fully unknown in the larger sociopolitical landscape that both the theatre at Nanterre occupies and the individual spectators interact in. It is through this larger act of destabilization and destruction, then, that one can most fully see the scope of Quesne’s engagement with the question of building communities during his time as artistic director at Nanterre. Yet, while Contes Immoraux ends on a comparatively more sombre note than La Nuit des Taupes or Dying Together, this is not necessarily to say that, as a piece, it is entirely pessimistic. One other possibility—particularly if one takes both the ending’s horizontalizing potential and the larger context of the piece’s programming—is that it is potentially liberating. The former structures that defined a certain mode of relationality may be gone, but in the process of their disappearance, they have also been exposed as constructions. What remains, in their absence, is thus less a void and more a potential, not to rebuild exactly, but to re-imagine differently.

Notes 1. See Penchenat, Jean-Claude. 2006. Mission d’artistes: les centres dramatiques de 1948 à nos jours, ed. Jean-Claude Penchenat. Montreuil: Éditions Théâtrales. 2. Ibid. See also Présentation. Association des centres dramatiques nationaux. www.asso-­acdn.fr/les-­cdn/. Accessed 20 July 2022. 3. Beauvallet, Ève. 2019. “Ciao ! C’est pas ça la gauche !” Philippe Quesne jette l’éponge aux Amandiers. Libération. July 14. https://next.liberation.fr/culture/2019/07/14/ciao-­c -­e st-­p as-­c a-­l a-­g auche-­p hilippe-­ quesne-­jette-­l-­eponge-­aux-­amandiers-­de-­nanterre_1739956. Accessed 20 July 2022. 4. Ibid. 5. Communiqué de la Ville de Nanterre suite à l’annonce de Philippe Quesne de quitter la direction du Théâtre national des Amandiers. Ville de Nanterre, July 15, 2019. www.nanterre.fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. 6. Le Maire de Nanterre s’oppose à la décision de ne pas renouveler JeanLouis Martinelli à la direction du Théâtre des Amandiers et demande à être reçu par la Ministre de la Culture. Ville de Nanterre, March 29, 2013. www.nanterre.fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. 7. Salino, Brigitte. 2013. Philippe Quesne dirigera le Théâtre Nanterre-­ Amandiers. Le Monde. November 29. https://www.lemonde.fr/culture/

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article/2013/11/29/philippe-­q uesne-­n omme-­a -­l a-­t ete-­d u-­t heatre-­ nanterre-­amandiers_3522921_3246.html. An article published in Libération the same day is notably more direct in its title: Solis, René. 2013. Aurélie Filippetti impose Philippe Quesne à la tête du théâtre des Amandiers. Libération. November 29. https://next.liberation.fr/theatre/2013/11/29/aurelie-­filippetti-­impose-­philippe-­quesnes-­a-­la-­tete-­ du-­theatre-­des-­amandiers_962978. Accessed 20 July 2022. 8. Déclaration du Maire de Nanterre suite à la nomination du nouveau directeur du Théâtre des Amandiers. Ville de Nanterre. November 29, 2013. www.nanterre.fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. 9. Ibid. 10. A notable advantage of having set this in a non-human world with non-­ human subjects and costuming is that this moment was able to be played out in full and frontally, including the entire process of the baby mole exiting its mother’s womb. 11. Gayot, Joëlle. 2016. Philippe Quesne, dompteur de taupes. Une saison au théâtre. France Culture. October 23 www.franceculture.fr/emissions/ une-­s aison-­a u-­t heatre/philippe-­q uesne-­e st-­u n-­d ompteur-­d e-­t aupes. Accessed 5 August 2022. 12. See Vincent Macaigne, Ch. 3. 13. A form of movement and gesture improvisation developed in the 1970s by choreographer Mary Overlie, Viewpoints was later adapted as a stage acting technique at the Experimental Theatre Wing at NYU by Anne Bogart and Tina Landau. Organized around the broad categories of Time (Kinaesthetic Response, Tempo, Duration, and Repetition) and Space (Shape, Gesture, Architecture, Topography, and Spatial Relationships), the Viewpoints technique in acting serves as a means of exploring new and different ways of staging by having the actors use/focus on one or several of the viewpoints to examine (primarily) their physical relationships to other actors as well as to the space they are currently occupying. See Bogart, Anne and Tina Landau. 2005. Viewpoints and Composition: What Are They? In The Viewpoints Book: A Practical Guide to Viewpoints and Composition, 7–13. New York: Theatre Communications Group. 14. Blisson, Cathy. 2019. “Dying Together” en position fatale. Libération. March 28. https://next.liberation.fr/theatre/2019/03/28/dying-­ together-­en-­position-­fatale_1718010. Accessed 20 July 2022. 15. Alston, Adam. 2016. Introduction: Theatre as Experience Machine. In Beyond Immersive Theatre, 1–33. London: Palgrave Macmillan. 16. Program for Lotte van den Berg’s Dying Together at the Théâtre Nanterre— Amandiers, Nanterre. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, 2019.

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17. Zhong Mengual, Estelle. 2018. Participation et communauté: au croisement de l’art et de la politique. In L’Art en commun. Réinventer les forms du collectif en contexte démocratique, 227–332. Dijon: Les Presses du Réel. 18. Note: the session summaries are NOT direct quotations, but rather derived from my own notes/recollections. 19. Frieze, James. 2016. Reframing Immersive Theatre: the Politics and Pragmatics of Participatory Performance. In Reframing Immersive Theatre: The Politics and Pragmatics of Participatory Performance, ed. James Frieze, 1–25. London: Palgrave Macmillan. 20. See Chap. 6. 21. Coincidentally, there is also a 1973 erotic French anthology film titled Contes Immoraux that partially adapts 1748s Thérèse Philosophe for one of its sketches. 22. Ménard, Phia, Les Contes Immoraux – Partie 1: Maison Mère. Cie Non Nova, 2022. http://www.cienonnova.com/portfolio/les-­contes-­ immoraux-­partie-­1-­maison-­mere/. Accessed 14 July 2022. 23. Braz-Vieira, Chloë. 2019. “Contes immoraux – Partie 1: maison mère” de Phia Ménard: déesse sisyphienne. Maze. May 16. https://maze. fr/2019/05/contes-­immoraux-­partie-­1-­maison-­mere-­de-­phia-­menard-­ deesse-­sisyphienne/. Accessed 14 July 2022. 24. Ibid. See also Bliman, Marianne. 2019. Penser l’Europe et le réchauffement climatique avec Phia Ménard. Les Echos May 15. https://www. lesechos.fr/weekend/spectacles-­m usique/penser-­l europe-­e t-­l e-­ rechauffement-­climatique-­avec-­phia-­menard-­1212157#xtor=AD-­6000. Accessed 14 July 2022. 25. See Neveux, Olivier. 2013. Politiques du spectateur. Les enjeux du théâtre politique aujourd’hui. Paris: La Découverte. And Van Haesebroek, Elise. 2011. Identité(s) et territoire du théâtre politique contemporain. Claude Régy, le Groupe Merci et le Théâtre du Radeau: un théâtre apolitiquement politique. Paris: L’Harmatan. 26. Ibid.

CHAPTER 5

Diversify: MC93, Bobigny

Go First to the Publics so the Publics Will Come to You Artistic Director: Hortense Archambault (2015–Present) Officially inaugurated in 1980, the MC93, by virtue of its name, can be linked to the decentralization project started by André Malraux in the 1960s. Located next door to Bobigny’s City Hall, the venue cuts a rather imposing figure in the local architectural landscape, in part because of its breadth. After some original additions made in the 1990s, the building was shuttered to undergo lengthy renovations starting at the end of 2014 and continuing until its official reopening on May 23, 2017. Currently it houses three performance spaces: the main stage at ground level (the Salle Oleg Efremov), a proscenium-style theatre that can accommodate up to 802 spectators, a first black-box-style, transformable space (the Salle Christian Bourgeois) on the third level that can accommodate 131 spectators, and, finally, a second transformable space (the Nouvelle Salle) located on the fifth floor, which can fit between 176 and 240 spectators, depending on the seating configuration. Additional spaces include a rehearsal studio on the ground floor, meeting rooms, and a large set design shop spanning both the ground and the first floor.1

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Following the renovations—part of which saw the updating of the main stage to fit accessibility standards, as well as the conversion of the Nouvelle Salle into a theatre space—however, one could reasonably argue that the performance spaces at the MC93 have a rather secondary status to what has (purposefully) become the focal point of the venue: its foyer. At 700m2, the open-planned space houses a lounge area whose furniture can be reconfigured to accommodate a talkback, seminar, or lecture, a small bookstand at its centre, and a café/restaurant to the right of the main entrance. Given the lack of physical obstructions to movement—excepting a few support poles necessary for the structural integrity of the building— flow between the different “micro-spaces” happens rather smoothly, with any real hindrance caused more by the number of patrons that happen to be in the foyer at the time rather than architectural inconveniences (stairs, narrow doors/hallways, etc.). Heightening the sensation of openness are the large windows that line the street-facing façade of the foyer and stretch up to the fifth floor. Less cut-off from the outside world than the performance spaces within it, the foyer acts as a sort of transitional space. It is porous, its building materials suggesting an inclusivity difficult to replicate in theatre houses whose primary building materials—brick, cement, concrete, limestone, and more—box in their interiors in a way that almost inadvertently emphasizes the necessity for a ticket (or rather, for having enough money to pay for a ticket) in order to pass through. By contrast, the foyer of the MC93 not only invites looking in from the outside but also serves to remind the inside of the presence of the outside, of the building’s relation to that which surrounds it. The MC93, in other words, gives the impression, by this architecture, that it is never separated or cut off from the city of Bobigny, but rather in constant dialogue or exchange with it. When Hortense Archambault was named as the new artistic director of the MC93 in 2015, the renovation project—largely designed by her predecessor, Patrick Sommier—was about to get underway, yet, before work officially started, she intervened and amended the plans for the foyer to its current design. Indeed, the enlarging of the foyer space was an initial architectural step in Archambault’s greater, more long-term projects for the theatre, namely, the creation of a space accessible to all—including those who have never or may never purchase a ticket for a show—designed to facilitate meetings or exchanges, rather than solely cater to the needs of those specifically there to attend a performance. More precisely, her privileging of the foyer is a reconceptualization of the idea of the theatre space

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within its larger urban context, as she elaborates on in her first note as artistic director of the MC93 in 2015. In Archambault’s view, the “ideal theatre” is a large, adaptable space that can both welcome large crowds and allow for the possibility of more intimate exchange. It is a space that links contemporary theatre-making with the concerns and practices of its patrons, a “free” space that allows for the exploration of both new forms of creativity and new ways of approaching creative works. Finally, it is a site of encounters, the heart of the city, and a space of popular conviviality.2 Such a vision arguably presents a rather utopian vision of the theatre, especially with regard to its geography. It is not merely a part of the fabric of the city, but its centre in the sense that all factions of the city lead back to it. Such an image is rather apt for a venue such as the MC93, given that it is located next door to Bobigny’s City Hall, yet here, the latter, often otherwise characterized as a centre of a city given its status as the architectural representation of its principal governing powers, is sidelined. The “life” of the city—that which not only makes it run but also potentially brings about evolution—is instead localized in a space of “creation”, made all the more evident by how much the question of malleability figures in Archambault’s vision. Though the space is more or less “set” or stable in terms of its skeletal structure, inside, notions of spatial permanence and/ or of designation of use are noticeably absent. Instead, what is put forth is the idea of plurality, of the universal accessibility of space in its capacity to function in one way for a certain group of people, while at the same time either simultaneously functioning in a different way for a separate group or at the very least carrying within it an inherent adaptability to switch elements of its spatial planning to meet the demands of a particular user or group of users. It is the blank canvas on which the individual residents of a city may project themselves, the power for appropriation and modification/adaptation of this creative space no longer reserved only for those who have a nominal status of “creator”—actors, directors, designers, and so on. In the case of the foyer, one can see such possibility for patron-­ generated modification not only the lightness of the furnishings, but also the fact that their polygonal shapes—hexagons for stools and small tables and trapezoids for longer couches—make connecting them in various configurations relatively simple, offering more possibilities than if they had been designed in a circular or square/rectangular form. That Archambault places such an emphasis on the equal importance of the experience and spatial appropriation potential of the patron rather than just on the artist(s)-as-creator(s) is not terribly surprising, given her

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educational and professional background prior to accepting her appointment at the MC93. Having obtained a Diplôme d’études supérieures spécialisées in Administration of Cultural Institutions from Paris Dauphine University in 1994—following a completion of a master’s in History at the Sorbonne—Archambault began her career in the theatre first as an intern and then as a salaried member of the administrative team of the annual summer festival at Avignon, followed by a tenure as a production administrator for the theatre at La Villette, Paris (1995–1999). She then returned to Avignon in 1999, first as an administrator and then, beginning in 2003, as a co-director with artistic director Vincent Baudriller, holding the position until the end of the 2013 festival. Notably, during their co-tenure, Archambault and Baudriller chose to move the centre of organizing operations from Paris to Avignon, thereby maintaining a year-long presence in the latter. The aim of this was to establish stronger relations with the residents of Avignon not only through a geographical rapprochement but more importantly through extending the activities related to the festival beyond the month-long programming in the summer, primarily through efforts of community outreach. Such efforts included the organizing of monthly conferences with visiting artists, workshops, master classes, talkbacks, and more, pointedly advertised towards residents of Avignon. Furthermore, following the end of each festival, Archambault and Baudriller invited Avignon residents to send in their own critical commentary on the year’s programming, again enforcing the idea that the festival also belonged to them rather than being an invasive presence “imposed” on them by virtue of only coming into continued direct contact with residents for only a fraction of the year.3 It is perhaps this principle of weaving in the theatre space within its larger territory primarily via a commitment to direct engagement with local residents that has most explicitly followed Archambault from the end of her time in Avignon to the MC93. Such a position contrasts her, for instance, with the case of Philippe Quesne discussed in Chap. 4. While both Archambault and Quesne have structured their artistic directorial projects around the notion of transforming the theatre house into a space that openly welcomes a formerly excluded or underrepresented group, where they differ is in the origin of where this underrepresentation derives from. To reiterate, for Quesne, the source of the creation of plurality is centred in the works being presented. It is a kind of community-creation that, rather than attempting to weave the theatre house more tightly into the larger territorial fabric, creates instead a micro-community that

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emphasizes its distinction as being “not like” everything else around it. At the same time, such a distinction does not preclude the possibility that a connection cannot be built between the micro-space and the larger territory. On the contrary, said connection can happen, though for it to occur relies on one or both of the following assumptions: first, there lies within the local territory an untapped desire for difference that the artist-focused approach of formal boundary-pushing responds to and, second, the curiosity of potential patrons is enough to attract them to the theatre, even though its official artistic project makes little attempt to suggest their direct influence on it. In Quesne’s case, this lack of direct community outreach underscores, in part, his conflict with the mayor’s office of Nanterre,4 but at the same time, what it allows for is for the space to cast a wider net in terms of who could potentially find “community” in it. This is not, however, to suggest that the kind of work Archambault engages in amounts to a sort of “pandering” to perceived expectations. Rather, what it speaks to more is a shift in perspective that reframes the question of territory as being central rather than secondary to the theatre’s overall project. What her engagement can arguably be read as, then, is an attempt to respond to the question of who the cultural space belongs to, of reinserting it back into its geographic territory, while at the same time allowing space for the plurality that exists within that specific territory. What must be contended with first here, then, is the notion of the “public” in this scenario, specifically, the degree to which this collective of average residents exists as an “equal player” of sorts in relation to the board of directors that officially run the institution. In other words, what is at stake here is just as much the voice of the public as is its presence both in the space of the MC93 and in the discourses surrounding the functioning of said space. Such a question is not necessarily unique to the world of theatre/cultural spaces. For instance, in her 2013 publication Faire participer les habitants? Citoyenneté et pouvoir d’agir dans les quartiers populaires, Marion Carrel undertook a case study of a series of public meetings surrounding an urban housing renovation project in the Teisseire neighbourhood of Grenoble. Writing on the atmosphere that characterized those early meetings between members of the renovation planning commission (seated on a stage in the auditorium where the meetings were housed) and the Teisseire residents who chose to attend the meetings (seated in the audience), Carrel provides the following definition, not of a “public” assembly, but rather one that, structurally, veers more towards the “anti-public” than

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the “public”. Firstly, as a basic definition, for an assembly to be considered “public”, attendance must remain open to the general populace rather than restricted to a select few. However, if such an assembly does not allow for free and equal expression or participation in debate on the part of all members of the public present, the constitution of a truly representative “public” remains unattainable, thus qualifying the assembly as “anti-public”.5 Of greatest import in this formulation is the question of vocal representation, that is, the possibility for an individual, or a direct representative of said individual, to engage in discussion or debate and for their input to have equal weight to that of the others that presently occupy that space with them. This can be related back to a definition of the public space at large as originally developed by Jürgen Habermas in L’Espace public (1962) and later taken up by Nancy Fraser in 2003.6 Here, the definition of public space is again directly tied to the question of voice and, more precisely, of language as the medium through which participation in debates of communal interest occurs. It is not enough, in other words, to be present as a private individual in a space of debate. One must not only speak or offer some form of language-based contribution, but one’s contribution must also be both heard and acknowledged by the others present as equal to advance the present discussion. Fraser further expands on this by hypothesizing that where Habermas’ definition limits itself in its imagining of the participants in these discussions as belonging to a (male, White) bourgeois class—or at least, of the spaces in which the discussions took place as being inscribed in the world occupied by said class—a post-­ bourgeois, egalitarian, and/or utopian imagining of these spaces would be one that supposed the possibility for the existence of a plurality of public spaces, thus a multitude of publics that exist simultaneously but are not necessarily classed within a hierarchical model. For this to happen, however, equal representation must also occur at the level of those presiding over the debate, a factor that, to return to her case study, Carrel notes quite early. While on paper the meeting room in Grenoble represented a mix of various points of view in the debate surrounding the housing renovation project, only one of those points of view—that of the residents— was not present on the stage in the position of an “authority” in the final decision-making process. In brief, what this meant was that although the greater “public” of the residents of Teisseire was invited at this moment to share their opinions and supposedly engage in debate, as to the final decision regarding what was to be done with the public housing units, this

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would pass into the realm of the “private” precisely because it would occur in a context defined by exclusion rather than inclusion. The possibility for resident-based appropriation of the space of the housing units, of acting directly on them to modify or adapt them to fit their present needs, has been removed. It is here that one can return to the question of the relationship of the residents of Bobigny to the MC93, particularly when one reflects on the origins of the latter. As described in Chap. 2, one of the early criticisms of Malraux’s project with the MCs was the perception that they were being built without the residents of the towns/cities that were to receive them necessarily asking for them. In contrast to a situation in which, say, a cultural centre arose first from a territory-specific or localized effort before later receiving State/regional/departmental support, here the difficulty in addressing the issue of spatial appropriation arises from the fact that at their origins, the sites with which the MC93 is nominally connected were established as cultural spaces by an entity outside of the territories in which they are located. In other words, the spaces never quite belonged to the residents that inhabited their shared territory in part because of the perception of the latter’s exclusion from the dialogues surrounding their initial genesis. As to the specific case of the MC93, efforts to foster an environment in which the possibility for appropriation remains open must to a degree fight against elements of the building’s genealogy. They must go beyond a simple initiative of amassing publics and instead work to transition the space back into the category of “public” in the sense of granting a certain level of influence to those same publics regarding the action that takes place within and at times adjacent to the MC93. The MC93 is, of course, not reserved only for those living within the geographic territory of Bobigny, but so that it may move towards a territorial integration as described by Archambault in her vision of the ideal theatre, the activities within it must also to a degree be of these residents, informed by their present circumstances and individual relationships to the space. Archambault’s efforts to address these questions surrounding the territorial relationship between the MC93 and the city and residents of Bobigny can be broken down into two primary categories. The first of these takes on a more typical outreach approach in that its primary activities involve organization of meetings and/or workshops addressed to residents of the city, though not necessarily those who already have attended (or at the very least expressed an interest in attending) a performance of some kind there. Dubbed the Fabrique d’expériences, the activities

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organized within this initiative may have their roots in the arts and performance, but at the same time, as Archambault describes it, the manner in which they have been organized is done with a consciousness of the following factors: first, that the “theatre-going public” is itself very small. Second, for a “popular” theatre—as in, one that is of and for the people— to be called such, it must respond to the diversity of experiences contained within the greater category of the “people” and not just to those of its regulars.7 The activities can therefore be grouped into the following categories: 1. Programming-based artistic initiatives. Here it is not simply a question of ensuring a diversity in the form and content of what is proposed in a season, but rather organizing artistic projects that go beyond the context of the performance itself. Such projects can include extended artistic residencies in which a given artist (or troupe) works directly in the city of Bobigny to develop a project—though not exclusively in the space of the MC93—often partnering either with individual residents or with local associations to see the project through development. Often the result is a piece that is eventually added to the season’s programme, an example here being 2019’s Macadam Animal and artists Eryck Abecassis and Olivia Rosenthal’s integration of filmed segments featuring residents of Bobigny (including children, students, employees of the MC93, etc.) as an essential element of the narrative. 2. Public forums that directly implicate both residents and the administrative team of the MC93. In brief, these are regular meetings organized by the administrative team and open to any resident who wishes to attend (though only about twenty-five come regularly).8 During these meetings, not only ideas about the theatre, the programming, and community outreach are discussed, but the residents of Bobigny are also given a direct hand in proposing ideas for the space as well. One can thus almost conceive of these forums as sort of open-door board meetings, the difference being that here, those who would normally be excluded (non-members of the administrative team) are given the gesture of a seat at the table (though it is difficult to say just how far their influence goes when the artistic directing team has final say). Such inclusion can also be read as an attempt to bridge the gap between those directly tied to the administration and direction of the MC93 and the people living in the territory it ostensibly serves. According to Archambault, this also prompts further reflection on the part of her

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team as to different ways of approaching the question of what would motivate an individual to enter a theatre house/cultural space.9 . The Conseil des jeunes (Youth Council). This final initiative, open to 3 young people ages sixteen to twenty living in the Seine-Saint-Denis department, is perhaps the clearest example of direct integration of non-administrative persons into the greater board of the MC93, as not only is the head of the council an integral part of the administrative team, but the council members themselves are also to a degree integrated within it. This integration happens on two levels. First is through forums similar to those described above, but this time centred around the needs and expectations of young people in the Seine-Saint-Denis area over how a visit to the MC93 could fit into their own lives. Other than discussing what kinds of things they would like to see programmed, as well as what sorts of programming would surprise them or provide something different to what visual media they already consume, they also discuss why it is that they may pass up coming to see a performance in the first place and, further, how the MC93’s outreach and publicity strategy can evolve in a way that it adapts to their languages/modes of communication. Second, the MC93 also provides those who join the council each year with the resources to conceive of, develop, and eventually present their own cultural project, allowing members to acquire and hone skills that could potentially be used elsewhere.10 Of the three categories, this final one is particularly distinct not only in the level of direct contact it facilitates between the administrative team at the MC93 and residents of the Seine-Saint-Denis but also in its scope. To focus on the attendance, needs, and expectations of young people is to think of the future, of potentially developing habits within the younger generation that will carry over as they grow up, the subsequent evolutions that take place within the MC93 and its organizational structure being such that the space could be said to grow with them. At the same time, even within the other two categories—though they primarily involve participation by older members of the community—there remains a focus on the creation of an environment of “belonging” or at least of the feeling that one’s presence carries some weight to influence decision-making on matters happening in their own backyards. Yet this cognizance of both present issues and potential futures is also present within the second of Archambault’s primary approaches in reintegrating the MC93 with the

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territory it is situated in, though this one is much more directly focused on matters relating to programming. Before addressing the question of seasonal programming, however, it would benefit to return for a moment to Archambault’s overall vision of what kind of space the MC93 would be for its publics, beyond, of course, its use as a performance space. Here again the question of plurality in publics is at play, though the focus centres more on the potential dynamics of a shared space than on that of individual appropriation of said space. More precisely, it concerns how to define the assemblage of persons who have entered the cultural space from the outside. During several interviews given leading up to and following the reopening of the MC93—notably with Le Monde,11 with Les Échos,12 and a podcast episode on France Culture’s La Grande Table13—Archambault refers to the MC93 as a site of rencontres (encounters), yet at the same time deliberately steers away from calling it a site of consensus. What counts, rather, is the moment of the encounter and in that moment the potential to confront a point of view different from one’s own and, subsequently, how one navigates through these moments of dissensus. It is a vision that privileges the dialogue-­generating powers of dissensus, as well as the importance of a space that facilitates a perpetual encounter with difference on the part of those who occupy it. At the same time, however, though emphasizing the importance of the presence of dissensus and difference in the plurality of an assemblage of persons at a theatre house is central to Archambault’s vision, in practice, it does not necessarily mean that she operates under a politics of theatre as a “universal” form in the sense that, should the right conditions be in place, everyone will find a need or a reason to go see a performance. On the contrary, her approach is one that attempts to put conditions in place so that persons from the various walks of life present in Bobigny (or Seine-­ Saint-­Denis) could potentially feel themselves concerned with what is being offered on the programme—thus potentially breaking through what she refers to as the psychological barrier to diversity14—as well as one that maintains the power of choice on the individual regarding whether or not to enter the space. The role of the space of the MC93, in this case then, is to create conditions that open different possible avenues for entry and engagement while not making entry an obligation and, further, not granting an implicit preferential status for those who do decide to come in.15 The primary thing is that everyone has a spot at the MC93 should they want it.

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One of the clearest ways Archambault has attempted to address this is in her programming choices, not only in terms of the form of the productions on offer, but also in terms of who is on stage as well as the influences or points of view that have informed the final pieces. In brief, it is a conscious effort, in her words, to construct a programme that runs counter to a theatre that still largely speaks primarily to a White, bourgeois audience, excluding the diversity in origins and lived experience that make up the present French public at large.16 To that end, one can note, for instance, in her programming for the 2017–2018 as well as the 2018–2019 seasons the scheduling of performances such as Jérôme Bel’s dance piece Gala (2017) featuring a cast of differently abled performers, Monika Gintersdorfer and Franck Edmond Yao’s Nana ou est-ce-que tu connais le bara (2019), an adaptation of Émile Zola’s Nana featuring a predominantly black cast, as well as integrating elements of hip-hop and West African dance in its choreographic interludes, or Hervé Sika and Mohamed Rouabhi’s Douze cordes (2019), a performance oscillating between theatre, dance, and boxing, co-created and featuring inmates from the Meaux-Chauconin prison. At the same time, however, this diversity in programming does not itself imply a strategy of choice in production based on a process of first segmenting and then directly marketing to those specific sub-groups of the larger community, a process Archambault has qualified as a malentendu (“misunderstanding”) in the greater conversation surrounding the democratization of cultural access.17 Where she, on the other hand, places herself is in the establishment of a politics of acceuil or amitié facilitated by the choice to produce works that speak to a variety of experiences, the plurality and mixité on the stage reflecting that present not just in the public seated in the house but in the territory at large. If, as Archambault states in her Editorial in the January–June 2019 edition of the bi-annual catalogue sent out to season subscription holders (as well as available on the MC93’s website), the theatre is a form that allows for a more profound understanding of reality,18 said profoundness—in the sense of the breadth and totality of its scope—cannot necessarily be reached should the notion of plurality, of the possibility for multiple points of entry or address, be itself absent from the stage. Yet, the question of diversifying the publics at the MC93 through granting greater access via programming content is not in itself enough to bring that change into fruition. What must also be accounted for are the intersection and influence of socioeconomic factors along with the

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psychological barriers mentioned previously in creating a perception of exclusivity in a cultural space that is meant to be “democratic”. This question has particular resonance not just for the city of Bobigny, but for the Seine-­Saint-­Denis department in general, which not only is the third most densely populated in France but also registers the lowest quality of life index in the metropolitan area, with three out of every ten residents living below the poverty line.19 Given this, one could almost argue against the choice, for many local families or residents, in visiting the MC93 being present in the first place, given the barriers put in place due to lack of a disposable income and/or, in the case for single-parent homes, lack of time or affordable childcare options for the parent to turn to, should they wish to spend a night out. Yet, the MC93 as an institution is also arguably aware of these socioeconomic realities, especially evident in certain of the theatre’s administrative policies. Of note among them is the pricing structure via a season-pass subscription. Modelled after similar offers in various cinema chains—such as the UGC/MK2 unlimited pass or the Gaumont cinépass—the MC93 offers patrons a ten-month (September–June) unlimited pass, where for one flat payment per month (standard rate at 14€/ month with reduced rates at 10€ and 7€/month, depending on the subscriber meeting certain conditions), cardholders are entitled to one free ticket per show in the given season, with additional tickets also available at a reduced rate (standard ticket pricing starts at 27€, with reduced tickets at 16€, 12€, and 9€ for those who qualify). In essence, given the price of a normal ticket, the pass pays for itself, even if only used once monthly. Furthermore, residents of Bobigny are given a somewhat preferential status in that, upon proof of address, they may, regardless of age or employment status, benefit from the 7€/month rate, normally reserved for patrons under thirty as well as those with disabilities. Residents of the Seine-Saint-Denis area, as well as teachers, those aged sixty-five and older, and those on unemployment meanwhile can benefit from the 10€/month rate.20 In addition to this, the MC93 has something of an open-door policy, keeping the foyer open from 12h00 to 18h00 Tuesday through Friday (12h00–15h00 on Mondays and 15h00–18h00 on Saturdays) whether there is a show programmed or not, returning again to the idea of moving beyond its moniker as a “performance space” and more towards one with an inherent potential to transform into more of an “agora”, or central gathering place. Finally,

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for parents with young children aged eighteen months to eight years, the MC93 offers a childcare service during Saturday performances at 8€/ family (as opposed to a rate per child), freeing up parents/guardians to attend a performance.21 At the same time, despite Archambault’s efforts towards diversification and inclusion, even as things stand now, the MC93 presents something of a conundrum in terms of the dynamics some of the productions on its roster generate between members of its public(s) and the work being presented/performed. Although there is produced and programmed work that, during the performance, critiques established forms and codes of representation, there are also cases when a work, while it may reflect a sense of diversity in terms of casting and subject matter, may instead reinforce established, dominant modes of discourse.

The Diversity Paradox Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner, Written by Christine Citti, Directed by Jean-Louis Martinelli, MC93, January 24, 2019 Going beyond the subject of access to that of the importance placed on diversity at the MC93, here the focus expands beyond spectator heterogeneity to include the kinds of works and stories being presented in the first place. To reiterate, the underlying principle here is to more completely reflect the plurality or difference present in the various “publics” that frequent the theatre house through works in which said publics could potentially see a reflection of their own experiences. At the same time, however, in this intent to widen the scope of stories produced on its stages, there also exists a sort of tension, namely around where said “new” stories come from. More precisely, in the act of wanting to grant space for otherwise “hidden” stories to be portrayed on stage lies the risk of perpetuating the same kind of social structures that allow for such exclusion to exist in the first place. It is perhaps one of the more delicate paradoxes in diversity-­ based projects to navigate around, and it starts at the point of creation. Said paradox, though not exclusive to the context of live performance, has arguably seen something of a resurgence in public discourse surrounding popular media. Notably, in August 2013, television writer and producer Jenji Kohan sat down for an interview with NPR’s Terri Gross to promote her new series Orange Is the New Black. The show—adapted

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from the memoirs of Piper Kerman, a middle-class White woman who spent time in prison after agreeing to smuggle drugs for a former girlfriend—found success incredibly quickly, partly due to its unique subject matter, but also for its diverse supporting cast, the majority of whom were women of colour. When asked to address this element of the casting, as well as her tendency to centre her shows (at least at first) around the point of view of a middle-class White woman,22 Kohan memorably responded by labelling Piper as her “Trojan horse”, or an “access point” to integrating non-dominant narratives. This thus justifies her presence at the centre of the narrative by the fact that her familiarity would make audiences more willing to first follow her into this otherwise closed environment and then listen to the stories of the other women that inhabit this environment with her, but whose perspectives and voices normally do not feature centrally on televised media. 23 What Kohan directly alludes to here is not just the assumption that stories centred on marginalized groups—in this case, not just women of colour, but women of colour enmeshed in the prison system—are unlikely to turn a profit, but more specifically that the reasons for hesitation can be traced back to the notion that, from the point of view of the network, the average (or imagined) television viewer is White and quite likely also middle class. In short, this is a direct comment not just on the implications of the spectator’s gaze, but on the capacities for negotiation and connection inherent therein. The assumption here, then, is that the capacity to relate to those whose lived experiences lie far outside the realm of one’s own depends in part on the presence of an intermediary, a filter, someone who can “guide” the viewer, so to speak, or give them a roadmap to facilitate their own connection building. Yet rather than lead to an opening of new critical pathways, what this strategy could very likely result in is a reinforcement (intended or not) of dominant perspectives or points of view, even when the focus temporarily shifts to an otherwise marginalized individual. What this depends on, essentially, is the point of origin of the aforementioned filter, or “Trojan Horse”, to employ Kohan’s term. Even if, as in shows such as Orange is the New Black, the supporting cast of women of colour largely eclipses Piper’s story in the show’s later seasons, one cannot ignore the fact that the words they speak, the (inter)personal storylines they portray each season, were written and plotted out by a team of predominantly White writers. In other words, the bounds of the frame of reference given to the eventual viewer are not pushed to a degree that could result in a confrontation with codes that are not in some way

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drawn from the already centred/dominant position. This does not mean to imply that some bounds and stereotypes still cannot be rendered unstable. They can, but what must be understood is the fact that such instability still happens within a greater framework that upholds a dominant point of view of seeing and interacting with the world, instead of one that challenges the supposed necessity for this dominance. Indeed, what is key here is the very notion of sources of tension in perspective, specifically the slightly different contexts within which they operate. The first, as outlined above, arises from the potential conflicts that can result when an author/creator in the “centre” attempts to craft a narrative around those in the margins. The difficulty here lies in the degree to which unconscious bias in terms of story crafting or character building and development will not just colour the depiction of those in the margins, but more specifically determine the narrative “beats” those characters must hit in order for the story to maintain a certain level of “believability” (that is, believability according to a specific frame of reference). This is especially true for documentary, or documentary-inspired, forms of theatre, which to a certain degree are anchored in the act of representing, as accurately as possible, a certain perception of “real life”, or at the very least, something that their intended audience will recognize as being directly derived from what they deem to be the structures and dynamics that make up the “real” world they live in. The second more directly implicates the intended audience and, more precisely, the ways in which they may potentially respond to the work. Depictions of the hardships of marginalized groups can, for instance, be used to tap into an emotional reservoir, at the very least eliciting a response of pity and sympathy towards the depicted subjects. Where this perspective could eventually evolve is in the degree to which it interweaves the question of the responsibility of those in the centre—or, to push a bit further, to the larger structures that make the existence of a centre possible in the first place—in the need for maintenance of a status of “marginalized”. This could potentially further inspire conversations that could later lead to actions to bring about structural change. What is tricky here, however, is balancing this with the fact that, in this particular formulation, power and agency for change are still rooted in the centre, the marginalized here functioning as vehicles or objects that are needed to potentially elicit a response. They may have a specific role to play as a kind of “trigger”, but otherwise the risk is that they subsequently lack full subjectivity.

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The interview with Kohan, as well as its resulting implications, could very well have also applied to the production of Christine Citti and JeanLouis Martinelli’s Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner (They Didn’t Think We Would Succeed) staged at the MC93 in January 2019. Much like with Orange, this production centres on a group of people—in this case, teenagers in the French foster care system—who have been, in one way or another, excluded, ignored, or silenced. Another similarity is the fact that both productions were conceived of by “outsiders”. This, to a certain degree, aligns the creators more closely with their imagined publics, something that in the case of the Citti/Martinelli production largely questions the purpose of the spectator presence. Citti and Martinelli’s production likewise also arose from an adaptation of real, lived experiences, yet in their case, there was not necessarily a single life story they were searching to adapt. Rather, the production was the result of a collaboration between the two following their (separate) volunteer stints at group homes for foster children in the Paris banlieues. Originally, Martinelli had signed on with the intention of using his time with the teenagers not only to teach them about theatre but to hopefully conceive of and direct a final production. Several factors—including budget cuts, lack of space, and difficulty in gaining and keeping interest amongst the youths—ultimately brought that project to a halt, but where his experience failed, Citti’s proved to be more fruitful to what ended up becoming their final project. For a brief period at the tail end of 2015, going into 2016, Citti volunteered at a group home in La Courneuve, a suburb located in the Seine-Saint-Denis department. Though her experience was also something of a failure—she only stayed around six months— what she did manage to acquire was a series of notes based on her conversations (or memories of her conversations and experiences) with the young residents. These served as her starting point for the text she eventually composed, though it would be inaccurate to call Ils n’avaient pas prévu… a piece of documentary theatre. Citti herself acknowledges this latter point when, as quoted in Libération, she describes her writing process for this piece as being an open blend of the real and the fictional, interlacing her memories with stories (which she qualifies as not completely true by virtue of her adapting them to fit the needs of the piece) and expressions gleaned from the youths she worked with, or purely invented.24 As to the stage design, it is overall rather sparse, save for a few larger pieces of furniture. The first of these are two large black metallic

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tables—with accompanying black chairs—first set upstage right for one and downstage right for the other, before being pushed together slightly right of centre to form a single long table used for the nightly house meetings. The second is a large plexiglass cube centre stage in which two chairs are placed. This, it becomes clear early on, is the director’s office, its transparency serving to grant continued, relatively unobstructed viewing and auditory access to the proceedings inside the otherwise inaccessible home. Finally, downstage left is an old couch the teenagers are seen lounging on at the opening of the show. Regarding entrances and exits, these occur by passing through a set of crimson double doors set upstage centre-right, such a stark contrast with the black walls that surround them that one may wonder whether the colour choice was deliberate to hint at the violence many of the young residents would express—physically or verbally—during the production. Above the doors is a large clock whose hands are missing, thus complicating the ability to keep track of time—though many of the residents have cellphones, several conversations or comments refer to the fact that these are often taken from them, either temporarily by one of the directors for punishment or by another resident. The general feeling of an almost purgatorial dread that comes with the presence of an impossible-­to-­function clock is compounded by the fact that for almost all the residents,25 circumstances make it such that leaving permanently before they age-out at eighteen is not a possibility. To characterize the space as stagnant would thus not be terribly far off the mark, as even any inklings of the residents somehow moving past or beyond their present circumstances are swiftly squashed by the fact that they live in the group home in the first place and that doing so comes with its own sets of all but insurmountable prejudices. Yet, to reiterate, this production is, in the simplest terms, the staging of a text written by someone whose lived experience within the environment being portrayed on the stage was largely observational, as well as temporary (that is, she was free to physically leave or distance herself from the environment as she wished). What her outsider status further implies is a link with those sitting in the house, who, as a whole, are generally assumed to be in some relative state of ignorance or unfamiliarity with the milieu being portrayed on the stage. This link concretely manifests itself in two ways. First, given that Citti engaged in a process of compilation and adaptation during the writing process, the final text, its structure, its language, and where it places its emphasis are a result of separate threads being filtered and connected based on her point of view. There is thus no easily

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discernible way of knowing which expressions are “unedited”, so to speak, and which have perhaps remained lexically intact but recontextualized in such a way that they would be more comprehensible to their intended public. The second way the link with those in the house manifests itself is explicitly visual: Citti herself appears in the production in the role of Emmanuelle, a fictionalized version of herself during her time at the group home in La Courneuve. As Emmanuelle, Citti is thus both a spectator surrogate in her unfamiliarity and the production’s own version of Kohan’s Trojan horse. Her act of entry—literally her penetrating into the space by crossing the threshold of the double red doors—into the otherwise closed-­ off home is that which grants liberty for the stories within to expose themselves. It should, however, be noted that although Citti’s character does come in as a volunteer to render her services to the residents—though precisely what these services would entail is never explicitly laid out—the narrative does not entirely follow the trope of the “White saviour” arc. In other words, Emmanuelle does not, while she is there, impart some “wisdom” or “truths” to the teenagers to “save them from themselves”, so to speak. Much like Citti’s own experience, Emmanuelle’s time at the home is something of a failure with regard to tangible impact—arguably what Citti’s own assessment of her personal experience was based on as well. Though there are some moments that hint at a budding closeness between Emmanuelle and a few of the residents (in particular, the female ones), the former is still held some distance away by the group at large. When, for example, at the end of the piece, she returns to the home after several months away, she remarks not only on the absence of some of the residents she knew during her former tenure but also on the fact that, of those who were still there, not a one came to greet her openly. She is, thus, still more or less the “outsider” or “other” she was labelled as by the teenagers when she first met them: in an early exchange, one of the girls pointedly remarks that it is not often that people like her (“White women”) purposefully come into this space. Emmanuelle never quite manages to entirely shake off this label. Consequently, Citti/Emmanuelle spends most of her time observing rather than speaking, the rare exceptions being moments when she directly addresses the spectators either to indicate the passage of time or to provide a summary of the current dynamics, including her own, in the house. What this results in is a production largely composed of loosely connected

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moments rather than a linear plot, showing slices of life inside the home without necessarily connecting them to a larger character-driven story arc. At the same time, though her vocal presence is rather limited, this does not necessarily imply that her physical presence is equally so. While she is often relegated far stage right, ceding the centre of the stage to the teenagers and, occasionally, the members of the staff, her placement there is not quite an indication of her relative passivity with regard to the activity in the home surrounding her. More precisely, when she first moves to sit, one of the items she takes out of her bag and places on the table in front of her is a notebook. Even in moments when she is not writing in it, the notebook remains visible, another tangible reminder of not just her observer status, but also her status as a recorder and subsequent transmitter of experiences from the insular group home to the exposure of the outside world. Given that Citti/Emmanuelle is also the sole character for whom a monologue or direct address involves not just an examination of events that predate her or the individual in question’s arrival at the home but also a compression of time and events so that the temporal moment being played out on the stage jumps ahead before being picked up again “in real time”, there is a further implication that what is being performed as she writes is closer to a staging of her memories and observations than of the events as they happened. In other words, the events have implicitly already been filtered to a degree that removes them from an entirely “blank” objective status. There is, for example, a critical choice behind the decision to devote five minutes to a monologue in which one of the residents recounts his childhood in Mali, his early aspirations to become a doctor, and his rejection by his father upon his arrival in France based on the latter’s belief that he had a wolfish, or dangerous, spirit in him. Not only is the staging of the speech as a monologue firmly rooted in theatrical convention—that is, those on stage with the speaker remain silent as a means of signalling to where spectators should direct their attention, as opposed to instances of “real-life” storytelling which are rife with interruptions and tangents—the fact that Citti/Emmanuelle remains seated just next to the speaker with the notebook in front of her during the speech implies to some degree a traceable link between what is written there and the final speech. Whether or not the speech as performed is a direct transcription, a reconstruction of a story based on several fragmented storytelling episodes or a mix between direct transmission and interpretive/creative license is unclear. What counts, however, is that the perspective of the outsider coming in was both present and the

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determining point of view in the final organization and structuring of the events highlighted on the stage. At the same time what the outsider perspective results in is the creation of a rather closed system of exchange between the spectators and the work on the stage that, while it may reveal the “cracks” or instabilities in the structure in which it exists, is limited, by virtue of its origins, to go so far as to potentially provoke a critical overhauling of the structure. Understanding the full implications of this closed system, however, also requires a brief return to the early days of the production’s development, specifically initial encounters between it and representatives of those whose stories it was supposedly adapting/performing. In its review of the production, Libération references a tension resulting from these encounters, as well as Citti’s response to it, specifically, that to pointed objections, following a staged reading of the text, from certain representatives from Child Protective Services on the inclusion of frank discussions of prostitution between some of the female adolescents in the group home. First describing the reaction as somewhat excessive—“Ils ont pété un cable” (“They blew a fuse”)—Citti then counters by affirming that, as an artist, she has the right to tell whatever stories she wants to tell.26 Notable in this situation is that, first, on neither side are there representatives directly issued from the community of foster children/teenagers themselves. Those opposing some of Citti’s choices may be officially described as advocates for their interests, but otherwise those younger voices, those direct perspectives are still missing. Second—and perhaps more strikingly—is Citti’s final retort at her detractors: that, as an artist, she has the right to tell precisely what stories she chooses. In this case, said “right” derives from her actions of entering an otherwise closed or marginalized space, making a series of observations, and finally using her credentials and professional position as justification for her appropriation of said stories. Yet what is once again brushed over in this formulation are the underlying factors that grant her such privilege and freedom in movement and spatial access. This is not to say that she as a theatre-maker should be outright denied certain liberties with regard to what she chooses to write about. Indeed, the debate lies less with whether she can write about something and more with whether she should follow through with her choice to turn her writing into a work of public consumption or instead make way for another’s voice. It is the difference between her outsider’s discussion of prostitution in that environment, and a similar discourse coming from one who had lived it and wished to discuss it on their terms.

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Here, however, it would be best to examine the aforementioned question with a return to the performance itself. Assuming for the moment that the freedom granted to an author to perform the simple act of writing on any topic they choose is not up for debate, the dilemma surrounding Ils n’avaient pas prévu… lies more squarely in its transformation from text into a theatrical production. More precisely, one must look to the power dynamics inherent in the staging. As the piece is staged frontally, as well as punctuated by moments of direct address to the spectators, one could arguably make the case for classifying it as a presentational or didactic piece: that which seeks to instruct or inform on a matter it believes its spectators may have some ignorance of. What this does, however, is also establish a dichotomous relationship regarding authority, namely that afforded to those granted the power of speech. They, as the relators of information in this system, are established as those who can speak best on the topic and thus have more knowledge than those to whom they are speaking. Such a positioning takes on greater weight once one factors back in the point of origin of the words themselves and the further power imbalances inherent within. A further implication of this positioning can be revealed when it is juxtaposed with the perspective of one who has or does occupy the “outsider” status it purports to comment on. In her contribution to the collection Décolonisons les Arts! (2018)—a series of fifteen essays written by French/francophone artists, directors, theatre and film-makers, and more of colour—for example, writer and stage director Eva Doumbia critiques the frontal stage dynamic as hierarchal, contrasting it with spatial arrangements seen in “the majority” of cultures around the world in which everyone is seated in a circle. Doumbia qualifies this latter arrangement as more “democratic”, as it allows for an actual circulation of ideas and exchange. Contrary to this, the frontal dynamic—specifically in the context of live theatre—is one of both dominance and elitism. In other words, it is the endurance of a colonialist presence in terms of who is allowed to possess knowledge as well as determine the means and artistic aesthetics of its transmission.27 While the question of a colonialist presence may not be explicitly mentioned in the text of Ils n’avaient pas prévu…, it is nevertheless present in its creation. This is not to suggest a level of awareness or malintent on Citti’s part, but her piece can still arguably be said to fit in well within a tradition of dominant—mostly Western/White—figures entering so-­ called hidden or closed spaces occupied by marginalized persons and

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attempting to “save” or “open up” said spaces through the act of reporting back on and thus exposing them to those in the centre. Unfortunately, such a process does not do much to ultimately move the marginalized into the centre—that is, results in an act that could presumably do more to question or destabilize an established order. On the contrary, localizing the act of exposure within the actions of the dominant “outsider” keeps the marginalized confined within the status of a “source” of information, the passive object of inquiry, rather than granting them the power of an autonomous “actor”, that is, one who can incite change to their own circumstances. The marginalized in Citti’s piece may have spoken to her, but their own words, and thus their specific perspectives, remain confined within the scope of only those conversations, before they were filtered through Citti’s lens in order to become the final text. The implication here is that such a power of transformation of “raw text” into theatrical production could only be found outside the milieu from which the former originated. To deny the capacity for transformation of text from those who originated it, however, maintains said group as secondary to those who already occupy a more central social status. Such a maintenance of an established centre-margins relationship carries further implications regarding Citti’s position within the performance itself. In fact, it leans rather heavily towards resemblance to an anthropological study, especially when considering Citti’s status as spectator surrogate, there to engage in the act of observation and reporting back on her findings, rather than directly intervene in or influence what is happening around her. One of the final sequences in the performance strikingly highlights this point: prior to Citti delivering her final, “several months later…” monologue, one of the residents, Kim Son, a recent arrival from Vietnam who remains mostly silent throughout the piece due to his lack of French, takes a white marker and begins to write on the front face of the plexiglass box. When he finishes, the lower third of the box is covered with the names of not just the teenage residents but also the two staff members that appear onstage and Emmanuelle’s as well. The newly modified box remains empty for a while, but just before Citti moves downstage to begin delivering her final monologue, the teenagers begin to enter it. Each one then takes a standing position facing outwards, directly towards the house. They remain like this throughout the duration of Citti’s monologue while the latter remains downstage, occasionally glancing back up at the box. Given that the content of her speech centres primarily on the lack of

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changes since her last visit, as well as the lack of mobility the teenagers have to transcend beyond the stigmas associated with their current circumstances, the implication here is that this final image of them in the box is in some way reflective of her imagining of them, of their entrapment or confinement. It is perhaps no coincidence, then, that the image of the teenagers behind the plexiglass wall labelled with their names also recalls similar images of animals confined in a zoo—yet another nod to the almost anthropological point of view of Citti’s physical presence on the stage. What Citti’s capacity to extract herself here grants her, it is implied, is the ability for outside reflection, for the formulation of an assessment of the situation being presented, her outsider standing being the key that allows her to make and then present such assessments in the first place. What the spectators receive, then, is a perspective derived from a point of view they, theoretically, can identify and thus potentially engage with relatively quickly. This would be in opposition to supposed difficulties or resistances that could arise should the underlying point of view on the stage be of someone “on the inside”, that is, whose social standing did not relate as closely with that of the majority of potential spectators. Yet in this maintenance of a closer link between spectators and their “surrogate”, there remains a larger source of tension, for what Citti does not do is suggest a final interrogation as to her own standing as an observer, a questioning as to the precise nature of her—and by extension the spectators’—act of looking. Such an interrogation is possible, but for it to happen the primary perspective should be that of someone on the inside. This does not necessarily mean that said person must adapt their perspective, their codes, and their speech patterns to “fit” those of the intended audience. Particularly when the central subject of a work of performance involves marginalized persons or communities, for the necessary critique or dialogue that could be traced back to the reasonings behind said interrogation to take place, a decent amount of the intellectual labour must be performed by those in the “centralized” or “privileged” position. Said redistribution of intellectual labour involves, to some degree, the un-centring of an otherwise dominant discourse or mode of expression as the primary means of communication. What this can potentially result in is a confrontation in which the receiver of the information—in this case the spectator—realizes that the privileged perspective is not the only one possible, that it has been “normalized” artificially. How much an individual spectator chooses to engage with this

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questioning of their own status or manner of observing/interpreting things is, of course, entirely up to them. What does not change, however, is the potential to expand the possibilities for critique to include questions relating to the present dynamics of the performance space as the performance is happening. Given this, the first question to ask would be why the specific work in question had to be written from an outsider’s perspective in the first place. In Kohan’s earlier-referenced interview, the answer seems to be something akin to comfort or familiarity. A potential spectator, in other words, is imagined as being more receptive to information coming from a source with whom they can easily identify (whether this identification is based on race, gender/sexual identification, socioeconomic status, etc.). Said spectator’s autonomy, or individualized capacity for critique and assessment of the information presented—or in the case of theatre, played out—in front of them, is, in this model, dependent upon this first moment of mutual identification. To remove it—that is, in this case, to confront a spectator with an unfiltered perspective coming directly from the source—would be, in this line of reasoning, to imply a risk of either the spectator’s refusal to access said critical autonomy or else a resignation to passivity based on the momentary centralization of otherwise unfamiliar or almost invisible voices and perspectives. The paradox with relying on the trope of the “Trojan horse” or “spectator surrogate” in cases such as this to avoid a supposed audience disconnect, however, is that it ultimately does little to address the structural problems that resulted in the creation of the centralized/marginalized dynamics addressed in a piece in the first place. Notably, although the use of the surrogate promises some degree of audience engagement, the relationship between those in the house and those on the stage remains largely imbalanced. Autonomy in creation, in other words, is not given the same due as autonomy in reception. Particularly in pieces such as Ils n’avaient pas prévu… which openly focus on politically and socially charged content, the origin of where and through which perspective the final performed work was constructed matters in terms of what sorts of negotiations or examinations can arise in the room as the performance happens. In this case, though the piece illuminates several of the latent problems with the foster care system as it currently stands in France, it does so while still maintaining, through the process behind its construction, a relatively marginalized position on the part of its subjects. As a result, autonomy—both

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in performance and in the reception of said performance—remains one-­ sided, preventing a more egalitarian system of exchange and negotiation in which the margins and the centre occupy an even playing field from forming. In terms of how this piece in particular relates back to Archambault’s overall diversity and accessibility project at the MC93, then, what the closed system of exchange that results from the piece further does is add a layer of complexity to an otherwise clearly defined set of goals. On the one hand, putting its point of origin aside, the piece does, in the simplest terms, open an avenue for the representation of a previously “hidden” space. Furthermore, this opening of possibility also allows for the expansion of what can be considered a potential subject for theatrical representation in a public theatre setting. At the same time, however, what this opening rests on here is an appeal towards a certain emotional response: compassion, itself likely deriving from an initial response of pity. The latter especially implies the existence of a certain kind of hierarchal relationship in which those in whom the initial feeling of pity arises have an initial moment of recognition of not just the fact that they occupy a higher status, but also that this occupation is, to a certain degree, arbitrary. In this sense, what the inclusion of a piece like Ils n’avaient pas prévu… in the MC93’s season does is further anchor the theatre itself in the context of a larger sociopolitical project. Somewhat similar to Wajdi Mouawad’s work at La Colline,28 the MC93 here acts as a space that takes upon itself a certain responsibility to raise awareness or to “teach” its publics about the sociopolitical imbalances that characterize the larger territory that it and its publics occupy. This does not necessarily mean, however, that the MC93 itself, in its programming, prescribes a directive for change. What is more significant here is the fact that in its act of working to create openings for expanded representation through attempting to tap into a certain emotional response, what the space does is momentarily collectivize its otherwise heterogeneous publics. In other words, it attempts to highlight unifying elements that can exist in spite of the presence of difference. That it does so through tapping into emotional response does not, however, necessarily mean that emotion itself is a force for unification. Accessing or triggering emotional responses can still be used to further emphasize plurality and heterogeneity. The difference here is the connection back to a greater sociopolitical aim into which the theatre itself is imagined as being directly woven.

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Perimenontas Que viennent les barbares, Written and Directed by Myriam Marzouki, MC93, March 14, 2019 Given Archambault’s vision of the MC93 as a theatre engaged in notions of diversity, then, the question thus becomes how can a piece programmed here address this topic in a way that goes deeper than that seen in the earlier case with Ils n’avaient pas prévu…? More precisely, it must be a way that has the potential to shake modes of representation and relationality thought of as “established”, therefore opening possibilities for new ways of seeing or interpreting our world through the medium of theatrical representation. Part of the root of the problem here, however, stems from the way “diversity” is conceived of as well as put into practice. In brief: in practice, “diversity” often equates to the presence of some individual or element that deviates from an established “Norm”. It is the presence of an “Other” but never as a distinct entity—or subject—in itself. Rather, this Other is defined either explicitly or implicitly in relation with the “normalized” (or an illusory “neutral”) referent. Consequently, this limits to some degree the possibilities in which this Other is represented in the fullness and complexities of its own pluralities in the same way one often treats the “neutral” Norm. The Other is not, in other words, afforded the opportunity to escape association with its Norm in much the same way as the latter is granted space for an independent existence (and thus, in a theatrical context, additional possibilities for varied modes of storytelling and representation). This dilemma is not new to the theatre in a broad sense, though for the purposes of this study, the focus will narrow in on a topic that remains a source of tension among some circles in France: that of “diversity” as it pertains to matters of race and/or skin colour. Here, however, to get a sense of some of the implications this topic has in the context of theatrical representation, our focus must briefly cross the Atlantic. In an introductory essay to her collection The America Play and Other Works titled “An Equation for Black People Onstage” (1994),29 playwright Suzan-Lori Parks opens by posing the question of whether a Black character or Black-centred drama can exist on the stage without the presence (visible or invisible) of the White. While this question is largely informed by the specific histories and traumas of what it has meant to be Black in the

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United States, what underscores it has broader fundamental implications: can that which has been historically, culturally, and institutionally designated as an Other truly exist on its own terms in the representational spaces of the (White) Norm? It is a question of directly confronting established—and indeed ingrained—modes of relationality. In fact, what Parks does in posing this question is dig into the broader sociocultural narratives that (in her specific context) “America” has constructed about itself as a way of building its own historical narrative. These include the historically gross power imbalances between Black and White residents, as well as the stories that are told regarding any shifts or moves towards a supposed “equilibrium”. There is, as Parks rightly acknowledges, historical trauma embedded in the Black experience in the United States. The problem, however, comes when being Black—and especially when being Black onstage—becomes reduced to this specific narrative, when the Other cannot exist as a fully formed subject because representation of the oppressor/oppressed dichotomy is thought to be mandatory. Yet, despite the fact that as a space it can engage with the reproduction of these codified modes of relationality, Parks also identifies theatre as a site that inherently provides the possibility to change that. In an earlier essay from her collection, Parks likens the theatre to a site where the theatre-­maker has opportunities to “make” history, rather than just repeat it verbatim, through the simple process of putting things on stage and making them happen.30 It is this ludic element, this act of playing, that becomes part of the historical record by virtue of its occurrence in a specific time and place. This carries greater significance for the histories of those who have otherwise been erased or remain absent from the “official” historical record. Theatre, then, has the possibility to become an eventual pluralizer of histories. It is this latter point in particular that brings us most directly to Myriam Marzouki’s Que viennent les barbares, especially when considering the genesis of the piece. In an interview printed in the programme, one of the central themes Marzouki cites as a through-line to the project is what it means to be French now, at a time when it is becoming increasingly visible in public discourse that not all French people are White. The question may seem odd at first—non-White folks have been living in and been registered as citizens of Metropolitan France for many generations. But what has started to increase more recently is the presence of voices of those French citizens who are not White and openly assume, celebrate, and highlight their differences, chipping away at a façade of “assimilation” that has

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historically attempted to erase these markers for the sake of maintaining an image of Républicain Universalism and a singular French identity.31 Indeed, the title of Marzouki’s piece is itself almost a kind of provocation. While it does allude to Greek poet Constantine Cavafy’s “Perimenontas tous Varvarous” (“Waiting for the Barbarians”, 1904),32 there has been a rather significant change in the title’s translation. Normally, a French translation would read as “En attendant les barbares”, with the use of the French gerund speaking to the condition of stasis (perimenontas/waiting) in the original Greek title, as well as in the body of the poem. Here, however, the Que viennent transforms the suspension of the original into a sort of anticipation: “let them come”. What is unclear, however, is whether behind this anticipation lies a threat—let them come, for we can destroy them—or a sign of welcome—let them come, for we also need/would like to have them here. Yet even this latter interpretation is not entirely innocent. To return briefly to Cavafy’s poem, one of its central themes concerns how key the presence of the unspecified yet menacing “barbarians” is to the continuation of political life in the city as well as, as suggested in the poem’s final punchline, to the identity of the Empire: what will we become without the barbarians. The Empire needs these outsiders who, following the ancient Greek definition, are given this label because they share neither language nor cultural mores with the city’s inhabitants, to justify its existence. To let them come, then, as Marzouki’s amended title suggests, could thus also be read as a way of avoiding a larger existential identity crisis. In the context of her piece, it is the French State, rather than the unnamed Empire in Cavafy’s poem, that needs to engage in constantly identifying its Others to first establish its parameters for its own brand of universalism—that is, its conditions for fully “belonging”—as well as subsequently justify the need for an outsider’s full assimilation. One cannot, in other words, openly acknowledge one’s difference, one’s “barbarism”, and still be seen as “French”, according to this system. To do so, and go against certain institutional parameters, thus itself becomes a political act. It is almost fitting, then, that a piece as concerned with questions of identity and difference—and (institutional) racism especially—opens with a scene featuring a fictionalized interview with two prominent Black American writers: James Baldwin and Toni Morrison. Much as with Citti’s character in Ils n’avaient pas prévu…, here the two authors function more as entry points to address the larger themes of Marzouki’s piece, their dual

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“outsider” status—particularly as Black Americans—ultimately used to turn the spotlight back onto French society’s treatment of an issue that is sometimes seen as occurring “elsewhere”. Both Morrison and Baldwin speak directly to the question of what it means to be Black in the United States, albeit in somewhat different parameters. Morrison situates her response in the personal, noting that she “wears” her difference openly when in society, affirming it rather than considering it a “burden” to her self-actualization. It is a rejection of conforming to certain standards of “normalized” assimilation while still affirming one’s right to exist in a space, in other words. Baldwin for his part speaks more on the notion of structural versus institutionalized racism as barriers towards full subjective existence, citing as an example the difficulty of Black Americans in becoming homeowners: is the realtor not selling the home because they personally hate the client, or is the refusal reflective of the client living in an environment that excludes him? Yet, in her response, the female reporter interviewing the two writers gives the comments an additional context: she emphasizes her interviewees’ “American-ness”. It is the perspective, in other words, of an outsider looking in, though not necessarily to understand any similar phenomena that may be occurring closer to home. This continues in her next questions when, after citing the increase in representation of Black artists in music, film, and television as well as athletes in sports, she pointedly asks Baldwin what “they” (“les noirs”) want, as though inclusion in fields of entertainment is recognition enough of an “equalized” status. Baldwin counters with the following: first, the recognition is not enough because it does nothing to change the problem at the foundation of the society—the notion of “Blackness” as constructed and imagined by White Americans. The underlying implication here is not so much that the kind of self-­ actualization in difference as described earlier by Morrison is impossible, but rather that it will inevitably come into conflict with the perceptions of the dominant systems this difference exists within in that they will try to reform, recontextualize, and thus erase it. Yet, Baldwin closes his response to the reporter by turning the tables back on her: instead of focusing solely on the United States, could one not also see a similar phenomenon regarding the treatment of Algerians in France? A music cue soon after signals the transition from this short scene to the next, leaving Baldwin’s question unanswered. This lack of response, however, also works to transpose the question—as well as the critiques

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developed earlier—to the next scene, consequently creating a theoretical framework from which one is expected to approach and engage with what is to follow. In this regard, Marzouki’s piece can be classed as one of the more overtly didactic productions featured in this study, evidenced as much in its formal structure as in the content. Much like the opening scene, the rest of Que viennent… does not follow a singular narrative threat, but is rather composed of distinct yet loosely connected “moments”, each of which—with the exception of the final scene—centres around a dialogue that further dissects some of the questions posed by Baldwin and Morrison in scene one: systemic and institutionalized racism, affirmation of difference, and the broader implications of these problematics on the construction of French (rather than American) identity. Additionally, as with the first scene, the subsequent dialogues also, for the most part, feature a “de-­ historicized” historical figure as the inciter of the dialogue, as well as, at times confrontational, interlocutor, identifiable only by their profession. Regarding the former, while as with Baldwin and Morrison the other historical persons featured in the piece—Algerian francophone poet Jean Sénac, eighteenth-century Saint Dominican politician Jean-Baptiste Belley, and anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss—are, as far as an official historical record is concerned, tied to a particular temporality, there is nothing in the design elements of the scenes they appear in that suggest an adherence to this temporality aside from the costuming. Thus, while these figures have been de-anchored from their respective historical moments, allowing them the possibility to interact both with each other and with the various interlocutors, the visual reminders of history allow them to simultaneously keep one foot in their personal, recorded past while interacting in this unspecified “present” temporality on the stage. The dialogues they engage in, then, are also visually both timeless in their non-specific historical situating and indicative of the depth to which the imagination of an Other is embedded in constructions of républicain French-ness. One cannot remove it from this construction, in other words, precisely because, as the visual presence of these historical figures suggests, its effects cannot be categorized as belonging exclusively to a distant past, but rather they continue to inform the present. Where both the visual and dialogical elements of the above critique most completely converge is in Que viennent’s longest and most site-­ specific sequence. The scene is set in the reception room of what is clearly an allusion to France’s National Immigration and Integration Office

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(OFII): the Office National Français Universel de l’Intégration Totale or ONFUIT. It is not immediately clear which of the two double meanings the acronym’s pun is referencing, though both are applicable given the setting: either the “fleeing” in ONFUIT refers to the migrants who have left their homelands to try and settle in France or it refers to the general sense of anxiety that characterizes an encounter with French bureaucracy and which can only be relieved by removing oneself from that situation as quickly as possible. Yet, even in the potential comedy inherent in the latter, there is an undercurrent of violence that is further reflected in the exaggeration in the office’s official title. In “Universel” there is reflected the principle of universality (universalisme) that underscores notions of belonging or of citizenship in France wherein one must blend in with the Republic and swear allegiance to its values first rather than openly affirm an existence that emphasizes potential divergences from it. In short, it is an interpretation of equality that may (wilfully or not) remain blind to difference on the basis that the moniker of “French” is enough to surpass these differences and create an even playing field both socially and legally. The implied erasure in “Intégration Totale” pushes the implications of this brand of universalism further. Totality in integration suggests the forcing of its subjects into a pre-determined mould, demanding—for a good fit—either the repression or the abandonment of certain elements that may otherwise be central to the individual’s own identity or personal history. A woman enters in short, clipped steps, carrying a large stack of dossiers. She crosses to the desk downstage left, sets the dossiers down, motions for the doorman to officially open the office, and then gets to work methodically flipping through and loudly stamping each dossier. As the resident bureaucrat, she also stands in for the larger body of the State, though the heightened sense of order she attempts to maintain in the office becomes destabilized following exchanges with two visitors. The first of these, Jean-Baptiste Belley, dressed in the uniform of a member of the 1792 National Convention, enters to formally complain about the lack of monuments in his honour (one street name in the suburb of Pantin) despite his status as the first Black elected deputy of the post-Revolution French National Convention, in other words, an actor in the formulation of the country’s republican identity. He pointedly compares his lack of representation to the abundance of monuments dedicated to Napoleon Bonaparte (who reinstituted slavery in 1802 after it was initially abolished in 1794), commenting directly that the French State seemed to have a

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very particular way of orienting its choices in memorials. Belley in affirming his identity of both being French and Black wishes to amend that. The implication here is the historical role that race has played in the construction of national memory, and this is what sets the woman off. How can Belley claim racial prejudice when the French State does not officially see colour? Belley counters by asking her to prove this, yet she is unable to, as to do so would be to acknowledge the limitations of the universalist model she is there to represent and uphold. Belley leaves unsatisfied, but a second visitor deals another blow to the illusion of universalist republican stability. Claude Lévi-Strauss enters to request a formal name change. This would be standard procedure— indeed, even today those wishing to become naturalized citizens are given the option of changing their name to something more “French”33—were it not for the fact that Lévi-Strauss is requesting that his father’s Jewish surname (Strauss) be officially added to his legal surname.34 Lévi-Strauss justifies his request by referencing the historical fear of antisemitism and persecution that lead his parents to remove the “Othered” element from his name, and here the woman counters by saying that of course removal of foreign elements in names (here the sign displaying the ONFUIT logo flickers) was preferred because to do otherwise would ostensibly mark those with those elements as unassimilated or not belonging. The indivisibility of the Republic, in other words, would be compromised. The flickering of the ONFUIT sign following this statement visually signals that something is off with the bureaucrat’s argument, and Lévi-­ Strauss’ continuation of the dialogue pushes the instability of her position further. Much like Belley, Lévi-Strauss grounds his argument in references to France’s history, albeit here both expanding the conception of the Other and establishing a deeper anchoring of it within French territory. There have always been “barbarians”, he acquiesces, dating back to the formalization of the French language and the suppression of regional languages and dialects—he references the Breton language specifically—for the sake of linguistic uniformity. What changes is the target. The supposed indivisibility of the Republic only exists because it constantly must put itself in relation to a (changing) negative, redefining that which it is not in order to affirm what it is and who can be considered a part of it. This sentiment is later echoed in the next scene in which a bartender, in a dialogue with Jean Sénac posits that while he may not know what it is like to personally be Jewish or Arab, he knows he would not like to be identified as such, that is, have the awareness that he lives in a society that operates under an

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inclusion/exclusion model imposed on him. Yet, it is not just the difficulties with being “Othered” that are at play here. Rather, it is the fact of being, by virtue of an outside designation, put in a position in which one is constantly questioning not only who one is but also the possibilities afforded them for full self-actualization in the face of potential societal rejection. The clarity in which both Belley’s and Lévi-Strauss’ arguments—coupled arguably with the implicit credibility granted to the latter, given his historical counterpart’s profession—juxtaposed with the almost comic severity and obstinance of their interlocutor leave little room for interpretation as to which side of the argument Marzouki expects her spectators to land. Yet, given the subject matter, the choice to privilege a more didactic model also becomes a commentary itself. Legally speaking, as the bureaucrat emphasizes in her responses, the State has no structure in place that would allow for differences to exist openly in a way that would not “threaten” the larger narrative it has created about its identity. Consequently, this has led to an absence of language and modes of discourse in dominant circles regarding how to engage with the limitations of this narrative. Little of what is touched on in the dialogues by the historical figures in Marzouki’s piece would be unfamiliar to those who have encountered—either on a personal or on an institutional level—instances of being marked as Other and who happen to be seated in the house during the performance, for instance. What putting these instances onstage, as well as presenting them in direct confrontation with the structures that grant the possibility for them to exist in the first place does, however, is both remove them from a state of invisibility and recontextualize them as part and parcel of what it means to exist in France, both historically and presently. As such, much like with Ils n’avaient pas prévu…, Que viennent… can also arguably be said to address those seated in the house who occupy positions in the social “centre”, that is, who are less likely to be, or indeed have never been, Othered. Yet unlike the former, here there is less accommodation for the centre in terms of perspective. Moreover, Que viennent… does not punctuate its scenes with moments of direct verbal address to its spectators. This is partially explained by the lack of a spectator surrogate as seen in Ils n’avaient pas prévu…, but critically, what this further results in is the maintenance of a sense of distance between spectator and spectacle in the establishing of a distinctly frontal relationship, seemingly without the possibility for blurring the distinction between the two sides. Such a distinction is not without consequences,

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however. In this case, the risk in the reestablishing of a frontal relationship is twofold. Firstly, given the subject matter as well as its quasi-taboo nature (at least at the legal or State level) that Que viennent… takes care to emphasize early on, frontal representation carries with it the potential for the piece to shift to a mode of didactics that eschews the possibility for spectatorial engagement and dialogue in favour of the model of the lecture. Information—and more precisely how to interpret that information—is presented either verbally or visually telegraphed in such a way that allows little room for intellectual labour and personal interpretation and deconstruction on the part of those receiving the information. Consequently, this leads to the second risk: that a frontal stage dynamic will here produce a power imbalance with the spectacle as a sole keeper of knowledge that, it assumes, those in the house are ignorant of. Yet, it is in its approach towards this latter risk in particular that Que viennent… manages to both avoid fully moralizing to its spectators and leave room for—or even demand—intellectual engagement on their part, especially during the closing sequence. In short, rather than stark frontality functioning as a means of responding to supposed ignorance, here it serves to affirm an assumed foreknowledge of the central questions surrounding discussions and recognition of racism in France, as well as to combat against if not an individual then a superstructural level of wilful ignorance that those seated in the house exist within the context of. The sequence with the flickering ONFUIT sign following Lévi-Strauss’ name change request is arguably the clearest example of this. On the surface, the message being telegraphed with the cue for the lights to malfunction when they do is rather obvious. As it immediately follows the bureaucrat’s statement as to the reasoning behind the removal of “foreign” elements from names, the implication is that the flickering—that is, an abrupt change in an otherwise established space—is meant to alert not only to the problems inherent in her statement but also to those of the larger ideology the statement is made in the service of. The message is thus transmitted on a singular pathway that does not allow room for alternative interpretations for its occurrence. Crucially, however, in the context of the larger sequence, the moment is not “played straight” but instead almost as a sly punchline. This is largely due to the fact that the bureaucrat had already been established as ridiculous from the start of the sequence, not only from the exaggerated strictness and precision in her movements, but also in the almost absurd degree to which she refuses to modify her position even when faced with the

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reality that the system she represents by virtue of her occupation has its limitations when it comes to confronting cases that do not conform to the narrative it has constructed but nevertheless still make up the larger territory it claims to represent. By the time the light flicker happens, then, it is less a revelation and more of an acknowledgement. It assumes that those in the house have both witnessed the bureaucrat’s behaviour and come to a similar conclusion regarding its interpretation. The flickering, then, is thus transformed into a moment of cross-boundary recognition: it is unnecessary to say explicitly that the bureaucrat is being unreasonable because everyone in the room, including those who do not share in the temporality of the playing space, is already aware of that. Yet, this final moment also serves to set up a second exchange featuring the bureaucrat, except this time she speaks in her capacity as a civilian, outside the confines of her government office. Seated at a table in an unspecified café along with Sénac, Bellay, and Lévi-Strauss, she eavesdrops on a discussion between the latter two over Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe, specifically, the fact that, after being shipwrecked, Crusoe’s actions were to kill the first being he saw and then, upon encountering Friday, shooting at and then enslaving him. While the two debate over the vision of the world such an order of events proposes—and in particular, the significance of the fact that Crusoe is White—the bureaucrat inserts herself in the discussion with an ad hominem, remarking that the true problem is that the discussion is centred on another narrative about a man. This time, however, there is no visual effect to follow her interjection; instead, it is punctuated by a brief beat of silence. Yet, that is not to say that the lack of visual telegraphing equates to a larger re-assessment of the function of this character in the piece. Her mannerisms—especially her manner of inhabiting the stage space and interacting with the other characters—from the previous scene have not changed, and thus one can assume that spectatorial engagement with her is assumed to be similar to that seen prior. What has changed, however, is the fact that she no longer speaks as a representative of the State, but as “herself”, yet her comments are still largely informed by the discourses she promotes while officially performing her function. The ideology of the State has infiltrated the everyday, in this exchange, to the point where it can attempt to designate what topics constitute “legitimate” debate. After all, of the two subjects, only one—gender disparity and sexism more generally—is officially recognized by the French government, the assumption being that the discussions and debates this subject engenders supposedly do not pose a threat of true destabilization of its

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vision of universalism. At the same time, the speaker is a character whose arguments have been previously established as unsound, albeit within a specific spatial context. The implication in the lack of visible telegraphing, then, is that those in the house will be able to juxtapose their previous judgements into this new context without direct prompting, as they have all the tools necessary for engagement with and assessment of the exchange. This acknowledgement of the spectators’ capacity for direct intellectual engagement is then further emphasized by the final moment in the piece. Encased in a display that evokes a museum diorama, six performers—the three historical figures cited above as well as the bureaucrat, the bartender, and, finally, a teacher—begin, one by one, to recite Cavafy’s poem while remaining frozen in dynamic positions. The painted scenery behind them, as well as some initial sound effects, suggests a coastline, a site of movement, encounters, trade, and migrations. Here, however, instead of movement there is the suspended anticipation found in Cavafy’s text, as those in the diorama await the arrival of the “new barbarians” and the release from suspension that comes with their arrival. Though it is never made explicit in the sequence, the “new barbarians” are, it is suggested, the refugees arriving on France’s shores. As in the poem, however, Que viennent… closes without their arrival, yet in doing so, it presents its spectators with perhaps its sole truly open question. When the new arrivals do come, does one maintain the relational status quo, or does one use the opportunity to try and do things differently?

Notes 1. Fiche technique générale de la MC93. MC93. www.mc93.com/sites/ default/files/fiche_technique_mc93-­19.pdf. Accessed 20 July 2022. 2. Le Projet de la nouvelle direction. MC93. July 1, 2015. www.mc93.com/ la-­mc93/le-­projet-­de-­la-­nouvelle-­direction. Accessed 20 July 2022. 3. Pascaud, Fabienne. 2013. Dix ans d’Avignon avec Hortense Archambault et Vincent Baudriller: “Il ne faut pas avoir peur des artistes”. Télérama. July 27. www.telerama.fr/festivals-­ete/2013/dix-­ans-­d-­avignon-­avec-­ hortense-­archambault-­et-­vincent-­baudriller-­il-­ne-­faut-­pas-­avoir-­peur-­des-­ artistes,100607.php. And 2003–2013. Festival d’Avignon. www. festival-­avignon.com/fr/histoire#2003-­2013. Accessed 20 July 2022. 4. See Chap. 4. 5. Carrel, Marion. 2013. Les obstacles à la participation: quand le public se révèle introuvable. In Faire participer les habitants? Citoyenneté et pouvoir d’agir dans les quartiers populaires, 83–84. Lyon: ENS Éditions.

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6. Fraser, Nancy. 2003. Repenser l’espace public: une contribution à la critique de la démocratie réellement existante. In Où en est la théorie critique, ed. Emmanuel Renault, 103–134. Paris: La Découverte. 7. Fuchs, Baptiste. 2017. Les droits culturels à la MC93: conforter la visée universelle et populaire du théâtre public. L’Observatoire N° 49: 49–52. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid. See also: La Fabrique d’expériences. Rejoignez le conseil des jeunes ! MC93. www.mc93.com/saison/rejoignez-­le-­conseil-­des-­jeunes. Accessed 20 July 2022. 11. Salino, Brigitte. 2017. Hortense Archambault: “Rassembler les gens qui ne se ressemblent pas”. Le Monde. March 20. www.lemonde.fr/scenes/article/2017/03/20/hortense-­archambault-­rassembler-­des-­gens-­qui-­ne-­se-­ ressemblent-­pas_5097365_1654999.html. Accessed 20 July 2022. 12. Bliman, Marianne. 2018. Femmes de culture, femmes de combat: Hortense Archambault. Les Echos, August 24. https://www.lesechos.fr/weekend/ spectaclesmusique/femmes-de-culture-femmes-de-combat-hortensearchambault-1211570. Accessed 20 July 2022. 13. Bourgeois, Raphaël. 2017. Le théâtre ideal d’Hortense Archambault. La Grande Table, France Culture. May 29. www.franceculture.fr/emissions/ la-­g rande-­t able-­1 ere-­p artie/le-­t heatre-­i deal-­d hortense-­a rchambault. Accessed 20 July 2022. 14. That is, the feeling or perception that that which is on offer is only addressing a certain sector of the population, thus one does not “belong” in the cultural space and therefore would deliberately exclude themselves from it. 15. Salino, Brigitte. 2017. Op. cit. 16. “Le théâtre parle plutôt d’un milieu bourgeois blanc. Et la diversité d’origine n’est pas assez représentée sur les plateaux par rapport à ce qu’est aujourd’hui la société française” in Bliman, Marianne, Op. cit. 17. In Fuchs, Baptiste. 2017. Op. cit. 18. Archambault, Hortense. 2018. Carnets #6. La MC93 de janvier à juin 2019. MC93. www.mc93.com/magazine/carnets-­6. Accessed 20 July 2022. 19. N°1014 Rapport d’information déposé en en application de l’article 146-3, alinéa 6, du Règlement, par le Comité d’Évaluation et de Contrôle des Politiques Publiques sur l’évaluation de l’action de l’État dans l’exercice de ses missions régaliennes en Seine-Saint-Denis et présenté par MM.  François CORNUT-GENTILLE et Rodrigue KOKOUENDO députés. L’Assemblée Nationale, May 31, 2018. 20. Billetterie. MC93. www.mc93.com/billetterie/accueil#pass_illimite_ anchor. Accessed 20 July 2022. 21. La garderie éphémère. MC93. https://www.mc93.com/info-­pratiques/ garderie-­ephemere. Accessed 05 August 2022.

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22. Prior to Orange, Kohan was the showrunner on the programme Weeds, whose story centred around a middle-class White woman who becomes involved in the marijuana industry. 23. Gross, Terry. 2013. “Orange” Creator Jenji Kohan: “Piper Was My Trojan Horse.” NPR. August 13. www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript. php?storyId=211639989. Accessed 20 July 2022. 24. As quoted in Champenois, Sabrina. 2019. “Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner”, dans la pétaudière de la protection de l’enfance. Libération January 16. www.liberation.fr/france/2019/01/16/ils-­n-­avaient-­pas-­ prevu-­q u-­o n-­a llait-­g agner-­d ans-­l a-­p etaudiere-­d e-­l a-­p rotection-­d e-­l -­ enfance_1702988. Accessed 20 July 2022. 25. An exception is one young woman who, though she stays with her foster family in the evenings, chooses to spend her afternoons with the others at the group home. 26. Champenois, Sabrina. 2019. Op cit. 27. Doumbia, Eva. 2018. Affaires de lions ou même de gazelles. In Décolonisons les Arts ! ed. Leïla Cukiermann, Gerty Dambury, and Françoise Vergès, 33. Paris: L’Arche. 28. See Chap. 3. 29. Parks, Suzan-Lori. 1994. An Equation for Black People Onstage. In The America Play and Other Works, 19–22. New  York: Theatre Communications Group. 30. Possession. In ibid., 3–5. 31. Here we can once again cite the Décolonisons les Arts! movement as well as public figures such as activist and decolonial and feminist theorist Françoise Vergès, and journalist and activist Rokhaya Diallo, and popular forms of media such as the podcast Kiffe ta race (a play on words on the expression “I’m having a blast!” that encourages listeners to embrace their racial and/or ethnic identities). 32. Cavafy, Constantin. Περιμένοντας τοὺς Bαρβάρους. The Cavafy Archive – The Canon. Onassis Foundation, https://www.onassis.org/el/initiatives/ cavafy-­archive/the-­canon/waiting-­for-­the-­barbarians. Accessed 26 July 2022. 33. See Formulaire 12753*03. Service-­Public.fr. https://www.service-­public. fr/particuliers/vosdroits/R16995. Accessed 5 August 2022. 34. This is an allusion to Lévi-Strauss’ (successful) 1961 petition to officially change his surname from Lévi to Lévi-Strauss.

CHAPTER 6

Pluralize: Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris (11th Arrondissement)

Pathways Artistic Director: Jean-Marie Hordé (1989–2022) To walk through the front doors of the Théâtre de la Bastille is almost comparable to walking into a cocoon. Almost every surface is painted either black or bright red, yet the sharp contrast in colour is subsequently softened first by the sunlight pouring in from the large floor-to-ceiling glass doors and windows that line the street-facing façade and then, as the evening rolls in, by the yellow glow of the lights both on the street and inside. There is an intimacy that is created in the almost miniscule spaces of the front entryway and small bar even before the doors to the main stage open to let patrons in. On busy nights, it is not uncommon to see people spilling out onto the sidewalk—thankfully, the building is set back a few feet away from the edge of the pavement, the subsequent space afforded almost equal to that inside the lobby—or pressed up against one another as they wait for the house doors to open. The colour scheme continues once inside the house, heightening the intimacy created before the doors open. The main house is not terribly large—at maximum capacity, it can seat 261—yet the rows of seats are so close together, one could almost think that the actual number of people present was smaller. A dropped ceiling above the back rows of seats adds

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to this sense of compactness, yet what could very easily veer towards claustrophobic is helped by the fact that, in contrast, the stage is rather expansive. Slightly wider than the house, though about just as deep, the stage space seems almost a breath of fresh air thanks in large part to its comparatively high ceiling. In its dimensions, one could almost think of it as a large blanket ready to embrace the house in its folds. Indeed, the only thing separating the stage space from the house is a sliver of space in the front row, enough room for one person at a time to walk across, a subsequent effect of this being the impression that the actors are almost on top of the front row when playing far downstage, that the line between the two is increasingly blurred. There is a risk in that small gap, a risk of a clash, of two temporalities often imagined as separate converging and exposing the fact that everyone in the room is inhabiting the same present moment, though they may be doing so differently. Yet even in this spatial and temporal intimacy, what also comes to the forefront is the weighted presence of the singular bodies in the room. It is felt when one jostles one’s neighbours while making their way to—or adjusting themselves in—their seat. It is felt with every throat clearing, every laugh that lingers for a bit too long, alerting to the fact that somewhere in the room, one singular person has made themselves distinct. It is, in brief, the assertion of the plural. The building that houses Théâtre de la Bastille lived several “lives” before being officially rebranded as a theatre under its current name in 1982. What started as a vaudeville theatre at the turn of the twentieth century later transformed into a cinema and then, finally, back to a theatre. Its artistic director at the time of writing, Jean-Marie Hordé, held his post from 1989 until the close of the 2021–2022 season, the length of his tenure in part due to the fact that, unlike the other theatres featured in this study, the Théâtre de la Bastille was classified as an independent theatre and therefore not subject to the same contracting rules that govern the other, officially State-subsidized theatres.1 Further distinguishing Hordé is the amount of critical work he has produced examining not just the role of the theatre in contemporary France, but more precisely his own position as an artistic director, especially with regard to the politics of theatre programming in relation to the question of the spectator(s). The primary avenue through which Hordé explores the question of theatrical programming is through an examination of the perception of the position of the theatre in the socio-urban space. To understand his arguments here, one must first recall the critique on the language of utility with regard to theatre elaborated by Olivier Neveux (2019)2 and discussed

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in Chap. 2. To reiterate, one of the problems with the use and prevalence of a utilitarian language both within and outside of the context of the theatre is that it places the notion of “value” on whether the space/subject/item/so on fulfils a certain need. Doing so in the case of theatre transforms the spectator into a “consumer” in the sense that the theatre house functions as a space whose proposed works are chosen to anticipate the needs of its supposed customers. It creates, in other words, a market-­ focused structure, where number of tickets sold correlates to a judgement of the theatre’s place within the greater social fabric (and subsequently can be used as an argument either for or against continued allocation of State funding). Subsequently, programming in this model ends up suffering in the sense that to offer up something different or out of the norm in form or subject matter constitutes a potential financial risk in that it plays against the expectations and perceptions of the eventual consumer. In contrast to this, Hordé (2008) proposes a model that opens with the direct assertion that the theatre does not exist in the service of a particular need. Instead, it exists not to address the polis directly, but rather the human and/or political questions that currently make up public discourse. If one were to speak of “necessity” of the theatre at all, therefore, it would be not only as a site of critique, but one whose freedom to engage in exploration and criticism is freely accessible to all, yet this can only occur when the theatre is itself “freed” from economic and/or market constraints.3 A move away from a commercialized language of use is granted even more significance, in this case, when one considers the location of this theatre. Located on the lively rue de la Roquette in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, the Théâtre de la Bastille is a bit of a geographic anomaly. In a neighbourhood that has plenty to offer in terms of diversions—restaurants, bars, cafés, shops, and more—the stance the theatre takes is decidedly different. As Hordé puts it, unlike most other businesses in the immediate area, it is not there to provide distraction, nor to respond to a “need” on the part of the spectator as a means of granting justification as to why they should spend their money there. There is, in this, an active engagement with or at the very least a recognition of what sorts of dynamics are presently at play beyond the walls of the theatre house, that rather than stand as a symbol of a possible escape, the theatre is, on a critical level, anchored in the “real”. It is, in other words, both in tune with its territory and attempts to dialogue with it, the results of which are never guaranteed. Adopting a position of debate keeps the space of the theatre tied into the “present-ness” of its surroundings while maintaining

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something of a gap between the work(s) it presents and those who come to see them in the sense that it does not provide instructions as to what the individual spectators are to do with them. The unpredictable, the possibility for innumerable, individual outcomes resides in that gap, the sense of liberty mentioned above manifesting the moment the individual spectator—should they choose to—decides how it is they wish to interpret and appropriate the work for themselves. At the same time, said possibility or openness to plurality can only be created when the space of the theatre is freed from an overarching structure that at the very least influences its decisions and the way it relates to the territory and persons surrounding it. This in turn further goes back to the question of how the theatre relates to its potential publics. In his 2017 publication, L’Artiste et le populiste: quel peuple pour quel théâtre?, Hordé returns to the question of the dynamics between the theatre and the spectator(s), this time addressing more openly how the latter are envisioned by the former, especially via the theatre’s programming. Here, however, it is not only what is on offer that counts, but more so how it ended up added to a season in the first place, with Hordé once again arguing for a conceptual (and to a degree, linguistic) shift in the discourse that underlies that decision-making process. Whereas a capitalist model would see programming decisions based on prior ticket sales and/ or anticipations of financial success, Hordé argues for an approach to programming that leans more explicitly into what he identifies as the theatre’s dual unpredictability: unpredictability in what is on the stage and unpredictability regarding who, exactly, is seated in the house. Allowing the question of spectator make-up to be more open also consequently requires a moving away from notions of a determined pre-imagined public and, by extension, a system in which the implication is that productions on offer were chosen because they targeted that public at the potential exclusion of other publics.4 This embracing of the unknown, therefore, allows for the work being presented to exist more or less independently rather than recontextualizing it by giving it a specific “target” it is meant to reach. This latter approach is inherently almost destined to lead to failure as, should the targeted public not show up, or should the work’s effect—at the time of the performance—be something other than initially anticipated, one could argue that the metrics used for determining “success” were not reached. Yet this failing is not entirely due to the fault of the work, but rather more due to the attempts to box in and direct it down a certain path. These

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attempts are also inherently exclusive, relegating the capacity for understanding of a work to only a select few, thus reducing pathways to access into the space itself. What the position described in Hordé’s commentary allows for is inclusivity in the sense that it recognizes the possibility not only for multiple points of entry into the theatre space, but also for the meaning and interpretation of the work to vary based on the differing perspectives of the individuals present. Here one can subsequently turn back to the manner of describing the relationship dynamics between the theatre and those who choose to patronize it. When Hordé concludes by critiquing a position of justifying the presence of a theatre solely by the composition of its public,5 the emphasis accorded to the possessive is intentional. To say that a theatre exists because it has a (singular) public it speaks to/serves a need for is to maintain the theatre in stasis and almost inevitably fall back into trappings of the kind of market-based programming described earlier. This perspective does not, then, account for or “live in” and “with” the fluxes and changes that are happening in the territory surrounding the theatre house, and thereby moves away from the vision of theatre as a site for the creation of the sort of critical commentary described earlier. Indeed, to paraphrase Hordé in one of his earlier works, the theatre for which the primary aim is to simply amass a preconceived public is itself already started on a path towards its own downfall.6 Avoidance of this downfall requires, therefore, a critical re-imagining on the part of the theatre—and the programming team in particular—of how to exactly constitute the group of people that come and sit in the house during performances. While it is true that all those individuals are “united” in the sense that, during the performance, they are all occupying the same space at the same moment in time, where a potential deviation comes in is in how far that sense of union is extended. In other words, does the perspective of the theatre regarding its publics imagine the latter as a singular mass or, in contrast, recognize the presence of difference, of individuation, that is, the impossibility for creating a uniform mass, within the group at large? To borrow from Hordé once again, the difference between the two lies in whether the assembly of persons is imagined under the pronoun “on” versus the pronoun “nous”.7 While both pronouns can be used to mean “we” in a given context, the former, an indefinite singular pronoun, does so while momentarily erasing the distinctions between the individuals that make up the “we” in order to “singularize” the action or state of being attributed to that group. In other words, there is little space

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for potential difference or deviation in the “on”, as this would risk breaking down its structure, or if not, see it rearranged in such a way that emphasizes the exclusion of the difference from the rest. To return to the present context, the “on” here can be more closely associated to the approach of targeting imagined publics, as, to reiterate, this approach follows a similar process of singularization for the means of supposedly anticipating and therefore meeting the needs of the “public” the theatre in question wishes to attract. In contrast to this, the third person plural form of the “nous”, although still maintaining a sense of commonality, does so while implicitly recognizing the plurality that allows for its use in the first place. Indeed, this plurality, or rather heterogeneity, is further identified by Hordé as constituting the core of the theatre, in much the same way as its lack of correspondence to a particular need was described earlier. More precisely, Hordé argues that the theatre as a space advances the position that those in the house become an “assembly” only under the condition that they remain heterogeneous and acknowledges the possibility that one individual’s manner of viewing the piece will differ from that of their neighbour. However, whether the conditions for this heterogeneity can be met also depends on the work being played on the stage, specifically, whether it demands or grants space for this kind of dissensus.8 Though by virtue of their act of purchasing a ticket and being in the room for the performance, individual spectators have created a shared temporal condition between themselves and the others in the house, in this imagining, they are no longer implicitly placed in a process of merging with all the others in the room. What happens in the room during the performance, then, belongs entirely to them, as it does distinctly to every other individual seated in the space, in the sense that they are free to examine or interpret it as they wish, regardless of any idealized outcomes imagined on the part of the piece or the programming team. Indeed, the “nous” allows space for nearly all imagined perspectives or points of view to exist simultaneously, as it requires collectivity only in spatial displacement, rather than development of critical thought. Beyond that, the choice in how to engage with as well as interpret a work becomes fractured, dependent on the individual, on their own experiences, and on their own manner of identifying and interpreting signs or symbols within the work itself. An imagined unity, by contrast, is inherently restrictive. One cannot be granted room for disagreement, dissent, indifference, provocation, or even varying levels of appeal if the work one is in the

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process of viewing or if the theatre one is at that moment patronizing do not acknowledge the existence of one’s own unique approach and response to that which is being played in front of them. When it comes to the seasonal programming at the Théâtre de la Bastille, then, it is through the connection with the “nous”, with the creation of space for difference, that it should be considered. Hordé himself alludes to this as much when, in his 2011 publication Le Démocratisateur, he explicitly references his personal approach in finding and selecting works to be shown at the Bastille. As he puts it, his goal is not only that the pieces and the artists he invites to play at the theatre find “la plus belle audience possible”, but that said audience actively chooses to patronize the theatre for their own reasons and that they be as diverse as possible in terms of age or socioeconomic status. Reception to a particular piece or artist may vary, but what counts more for Hordé is that each piece or artist is presented distinctly as they are, so to speak, irrespective of whatever may be “on trend” at the time.9 Notably, what is absent from this is an expression of a desired concrete result to arise from the performance evenings, other than the presence of a heterogeneity in the house, itself something of a given. It is a question of creating the conditions necessary for divergence to flourish uninhibited. Further adding to this is a final comment declaring that he does what he can to not be in fashion. On the one hand, such a comment can be interpreted in the sense that his programming choices may themselves be distinctive in that, whether formally, contextually, or both, they are unlike what is being presented in many other theatre houses in the Paris region. Yet, given Hordé’s previous commentaries, it is perhaps arguably more accurate to say that the notion of being in fashion here refers more precisely to his position regarding “massification”—of culture as well as its publics. If being deemed “in fashion” means corresponding and speaking directly to established tastes as an “assured” means of attracting “consumers”, such a position would be antithetical to constructing the kind of space that Hordé has argued for at the Bastille. When considering the pieces that he has programmed, then, what becomes paramount is noting the extent to which they, by virtue of the dynamics that are created between themselves and the spectators, grant space for the development of different paths of interpretation, giving the power of choice back to each individual in the house. At the same time, however, this push towards pluralized, indeed fully emancipated publics at the Bastille is not without its sources of tension.

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Where this is most evident is arguably in the theatre’s ticket pricing breakdown. While its individual tickets for non-subscribers are not the most expensive of the theatres featured in this study (topping up at 27€, just 3€ under regular, non-subscriber ticket prices for a main stage show at La Colline), where it differs is in the model it has chosen to adopt for its subscription packages. Rather than either charging a nominal fee to sign up, followed by a flat rate for each show (see La Colline and Nanterre-­ Amandiers), or adopting a model based on monthly subscription payments (MC93), what the Théâtre de la Bastille offers can best be described as package discounts. Those who wish to subscribe can choose from either a three-show (highest possible ticket price per show reduced to 20€) or a five-show package (highest possible price per show reduced to 16€), provided they select the performances/dates they wish to attend at the time of purchase.10 Although a package deal of this kind could result in patrons saving up to 55€ for attending five performances at the discounted rate, the way it is structured carries certain assumptions about its potential adherents that render it inherently exclusive, going against the ethos of inclusivity and plurality Hordé categorizes his programming as moving towards. In brief, where the tension lies is precisely in the fact that subscribers must choose the dates they will attend a performance in advance and then pay the entire sum at once, should they wish to benefit from the discount. There are two key assumptions underlining this model. First is that those signing up have schedules that are predictable or regular enough that integrating one-off events does not pose too much of a burden. Second is that those subscribing are financially comfortable enough to pay the full subscription price of the three or five shows in one go. In general, those who fit in to such categories occupy, at minimum, a socioeconomic status for whom job or wage security—that is, those things that allow for an individual to participate in the offerings of the neoliberal society that the Théâtre de la Bastille, though it tries to distance itself from it, still exists within—is not a dominant concern. Granted, this is not to say that those in a lower socioeconomic status are entirely shut out, but rather that participating in this subscription model, and thus frequenting this theatre enough that subscribing becomes an advantage, is not a given. The Bastille, then, is arguably at once the most pluralized of the theatre houses featured in this study in terms of how it relates to various publics as well as one of the more inevitably exclusive. Yet while its pricing

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structure in particular can result in somewhat homogenized publics from a socioeconomic perspective, in the house itself during a performance is the moment when said pluralization becomes most fully realized, precisely because it results from certain particularities inherent in the theatrical event itself. Indeed, it can be called plural by nature precisely because it occurs on several fronts, two of which are illustrated here. The first originates from a moment specific to the context of the live performance event that, though small, busts open what can at times be considered a clear-cut relationship of spectator/spectacle negotiation to create multiple pathways for individualized interpretation. The second, though its pluralizing act does not necessarily originate from an action specific to that particular performance, nevertheless uses theatrical convention more broadly as a means through which to propose a kind of plurality whose reach extends beyond the spatiotemporal bounds of the theatre house in the moment of performance of the piece in question.

Breaking It All Open Bovary, Written and Directed by Tiago Rodrigues, Théâtre de la Bastille, March 12, 2018 When considering the question of plurality in the context of live theatrical performance, arguably one of the first places one should look would be to the body of the actor. Indeed, said plurality begins to manifest itself the moment the actor appears on the stage, though not always explicitly. Part of the suspension of disbelief performed by spectators when watching a performance is momentarily blocking the fact that the persons on stage both are and are not their characters. The identity of the latter is given precedence over the former, transforming, to a degree, the body of the actor into a signifier for their character. Spatially speaking, the implication here is the creation of a distinct divide, familiar to the average theatregoer, that sees a temporal distinction between the stage and the house, one whose boundaries are, for the most part, established and on occasion adapted both by the actors on the stage and by the overall aesthetic of the piece. What this maintenance of spatial control further does is create a singular pathway of relation between the individual in the house watching the performance and the character on stage: the latter is a singular body representing a singular character for the duration of the performance. For instances when a single actor plays multiple characters, often physical

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gestures, mannerisms, or changes in costuming/vocal intonation/so on are enough to signal to the observer that a shift has happened and that one must shift one’s own manner of interpreting the body of the actor accordingly. Yet, this structure is also very fragile; however, disrupting it, while it may blur a formerly clear pattern of signification, also results in the opening of several new pathways or possibilities to interpretation, the choice of which to take shifted to the individual spectator. The pre-planned roadmap is gone. In its place is possibility for divergence pushed almost to its limit, the apex of which can result in, as seen in Tiago Rodrigues’ Bovary, the possibility for even a small moment to be understood in a multitude of ways, without any visual or textual indication as to which choice is the “correct” one (or if there is even a correct one at all). The set design of Bovary is rather sparse in terms of furnishings. Other than a couple of folding partitions set on either side of the stage, a wooden table, some chairs, stools, crates—and a comically large bottle of “arsenic”—the space is void of heavy objects. On the contrary, what does dominate the space is also, materially speaking, the lightest of the objects present: paper. A sea of sheets of paper covers the floor, their lightness and flimsiness almost reflected in the unsteady construction of the heavier partitions and tables with which they share the space. This paper, however, as it is slowly revealed through the course of the evening, carries a multiplicity of significations even in its lightness. It is Flaubert’s novel, Madame Bovary, in its most objective state: the source of Emma Bovary’s creation, her misery, and, in the end, that which grants her immortality, durability. It is also at times Flaubert’s correspondence, as well as a transcript of the proceedings of his trial, in which the novel was attacked under accusations of obscenity. The paper is, at various points, all these things at once or only one of them at a time, its changing identities also having a direct effect on the manner in which the actors on stage relate or respond to it. Just as a performer, through word or gesture, incites a transformation in the paper by momentarily appropriating it for a specific use in a given scene, so to can the paper, in its moment of transformation, function as a vessel that can determine—or at the very least suggest—the manner in which the others on stage will react to or with it. It is, thus, a vessel that carries within it a capacity for triggering an emotional response, though given its changing nature, the multitude of types of responses possible also adds to its instability as a signifying object. Said instability via possibility for constant flux is further reflected not only in the text of Rodrigues’ play or the

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actors’ performances, but also in the ever-shifting position of the spectators with regard to it all. This shifting begins even before a word of text is spoken, starting from when the house doors open. The first thing the spectators see upon entry are the actors on stage tossing about the sheets of paper. Here, a distinction is made between the spectators’ spatiotemporality and that of the actors, precisely because of the conditions and characteristics of the theatre upon entry. With regard to the spectators, said conditions conflict, to a degree, with the rather normalized order of events that characterize the process through which an individual transitions into becoming a spectator. This process may include everything from reserving one’s ticket, getting ready at home before heading out, having a pre-show meal or a drink in a nearby café—or better still, in the theatre’s own small bar area—conversing with one’s companions about expectations, scanning the ticket, grabbing a programme, and, finally, entering the theatre and finding a seat. What this final act of taking one’s seat leads to is this particular group of individuals in this defined space becoming condensed into a sort of temporary collective. Though the micro-actions and histories of each individual member prevent full homogenization, what is shared is the overall act of sitting, and, in the case of the main stage at Bastille, directly facing the stage in front of them. Said stage can oftentimes be empty of individuals—though not necessarily of set pieces—its occupation also often accompanied by the diming of the lights in the house and their raising on the stage. The separation between the two temporalities—that of the spectators and that of the fiction on stage—is announced relatively clearly. The entirety of the theatre space may be shared, but there is something of an invisible line that creates a boundary between one temporal “micro-space” and the other, though this line can at times be crossed. What occurs in this case, however, is not so much a crossing of a boundary but a blurring or destabilizing of one. Essentially, what the actors are doing with their paper tossing as the spectators file in is setting up the stage in preparation for the performance. More precisely, what their action does is simultaneously complete the process of transforming the stage into a space on which the theatrical work—read, fiction—will be performed, while still keeping one foot, as it were, outside of the spatiotemporal bounds of said work. Furthermore, at times they stop their action all

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together—though not necessarily simultaneously—to look out directly into the house, a moment of explicit acknowledgement of the presence of some other persons “out there”, as well as an attestation to the fact that the separation between their temporality and that of the house would not be a terribly neat one. Although it is more or less evident that those on the stage throwing the papers are actors, they do not, at the time of entry, have a “character”—or in this case “characters”—with which they or their actions can be associated. Rather, they too are in a sort of state of suspension between the state of “actor” and that of “actor-as-character”, a “becoming” in process that rounds out the first of the layers established within the framework of the stage space. This first layer can be referred to as the “neutral” layer precisely because its central action both does and does not directly bear on the narrative that constitutes the fiction that will be performed on the stage by these “actors-as-characters”. On the one hand, it does insofar as the primary action of throwing papers is done for the space to be readied for performing the narrative. At the same time, it does not, as the actors perform said action while they themselves still occupy, to a certain degree, a temporal space outside that of said narrative. This latter point is further emphasized when, after everyone has taken their seats, and the paper strewing has almost surpassed the point where one begins to lose patience with it, four of the five actors head upstage, while the last, Mathieu Boisliveau, remains down centre stage, waits a moment, and then begins to address the house. This marks the passage into a second layer of temporality, and the first to be situated within the context of the fictional narrative. Boisliveau, as his speech makes clear early on, has become Gustave Flaubert. The text he is reciting—in a sort of direct address to the spectators, as his body remains turned frontally towards them—is that of a letter addressed to a close friend and implied confidant. He opens warmly with thanks to his dear friend (“chère amie”) for her kind letter and her inquiries about the novel before apologizing for his delayed response owing to the trial over the publication of Madame Bovary, the proceedings of which he will now relate to her, verbatim.11 As the text is cited with Boisliveau standing downstage facing the house, the suggestion becomes clear that the spectators, as a collective, are meant to stand in for the singular “friend”. No longer only observers of a narrative, the spectators are bestowed a certain level of trustworthiness, to

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whom divulging details and commentary over a personal travail is almost without risk. They, in their being addressed as a “chère amie”, are presumed to be on Flaubert’s side, especially as it becomes clear that the primary conflict involves attacks on one of his published works and consequently on his personal character. Further suggesting the establishment of a link between the group of spectators and the spectacle in progress is the fact that the house lights have not been completely turned off. Rather, they are dimmed to a level slightly below that of the lighting on stage. The stage and the action taking place on it still retain the primary focus of attention. Yet in foregoing a setup in which the house lights are completely turned off, not only is there less of a stark spatial divide between the stage and the house, there is also in this case acknowledged the necessity of the physical—if not vocal—presence of an interlocutor. This is made more obvious when Ernest Pinard, the prosecuting attorney in Flaubert’s case, here played by Ruth Vega Fernandez, crosses downstage from where she12 was seated on one of the tables upstage and addresses the spectators. Two things occur simultaneously at this moment. The first is the passage into another spatiotemporal layer. No longer in the imprecise, undefined location from which Flaubert composes his letters, the action has shifted to a flashback, depicting the trial over whether Madame Bovary should be censored on moral grounds. A table is brought downstage, a copy of Madame Bovary resting atop it. Echoing Flaubert’s initial address, Pinard directs her opening arguments towards the spectators, only this time beginning with the plural “Gentlemen” (“Messieurs”).13 It is here that we find the occurrence of a second transformation. Formerly the stand-in for Flaubert’s confidant, through Pinard’s address, the spectators are transformed into a jury, in accordance with the spatial transition that began at the moment of Pinard’s entrance. On the one hand, such a transformation results in their regaining, to some degree, the plurality that is otherwise eclipsed in their former role as singular correspondent. More specifically, they are now placed in a position where not only their individual faculties and capacities for critique are taken openly into account, but also where they may potentially be asked to use such faculties to pass judgement on someone with whom a relationship of confidence was previously established. Partiality must now give way to impartiality, in other words. As for Flaubert, he remains on stage—seated downstage left—for the most part silent, as it is established early in this scene that he is forbidden from speaking for or defending himself during his own trial.14

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At the same time, the coinciding of a temporal shift with a shifting of the spectators’ positions vis-à-vis what is happening also speaks to a larger level of relational instability. More precisely, nothing, whether it be a role or a spatial or interpersonal relationship, that is established by the production is ever truly “fixed”. On the contrary, these relationships teeter on the edge of collapse, with the choice as to whether to rebuild them and how ultimately moving away from the stage and into the house. This instability starts to become clearer during the fourth primary spatiotemporal shift during the cross-examination of Flaubert’s novel by lawyers Pinard and Sénard (performed here by David Geselson). As the eventual judgement to be passed concerns primarily the content of the novel, it follows that a recounting—or, in this case, a playing out—of several key moments be performed before the house/jury in order that they may be more well-equipped to make their final decision. It is here that the final two actors in the company, Grégoire Monsaingeon and Alma Palacios, heretofore waiting silently upstage, cross downstage and take on the roles of Charles and Emma Bovary, respectively. Of the two, however, only Palacio’s role remains constant, as Monsaingeon eventually shifts to play, among other things, a farm animal. Indeed, Palacio is the only member of the entire company who retains the original role she takes on during her initial downstage crossing. It is also from this point of integration of the narrative of Madame Bovary into the proceedings that the temporal distinctions become more fluid, if not muddied and comparatively difficult to discern. This arises first from the fact that Charles and Emma are not the only two characters present in the novel; thus, for the narrative to be played out more faithfully, additional bodies are needed. Initially, this lack is supplanted through the legal council’s citing of the text—though not yet necessarily performing or incarnating the characters whose words they speak—their voices crossing over from the spatiotemporality of the courtroom to that of the novel. For instance, in an early exchange, Sénard opens with a “reading” of a scene in the third chapter of the novel in which Charles Bovary pays a visit to Emma and her father. During this visit, Emma is inside practising piano. Monsaingeon/Charles comments on how well she plays to which Geselson as Emma’s father responds that he cannot comment on the quality of her playing, only that she plays frequently. In the text, however, this response

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is preceded by the stage direction precising that Sénard (rather than the actor playing him) is citing Emma’s father.15 As indicated by the stage direction, the implication in the interaction that concludes the above scene is that although Charles responds to Sénard’s spoken text as though he were speaking directly to Emma’s father, the two actors, though they share a physical space, do not occupy, at this moment, the same temporality. Sénard brings Emma’s father “to life” through his recitation of the words on the page, thereby allowing for the greater action of narration of the novel to continue. At the same time, however, the body of the actor speaking those words is still symbolically associated with the character of Sénard or rather Sénard in the act of reading. As the trial proceedings delve further into the contents of the novel— and especially as more characters are added and group or crowd scenes are selected to be read/performed—however, the ability to decipher who each of the actors “are”, and, further, the implications this has on the relational dynamics between the stage and the house becomes increasingly difficult. In the staging of the above scene, for instance, the fact that Sénard was reading aloud words ascribed to Emma’s father was made even more evident by the fact that he spoke his lines while holding a copy of the text in his hands. More precisely, his action paired speech with a prop that has visual ties to the act of reading, marking him, in that moment, as one who voices—and thus “brings life to”—the words of a text while remaining outside of the temporality confined within the bounds of said text. Sénard, in other words, is not, in that moment, himself directly physically impacted by the actions of other characters in Madame Bovary on the character to whom he is presently lending his voice. Specific temporal localization through the use of a prop is not, however, a constant in every instance in which the action on stage dives into the world of the novel. This is especially true when Emma’s lovers enter the narrative. One can take, for instance, the moment when, during the trial, Emma’s illicit meeting with Rodolphe—her first lover, here played also by Ruth Vega Fernandez—during the town fair is brought up for examination. Much like Sénard earlier, Pinard opens by setting the scene and then swiftly shifting to directly address Emma, this time as Rodolphe taking her hand and trying to steal her away for a moment. Yet just before Emma responds to Rodolphe’s advances, Fernandez, now back as Pinard, pointedly looks at Sénard and demands that he pay attention to what

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Emma is about to say, as though he (Pinard) were in the middle of reading her words aloud from a text.16 Yet, while the performance of these shifts bears some similarities to what was seen earlier, textually, there is a marked absence in this portion of the script. Unlike in the earlier instance in which Sénard cited Emma’s father’s lines, here there is no similar stage direction given regarding the performance of the act of “citation”. Further, in the staging, Fernandez, unlike Geselson in the earlier instance, is not holding a book in her hands while speaking her lines as Rodolphe. Instead, she interacts directly and most importantly physically with Emma, indicating in other words, a displacement of not only voice but also body from one spatiotemporality to another. Yet, to say that Fernandez remains firmly planted in the novel’s temporality once her transition has passed is not entirely accurate. She continues to directly address Sénard as Pinard, first as a sort of preparatory action leading into her transformation, and then in quick asides to directly comment on the situation she-as-Rodolphe is simultaneously situated in. She is, spatially, at once inside and outside the courtroom, the former allowing for a carryover of a spatial dynamics established when the spectators were named as “jurors”. This capacity for fluid transition reaches an apex during a moment in the final third of the production when Pinard and Sénard each physically perform an action on Emma that is not, however, granted within the textual and temporal scope of the novel. By this point, the arguments have devolved into a heated exchange between Sénard and Pinard over, for the former, whether the prosecution may as well call for the censorship of certain words (“volupté”, “luxure”, “immoral”) because of their capacity to inspire indecent thoughts and, for Pinard, of the erotic potential in a description of Emma’s visit to a theatre and what she must have felt while watching the “passionate” performance in front of her. In both cases, however, the lawyers end their tirades by grabbing Emma and kissing her as Sénard or Pinard (rather than one of her lovers), as specified in the stage directions.17 Kissing Emma repeatedly—blurring even further an already constantly fluctuating spatiotemporal distinction through the transgression of physical touch between two individuals supposedly not of the same spatiotemporal plane—brings her into a space in between the narrative of the novel and the proceedings in the courtroom. She is at once of her own temporality but also physically present in Pinard’s and Sénard’s. Her presence in the latter even goes so far as indicating the actions of the two lawyers (as

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lawyers) have physical consequences on her—each time she is kissed, for instance, she reacts physically, at times reciprocating. Yet, even in her apparent spatiotemporal “consistency”, Emma herself also has a capacity to “unfix” herself from her original temporal location, something that is referenced even prior to Pinard’s and Sénard’s physical assault on her. Much like Pinard in the closing of the scene between Emma and Rodolphe, there are moments when Emma’s language places her in a space outside the narrative of the novel, one in which, on the one hand, its linear structure takes front and centre, evidenced primarily through Emma’s citing of page numbers to describe a sequence of certain events, instead of doing so exclusively from a first-person non-omniscient perspective. For instance, “On page 84”, she says, while facing downstage, “I dream [je songe] that I was in love before my marriage”.18 Here, the present tense of the verb songer situates the action as something that is occurring at a particular point within the fixed narrative of the novel, thus splitting the referent of first person je between the “Emma” in the timeline of the Madame Bovary and the Emma onstage that has the capacity to revisit and sequence the events of her life from a quasi-authorial perspective, though she lacks the power to change (or rather “write”) these events that have already been recorded. On the other hand, her entrance into this extra-narrative space also allows her a brief yet pointed confrontation with her creator, Flaubert, towards the final third of the production. At this stage, both Sénard and Pinard have taken to addressing Emma directly using the informal tu, as though she were in the courtroom with them, yet this time, the crux of their disagreement is less about Emma’s own comportment than over Flaubert’s commentary on it. Sénard, for his part, holds up his copy of the text, imploring Emma to read it for proof of Flaubert’s denouncing of her actions at the end of the novel. Pinard then counters that, instead, Flaubert wants his readers (Pinard uses the informal on to count himself amongst this group) to pity her, before reminding Emma that it was he (Flaubert) who wrote—and thus created—her suffering in the first place. Monsaingeon-as-Charles then interjects to bring the temporality back into that of the novel, asking Emma whether it was true that the family home was lost, while seemingly not reacting to anything the lawyers had just said. Emma, who had been otherwise silent, then turns downstage left and pointedly asks, “Why did you not make me happy?” Yet, it is not Monsaingeon but Boisliveau (marked as Gustave Flaubert in the script) that responds with a shocked “Moi?” 19

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It should be noted here that in the staging, this scene takes place following one in which Léon—the second of Emma’s lovers and played here as well by Boisliveau—denies Emma’s request for money to settle her debts, or even consider continuing a relationship with her, throwing her into the desperation that would eventually lead to her suicide. The staging of this scene was such that, as Léon and Emma parted, Léon moved to a spot downstage left—that is, the same spot where Boisliveau-as-Flaubert sits during his trial—without giving verbal indication that he had transitioned out of Léon. In other words, when Palacio-as-Emma looks downstage left at Boisliveau, right before she levels the above accusation, the staging does not make it immediately clear to whom precisely she will be speaking, as the other actor closest to her on the stage is Monsaingeon-as-­ Charles, that is, someone distinctly of the novel’s spatiotemporality. Rather, it is Boisliveau’s body language—his physical reaction to Emma’s question, of recoiling from her—as well as a slight change in timbre of voice, that confirms that what is happening in that moment is an instance of a character confronting its creator. Consequently, this line also has strong implications for the spectators with regard to their position or relationship with what is unfolding before them. More precisely, said implications arise from a momentary closing of the gap between spectators and spectacle in the sense that when Emma asks her question and Boisliveau-as-? responds to it, the entirety of the house—those on stage and those seated—occupy the same temporal space of uncertainty. The act of reestablishing the gap—that is, setting back in place a spatial relationality that determines the type of exchange taking place between the individuals seated and those on stage—and further the defining of the reaction towards what had happened, however, is here transferred not to the spectators as a singular group, but to each unique individual. At its core, this act of individual engagement and relational (re)definition is rooted in the almost constant oscillation the spectators had been moving through throughout the production, regarding not just their critical but also emotional positionality in relation to what was being performed. Up until this point, the duality of the spectators’ roles of both confidant and jury remains relatively unquestioned, with the passage between the temporality of Flaubert’s correspondence and that of the trial being one of the only spatiotemporal distinctions that remains mostly undisturbed. This moment—the creation boldly and directly facing down its creator—changes that. In physically destabilizing Flaubert, it

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interrogates the status of those in the house regarding the entirety of that which they just witnessed. They listen to Flaubert’s letters, hear the arguments from both sides during the trial, but most importantly, what remains invisible are the performances of the genesis of Emma’s story, Flaubert’s act of writing the novel, and consequently his choices in deciding the fates of his characters. He whose trial has rendered the most powerless has now become the most powerful by virtue of the choices he did and did not make. The reason why Emma’s question—which implies the possibility for innumerable other narratives that could have been created in order to shape her story—must come when it does is because it is aimed as much at Flaubert as it is at those who have been witness to the sequencing of events as they happened on stage and who now thus have the capacity to imagine the possibility for something other than the narrative as it was presented to them. It is not, in other words, truly a prescription or a directive to demand a change in the narrative, but rather something that more calls upon each spectator’s capacity for critique, both to consider that specific question and—should a response ever be found—determine the extent to which it can shift the relationship with what is happening on stage. There is, in this unexpected final flux, a certain kind of freedom that is emanated outward, beyond the bounds of the stage, regarding how precisely such a determination is made. Said freedom could, in a sense, be considered as potentially emancipatory, though the final distinction as to whether and to what extent it is lies outside the piece itself, not in one “location” but in several: the bodies of the individual patrons seated in the house. Rather than be given “roles”, they in this moment become those who actively “build” the conditions for their positional relation to the stage rather than let them be imposed on them. Such a freedom also carries within it a political potential, though not necessarily one that follows a direct pedagogical model, that is, one whose aim is to produce or “mark” in its intended public a particular affect. To borrow from Olivier Neveux (2013), this alternative political potential is instead characterized by a break in an otherwise established line of communication, one that in its refuting—or even, rendering momentarily incapacitated—of the communicational function of theatre, re-situates the individual spectator in a position in which they are no longer being “constructed” by the work that is currently being played out. This does not necessarily signify the total end of possibility for discourse, however. Rather, it modifies, among other things, its point of origin.20

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In brief, the creation of flux, multiplicity, fluidity, and disorder on the stage prior to its unexpected launching out into the house via Emma’s accusation arguably characterizes the latter as an almost revelatory action, as it brings forward that which had otherwise been relegated to the background (the spectators as individuals amongst a collective). Though the moment does carry within it a certain potential for a more general sociopolitical commentary—essentially, the coincidental timing of the staging of a female character confronting her male creator regarding his power over her fate with the greater conversations surrounding the #MeToo, #BalanceTonPorc, and #TimesUp movements—where its capacity for a shift in mode of discourse lies is more precisely in its resulting opening of the possibility for the creation of an abundance of disorder. Here, one must return to the variations in the spectator/spectacle dynamic that came before. Prior to this, though those seated in the house were granted a certain kind of plurality, said plurality was also “controlled” by what was happening on stage, in that each facet existed to serve a need of the narrative. In other words, there could be no trial if the character of “jury” were absent, no epistolary exchange if a recipient did not exist. Such roles given, collectively, to the spectators also share the fact of their being roles of persons to whom information is directly transmitted. The overall space, in other words, is not only frontal but also distinctly demarcated by one of the two sides, creating, further, a singular line of communication in which the stage not only transmits information but also the way said information is to be processed. What the moments of jumping several spatiotemporal strata do is break said direct line so that the stage space and the house are no longer unified under the impression of a common temporal relationality. Instead, in the resulting thrust back into difference, there is also the repositioning of the spectator as pre-spectator, that is, as who they are outside of or before beginning the process of becoming this role. It is an insistence on the presence of the distinct individual within a larger “collective”. As for the aforementioned gap, the centre of the act of its closure has also shifted, and it is here that the potential for disorder is most prevalent. So that the gap may be “closed”—that is, so that the relationship between those on stage and those in the house can begin a process back towards a spatial and relational redefinition—the determination of the nature of the relationship must come from each individual sitting in the house, making complete collectivity almost impossible. Though the piece does provide two options for interpretation—the spectator chooses to “read” the

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moment as happening either within the context of the trial, thereby maintaining the setting of the courtroom, or within the context of the undefined space within which Flaubert writes private letters—it does not necessarily stipulate that one of these ultimately must be chosen. Furthermore, even if there were only two manners of approaching an individual renegotiation of the stage/house dynamic, the shifting of the act of defining or determining said dynamic to several as opposed to one individual has the potential to produce enough different, singular, avenues. It is a kind of disorder almost approaching chaos, yet the piece lets it happen. In the recognition of the possibility for those in the house, and not just those on the stage, to be several things at once, it momentarily relinquishes power of control of definition of the stage/house relationship, instead, giving the possibility—though not the expectation—of determining definition elsewhere. The resulting freedom, then, comes in the choice to engage as one wishes (and as much as one wishes), resulting in the potential for several different “singularizations” of Bovary to occur at the same time, heterogenizing the work in such a way that it itself becomes as “fractured” as the space (and individuals) it is being played out in front of. And it is here finally that one can return to Hordé’s broader comments on the nature of the theatre house as a site for heterogeneity to broaden that definition slightly. What this expansion rests on is the fact that here that which incites the process that can potentially allow for its realization is rooted not in an engagement with spoken discourse necessarily, but rather in the acts of engagement with and determination of the implications of an immediate response to a singular act. In other words, it allows for the process to become more fully in tune with the specific psychological processes of the individual in question largely because of its insistence on the need to react and reestablish one’s position in the moment without too much reliance on extensive critical dissection. One can liken this, for instance, to a return to instinctive action: determining one’s place in a given situation based upon what one feels in that precise moment. What Bovary does in the context of its programming at the Bastille, therefore, is essentially pluralize the theatre’s greater project in that it opens another possible avenue towards the kind of spectator emancipation that underscores Hordé’s overall project. What counts here, then, is just as much the capacity for the single theatrical act—the aesthetics of the staging, manner of line delivery, and so on—to grant the necessary conditions for individual spectators to take the act into themselves and feel towards and about it as they want as a larger theatrical event does in terms of allowing for the

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possibility for individuals to think or engage in a singular process of critical interpretation.

At Once One and Many Trans (més enllà), Directed by Didier Ruiz, Théâtre de la Bastille, February 10, 2019 Manifestations of theatrical plurality are not, however, necessarily exclusively confined to the moment of the theatre event. For instance, it is possible for their reach to extend beyond the moment of the performance in such a way that they become potentially political in their engagement with an overarching social order, thus connecting not only the piece but the theatre house itself more directly to the societal structure it exists within. Such a process of spatial situating of the theatre within the fabric of its larger territorial environs can be tied back to Hordé’s comments regarding the theatre’s role as another voice in a greater social dialogue. Where this idea can be taken further is through its examination via the notion of theatricality. When considering the case of the Bastille, then, so that it may enter a process of reflection outwards, its programming must include pieces that, though their subject matter is political in that it touches on questions decidedly of the present moment, explicitly use theatrically specific conventions to render this outward connection possible. These moments use the fact that they are happening in a theatre space to create a sense of familiarity in their performance while contextualizing them in such a way that brings the structures and conventions of extratheatrical world inward. As with Bovary, such moments have the actor as their point of origin. Here, however, the former’s inherent plurality as being at once performer as well as all the facets that make up their “offstage” persona is expressly laid bare early on. Consequently, what is given greater weight is the position of the spectator in relation to this exposure and in particular their very act of “spectating”—that is, of looking. It is not often that the idea of the spectator’s gaze is questioned in such a way that not only critiques it but also expands the possibilities for its manifestation. In the case of Didier Ruiz’s Trans (més enllà), such a simultaneous critique and expansion occurs not only due to the subject matter of the production, but also through the creative process behind it, especially the writing. As the parenthesis of the title—més enllà/“beyond”— implies, more than just an examination of certain facets of the transgender

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experience, the piece is an exercise in moving beyond a specific set of established codes. Trans, in the simplest terms, is a show about storytelling and personal narratives. The seven performers—three trans men and four trans women, ranging in age from twenty-two to sixty—are not professional actors. Rather, the troupe is comprised of individuals who volunteered their time—and their personal histories—to Ruiz after the latter posted a call seeking out transgender folks willing to participate in the creation of his project in Barcelona.21 Though there are narrative similarities underlying several of the stories presented—familial rejection; the initial moment of clarity following the affirmation, vocal or internal, of one’s true gender identity; the experience of shopping for an entirely new wardrobe for the first time—on the whole, they are so varied that they call into question the very notion of a singular, essential “transgender” experience itself. At the same time, however, thematically, where all seven stories situate themselves is in a position of critique of the gender binary, not only with regard to the performers’ own perceptions of themselves, but also with the way in which said construct affects or informs the way others—in this case, the spectators—perceive them. As for the stage, it was relatively bare, save for two large gauzy screens curving upwards and overlapping up-centre stage to create a sort of hallway from which performers would enter or exit. Lighting was simple: a warm wash over the stage that would fade to black when the performer or performers on stage finished the segment of their story/stories and exited to signal the arrival of a new performer, a new voice. The only exception to this were a couple of transitions set to instrumental music that coincided with the projection on the screens of colourful kaleidoscopic designs, created for the show by students at the Gobelins École de l’Image. Otherwise, the only thing projected on the screens were French surtitles, as the show was performed in both Castilian Spanish and Catalan, depending on the performer. It is the presence of these surtitles that first alert to the relative autonomy still retained by the performers with regard to not only what information they choose to publicly divulge, but also how they do so, as well as the degree to which they are beholden to a particular structure in the act of retelling. In brief, there is no set script; that is, there is no singular text that, though it may have arisen following several hours of rehearsal and collaboration, carries with it a demand for word-perfect (or near word-­ perfect) memorization from its actors. The implications for this are

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twofold: first, that though there may be a general through-line to follow and larger narrative “beats” to hit, the details regarding how to get there, whether it be in terms of vocabulary or use of specific turns of phrase, metaphors, or figures of speech are left more or less open. Of course, even with regard to devised works such as this one, a rehearsal process of continuously running through the show prior to public performance does, of course, imply that certain linguistic or performance choices will end up favoured over others, sometimes due simply to habit. At the same time, not committing said choices to a written text leaves open the possibility for impulse to share in the stage space. Consequently, it follows that the surtitles are likely to not always be accurate, a fact directly acknowledged in the text projected onto the screens prior to the start of the first performer’s speech. Second, granting space for change or deviation through the eschewing of a definitive text allows those on stage to retain a certain autonomy or ownership of experiences that, though they may be shared, are still singularly theirs. In other words, the story has not, through transformation from the oral to the more fixed textual form, been entirely appropriated by someone other than its originator. Freedom to improvise, to follow one’s instinct—even slightly—and thus remain in the present allows for a continuous reaffirmation of the centrality of the speaker’s unique point of view. The significance of this is, of course, further amplified by the fact that all those performing on stage identify as being part of a social group that has been—and still is—marginalized by the dominance of a heteronormative, cis-gendered culture in the society in which they live. Other than the announcement in the surtitles regarding the translation, however, the performance started not with a speech but with silence. Silence, and a gaze. When the house lights dimmed—though they did not entirely go out—and the stage lights were brought up, one of the performers, Raùl, walked out from the pathway between the screens and stood for a moment up centre stage. Feet planted, torso squared front, he took several moments to pan his gaze across the room, eyes at times shifting downward and pausing for a moment, suggesting direct eye contact. It was only after he had finished his prolonged act of looking—taking in the room, as it were—that he launched into speech, beginning not with a personal account, but rather with a retelling of “The Ugly Duckling”. The parallels of the story of the little “duck” who felt alienated in his own body until he found acceptance, community, and self-actualization among the swans to not only Raùl’s own journey but those of the other performers as

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well were rather clear. At the same time, the use of such a familiar story, presumably known by many, if not all spectators in attendance, served to reinforce a process that had begun in the earlier silence: the creation of a direct current between the person (or persons) on stage and the individual members in the house. Though the subsequent speakers dispense with the use of a popular fairy-tale as a lead-in to their more personal stories, what remains constant throughout is the moment of pointed silence and mutual gazing. This would occur even if the speaker had already come onstage to tell a part of their story before, as well as in instances where multiple performers were onstage at one time (in those instances, rather than dialoguing amongst themselves, the performer/s not speaking would turn their gaze to the person who was, with occasional glances back out in the house). Further, in those latter instances, a long pause, rather than a direct verbal pick-up, marked the passage from one speaker to the next. Silence and the resulting mutual gazing are given comparable weight to narrative here. Yet, beyond its significance as a manner through which to interrogate a practice that can often escape critical attention, what the casting of openly transgender performers does is open pathways through which one can further interrogate current, extra-theatrical problematics. Writing in his Director’s Note, Ruiz evokes the hope that eventually the conversation around being transgender will move beyond what does (or does not) exist between an individual’s legs. In other words, it is a doing away with the assumption of “fully” transitioning, as though there was a singular end goal to be reached, and one had to possess a certain set of “parts” to be able to identify as a “man” or a “woman”. For one thing, such a conceptualization of gender identity ignores—if not outright erases—the experiences of intersex and/or gender nonconforming folks who, for various reasons, do not see themselves as fitting into either one of the two choices presented to them. In the case of the transgender community, however, the upholding of the binary also results in the continued maintenance of a direct link between identifying as transgender and undergoing medical procedures such as hormone therapy or surgery. Regarding the latter, although some in the community may undergo top and/or bottom surgery, several factors—notably financial difficulties, political roadblocks, or quite simply not feeling a need or desire to—mean the option is not necessarily on the table for everyone. This should not, as the piece argues, preclude an individual both from identifying as transgender and from said identity being acknowledged by those in their community. Furthermore,

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maintaining the undergoing or wanting of surgery as a sort of “prerequisite to identification” only furthers the perpetuation of an invasive external “gaze”, that is, the determination, by sight, by an “other”, as to whether an individual “passes” or not as the gender they identify as. It is this gaze that is interrogated in the opening moments following each performer’s first appearance on the stage. Indeed, there is something of an implicit acknowledgement that a “sizing up” of sorts will likely occur here on the part of the spectators. Those in the house know that all the performers identify as transgender. What they, of course, do not know is at what stage they are in their transition or even what, for them, constitutes the act of transitioning. As the performers are not speaking, there are no accompanying surtitles projected on the screen to draw the eye upward, that is, away from the body on the stage. Further, the majority of the performers are dressed in colours that sharply contrast with the fabric of the screens flanking the stage behind them, making blending into the background impossible. Focus, then, is intentionally designed to be centred on the presence of the physical body, an elongation of the initial first impression one might make of someone before the person being observed reveals anything about their background. Though the question of “passing” is not verbally evoked, it is still very much present in the silent negotiation between those in the house and the person on the stage. Raùl, for instance, presents, on the outside, very masculinely in part because his specific physical attributes—facial hair, a larger, untailored shirt, boxy boot-cut jeans— conform to a normalized idea of the “cis-masculine” aesthetic. It is, in part, the confirmation of the outward display of such signs on the part of the spectator that prompts a process of mental categorization of the person quite literally presenting themselves on the stage into one of the two sides of the gender binary. Yet, the fact that these moments of silent mutual gazing keep preceding every moment of monologuing beyond the first impression starts to destabilize the initial assumptions or visual “confirmations” made on the part of the spectator. It is here that the critique of the onlooker’s gaze becomes slightly more confrontational, specifically in how it addresses said gaze’s invasiveness. More precisely, what is put forth here is the fact that categorization on the part of the observer into one of two “sides” goes beyond the process of deduction based on outward signs. To be externally categorized as a “man” or a “woman” within the binary system also implies a certain set of corporeal assumptions: an individual identified as a “man” is expected to have a penis, whereas a “woman” is expected to have a vagina.

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The spectator’s gaze, therefore, penetrates past external barriers such as clothing that are otherwise used as “gender markers” and into an intimate area of the body that, under most circumstances, individuals tend to keep hidden. What is between one’s legs therefore retains a quasi “final frontier” status, an ultimate marker of gender confirmation by the observer. The gaze here, its linking of the external with the hidden, the public with the private, carries with it a certain degree of violence. Said violence may not be intentional, but this does not negate the fact that such an equivocation deprives the individual being observed of full, autonomous affirmation of their identity. Instead, what it does is reduces the individual—or more precisely, the “validity” of the individual’s identity—down to whether they possess certain genitalia. Further, it not only ignores the wide spectrum that stretches between the two “poles” but also perpetuates an objectification of transgender bodies. Moving beyond said objectification implies a mutual recognition—that is, on the part of the individual and the spectator—that what constitutes a “subject” is not a singular factor, but rather such a multitude of characteristics that otherwise relegate the question of what is between one’s legs to a “part” rather than the “whole” of an identity, if not set it aside altogether. Given the partial intended aim of this piece involves a critical re-­ examination of not just a certain terminology, but also the conditions under which said terminology may apply, one could be tempted to classify it under the category of pedagogical theatre. It is, after all, a piece that, in a way, wishes to teach or inform about a new or different way of conceiving the world. Yet, to categorize it as such also risks placing it within a strict, binary structure of transmission of information—that is, establishing that the frontal divide in the space is characterized by a “keeper” of knowledge on one end and an ignorant “receiver” on the other. Such a dichotomy further runs counter to the piece’s own supposed thesis of breaking with binary structures or at the very least creating possibilities to move beyond them. If the only way of doing so involves the perpetuation and/or performance of a space in which only one side has a recognized capacity for possession of knowledge, then any new “avenues” created in said space are merely illusory, as they would still exist within the context of the same imbalanced superstructure. The question that must be addressed, then, and particularly for a piece such as this one aiming for sociocultural change, is the degree to which it is possible to at the very least plant the seeds to lead to a later incitement of change without resorting to more strictly defined didactic methods of communication.

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One possible way to examine this is through not necessarily banishing the notion of pedagogy from the discussion as to what Trans… is doing, but rather reconsidering the specific methodology in use. Such an undertaking can take its cues from the work of Jacques Rancière. In his critiques on pedagogy, Rancière (2003) often refers to the power imbalances inherent in strictly didactic methods, ones that privilege the supposed knowledge of a “master” to the detriment of the “student” who is otherwise positioned as someone in need of instruction from an outsider, the assumption being that they lack the capacity to instruct themselves. To illustrate his argument, Rancière refers primarily to a methodology developed by the eighteenth-century teacher/philosopher Joseph Jacotot. Of particular interest to Rancière are Jacotot’s theories regarding transmission of knowledge and especially how they relate to what the former refers to as a process of social emancipation—that is, an act of self-recognition and affirmation of one’s own intelligence as well as the equal intelligence, or capacity for intelligence, of others. Rancière localizes said emancipation in Jacotot as occurring through the establishment of a system of translation between the world of daily material experience and that of immaterial knowledge.22 The use of the term translation here to describe this process of relaying information or knowledge is rather pointed. For one thing, regarding its point of origin, it does not make an explicit value judgement as to its level of authority on the subject being transmitted. The focus, in other words, shifts to the information itself as distinct from the person from which it originated/who initiated the transmission. Second, as the act of translation is itself an act of interpretation, it also places the centre of activity on the part of the recipient of the information. No longer simply standing in as an ignorant vessel passively absorbing knowledge from an ostensibly more powerful “master”, the recipient in this model is recognized as autonomous enough to take on the interpretive work without much direct guidance as to what the conclusion of said work should look like. It is, in other words, a redistribution of intellectual labour. It is also, however, one that depends on the individual decisions of each of the persons being given information to actively assume and engage with what is being presented to them. At the same time, such a means of transforming information implicitly acknowledges the possibility that the resulting interpretations will differ or deviate from whatever initial critical interpretation the person communicating the information had in mind. It allows, in other words,

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for the possibility of unique/individual re-imaginings, thus the resulting critical engagement is pluralized, variety rather than uniform consensus. Arguably, the most effective way of addressing the above in the context of Trans… is to focus on its choice to privilege personal narratives. Of course, their presence could be seen as a means of centring emphasis on the uniqueness of experience, rather than to a reduction of plurality into a single set of preconceived ideas. At the same time, narratives can also pose a bit of a problem with regard to the pedagogical model presented above. In short, narratives present an implicit acknowledgement of a certain kind of authority, namely, that which an individual has over their own subjective interpretation regarding the ways in which they directly experience or see themselves in the world around them. What this further implies is that there will always be a certain degree of inequality based on ignorance present in the room. Yet, the juxtaposition of each individual narrative with all the rest—especially as the differences between them become more pronounced—ultimately works to counter any potential singular localization of definitive mastery or authority. While each of the seven performers can speak about what being transgender means to them, their definition has no bearing or authority on how the others speaking see themselves. The allowance of space for a move away from didactic pedagogy or binary structures of knowledge transmission comes in part from the implication that though identifying as transgender is a common underlying theme, to attempt to give a strict definition—and thus establish authoritative knowledge on the term—is itself impossible. Indeed, to do so would go against the purpose of structuring the show to allow for presumably equal levels of autonomy in narrative-sharing accorded to those on the stage. Polyphony, in short, works to do what a piece featuring only one of these seven performers may have failed to: allow space for a subjective truth while preventing said truth from presenting itself as objectively definitive. It is not the identity of being transgender but the singularity or supposed “concreteness” of elements of its definition that are destabilized. Of course, whether an individual spectator will subsequently choose to engage in the process of self-critique implied in the intermittent moments of silence remains entirely up to them. At the same time, the aesthetic of the staging does not attempt to disguise what is happening to the performer/spectator dynamic in those moments. Instead, it takes a relationship inherent to the theatrical event and heightens it, theatricalizing the act of looking by restructuring it as something that is performed rather than simply a characteristic element of the spectator/spectacle

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relationship. What this rests on is the fact that not only the performers are often on stage alone, but also their physical presence juxtaposed with the piece’s design elements almost demands that they be looked at—and relooked at. They, in other words, perform outwards to the spectators a gesture that is expected from the latter in the present spatial setting but whose implications change when it is performed on the performer outside this setting. The gaze here, in other words, is something that can be played with. More precisely, it can be manipulated, its manner of employment or of interacting in the space it finds itself in constantly revisited to a degree that it undergoes a transformation that, in this case, reorients it as something other than simply an almost secondary element compared to the spectator’s internal critical engagement with the ideas or arguments presented in a piece. What keeps all this further anchored in the theatrical is the fact that for this transformation to occur within the temporal moment of its performance, the spectators must themselves also be engaged in the very act that is presently undergoing a critical examination in front of them. For those who do keep their eyes trained on the stage rather than allow them to wander, therefore, what becomes increasingly difficult is a reproduction of the same kind of look—that is, one that is based on the identification of physical “gender markers”—as these “first look” moments are repeated with each performer, especially as the latter continue to reveal more about their personal histories. To put it differently, is it possible for the spectator’s gaze to remain static or unchanged when confronted with the real-time pluralizing of a single term or state of being? Inevitably, the question of surgery does get brought up, though not quite in the context of a finality or an act of completion. Although there are a couple of performers who allude to it in that sense, one, Ian de la Rosa, proposes a more direct critique of the situating of gender affirmation surgeries as the final point along a linearly progressive timeline from one end of the binary to the other. Born Rosa Maria, Ian’s transition coincided in part with his immersion in his studies to become a filmmaker, as well as his gradual discovery of the transgender community in Barcelona—as he tells it, the very word “transgender” did not exist within his small community in southern Spain. After beginning the process of his transition, including taking hormones to boost his testosterone levels, Ian was left with what he, at the time, perceived to be a choice between two options: keep his breasts or keep his newly grown beard. He opted for the latter, undergoing a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery to

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remove the outward markings of a “feminine” physique. That his outward appearance therefore displays more evident/normalized signs of “masculinity” later leads to an incident that proves both affirming and critically reflective. While making a purchase at a local convenience store, the clerk—someone who Ian specifies he did not know personally—makes a casual comment about how wonderful it was that the summer season was beginning again and that soon the young women of the area would be wearing shorter dresses or bikinis on their way to the beach. The implication in this exchange—specifically its rather openly “machismo” attitude and sexualization of the female body, especially the breasts—is that of course Ian will understand the feelings and desires incited by the sight of women exposing more skin in the warmer weather because, as far as the clerk is concerned, Ian is also a heterosexual cis-gendered man. Ian, in other words, “passes” as the gender he identifies and presents as by someone he does not know without any preamble or hesitation on the part of the latter. His induction of sorts into the “boys club” could, in a way, be interpreted not just as an act of outward affirmation, but as one of confirmation as to the “completion” of his transition. At the same time, however, said exchange prompts Ian to reflect on his own choice to undergo top surgery and, more precisely, the notion that he only had two options to choose from. He expresses some regret at no longer having breasts, though he does not go so far as to outwardly express an intention to undergo another operation to get them back. Instead, what he questions is the supposed obligation to make that choice in the first place. Although he attributes his choice partly to the supposition that he lacked the courage at the time to refuse to make a choice at all, the very phrasing of the initial question as an “either/or” structurally does not give him much to work with either. It is, of course, posed assuming the confines of the gender binary as a given and the possession (or desire for possession) of a certain set of genitalia as a necessity. Yet, as Ian suggests, a third option—the choice to not choose—also exists, though it is relatively hidden. Why not, for instance, consider the possibility that he could still identify as a man while possessing both a beard and breasts, that is, move the question of gender identity beyond strict, binary, biological conditions and re-centre it on the personal? Two further elements serve to illustrate the shift from a binary to the plurality implied in the question. The first is the fact that, unlike the other participants, Ian has consciously chosen to incorporate an element of his

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“dead name”—his name pre-transition—into his new name. He both was and is also of Rosa, the linguistic move of “Rosa” to follow the preposition “de la” implying a point of origin or genealogy for Ian, as well as an encompassing of his past within his present: the “before-Ian” and the “Ian” in simultaneous existence. What makes this act more striking in the context of this performance is that such a simultaneity is not exactly unfamiliar in a theatre setting. Indeed, what Ian’s choice to be at once who he was and who he is reflects rather closely the situation of the actor while in performance, outwardly projecting or performing an illusion of fully being one thing (the character) while at the same time being physically present on stage as the actor in the process of becoming their character. It is a craft based largely on a constant act of negotiation with and reconciliation of different elements of oneself. Try as hard as an actor might, it is nearly impossible to do away with not only their specific physicality, but also their personal history that, together, affect not only the way they approach or situate themselves in the world, but also the way they craft their interpretation and subsequent performance of their character. Ian’s revelation, then, is at home here, in no large part because it is anchored in a decision to do away with the idea of “completion” in the question of transformation and instead openly embrace a more plural identity that is decidedly of the space in which he makes his declaration. The second element revolves more around a gesture than a linguistic choice. As he closes out his segment, Ian returns, once again, to his decision to surgically remove his breasts, though not quite to the sentiments of regret that surrounded it. Instead, the focus shifts to one of re-­imagining the potentiality of what his body now is as well as reappropriating a cis-­ normative imagining usually directed towards the very part of his body he elected to remove. Still standing centre stage, Ian slowly removes his white t-shirt, revealing the scars from his surgery. He adjusts his posture a bit, puffing out his chest just slightly enough to draw the eye there, to those scars, all the while maintaining his own gaze outward, slowly panning the room as both an acknowledgement of the exposure of his body and an invitation for it to continue to be looked at, openly taking advantage of the spatial dynamics of the theatrical setting. In an interview with Libération following the play’s premiere at the Théâtre de la Bastille, Ian recalls his first meeting with Didier Ruiz, stating that not only was it he who came up with the idea to remove his shirt, but also he did so for the purposes of both showing his scars and rendering

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them “belles et désirables” (“beautiful and desirable”) in the eyes of those watching him.23 Such an affirmation of potential for sensuality or sexuality not only draws from a context of a rather heteronormative direction of such attention by cis-gendered men towards breasts possessed by cis-­ gendered women, but also opens up an avenue of redirection of a similar kind of attention towards the post-op female-to-male transgender body. The internal feelings of conflict and regret may not have disappeared entirely, but in this moment, Ian transforms his chest back into a site of desirability, though not necessarily one that rests on a sense of nostalgia or the absence of what once was. The scars are front-and-centre, and with them Ian as he is, with corporeal desire being directed towards him because he wants it to happen. His gesture, in other words, is an affirmation of autonomy as a sensual subject, as someone cognizant of their own desires as well as the fact that their body has the potential to be wanted or desired by others. And even in this instance, Ian’s manner of rendering his body into a desirable “object” does not lean heavily on the fact that it is a transgender body, but rather as it is as a site or reflection of Ian’s personal history as someone who happens to also be transgender. Yet, even with the opening of a realm of possibility beyond the strict binary that comes from Ian’s narration, the final impetus for change in perception still rests in the hands of the individuals in the house. The diversity in the details of the personal narratives presented in the performance does make for a compelling argument in the case for thinking beyond established definitions of gender, though the manner in which they are told—frontally, though without direct implication of the spectators through the use of the pronoun “you”, instead favouring the first person “I”—eschews explicit didactics or prescriptive speech. What remains to be seen, however, is whether any potential changes in perception that occur on the micro level here will, to recall the implications in Ruiz’s director’s note, resonate beyond the walls of the theatre and the spatiotemporal situation of the live performance of this piece. What becomes more evident here, then, is the fact that though the “avenues” for change are provided within the performance, the intellectual labour required to put them into practice outside this specific context rests within each individual member seated in the house. This latter point is to some degree due to a certain duality implicit within the label “transgender”. On the one hand, as it is presented explicitly in the piece, it refers to a self-attributed marker of identification in that

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its use allows for the individual in question to fully actualize themselves. On the other hand, the process of a binary movement imposed on said label takes its cue in large part from the normalization of a cis-gendered perspective as to what, supposedly, defines one as a “man” or a “woman”. Moving beyond this latter point especially requires a conscious renegotiation of the possible elasticity of said definitions at a macro or societal level, that is, from both within the transgender community and especially outside it. As far as the former is concerned, this piece does some of the work moving in that direction, highlighting the diversity and difference—that is, the very multitudinous, sometimes incongruous facets that make it so that any label is only a part of and not the ultimate whole of a person—in the singularized label of “transgender” rather than insisting on maintaining a reductive illusion of commonality. With regard to the latter, there may not be an explicit call for change spoken out in the piece itself, but what there is is the option to look, to process differently. That the implications of choosing to ignore or not engage in the process include the denial of the autonomy of the person at whom an individual spectator is looking nevertheless does not change the fact that, in the end, the responsibility, the choice as to how far-reaching this self-interrogation or re-processing of the gaze can go is that of the individual spectator. And it is in this potential passing on that the plurality seen here “crosses over” into the “extra-theatrical” space and into the realm of the social. Though there is no prescriptive measure given as to what is to be done once it is there, what counts is that its seed has been implanted in those who not only attended but also chose to engage with the piece by performing their “spectator” role. The choice in whether to continue to acknowledge the possibility of an, in this case, “extra-binary” mode of conceiving of one’s own environment once the theatrical event has ended, while still possessing the knowledge that was transmitted, becomes a political one. It is a question of not only situating oneself in relation to the question at hand but also recognizing the degree in which it does—or does not—alter how one structures one’s own environment. It is the presence of that possibility for alteration, its capacity to endure beyond a particular temporal context, which, arguably, speaks the most strongly to the political potential, and thus the overall project and artistic ethos of a theatre like the Théâtre de la Bastille, of a theatrically based plurality.

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Notes 1. Nevertheless, despite its status, it does benefit from funding on the part of the city of Paris, the Île-de-France region, and the Ministry of Culture. Further, following Hordé’s retirement, the Bastille is set to be reclassed as a public theatre, though whether that will be as a CDN or SN—as well as who will be replacing Hordé—has yet to be made official at the time of writing. 2. Neveux, Olivier. 2019. Contre le théâtre politique, Paris: La Fabrique. 3. Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2008. Un directeur artistique? In Un directeur de théâtre. Pour un théâtre singulier, 83. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. 4. Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2017. L’Artiste et le populiste. Quel peuple pour quel théâtre? 19. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. 5. Ibid. 6. Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2008. Op. cit., 67. 7. Ibid. 8. Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2017. Op. cit., 42. 9. Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2011. Le Démocratiseur. De quelle médiocrité la démocratisation culturelle est-elle aujourd’hui l’aveu? 58–59. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. 10. Tarifs et Abonnements. Théâtre de la Bastille. www.theatre-­bastille.com/ pratique/tarifs-­et-­abonnements. Accessed 20 July 2022. 11. Rodrigues, Tiago. 2015. Bovary. trans. Thomas Resendes. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. 12. Pronouns here refer to the outward gender presentation of the actor and not of the character(s) said actor is playing. 13. Rodrigues, Tiago. 2015. Op. cit. 11. 14. Ibid., 21–22. 15. Ibid., 30–31. 16. Ibid., 61–62. 17. Ibid., 84–85. 18. Ibid., 35. 19. Ibid., 99. 20. Neveux, Olivier. 2013. Politiques de l’émancipation. In Politiques du spectateur. Les enjeux du théâtre politique aujourd’hui, 210–229. Paris: La Découverte. 21. Kuttner, Hélène. 2018. Didier Ruiz: les “trans” sont la revolution de demain. Artistikrezo. July 22. www.artistikrezo.com/spectacle/didier-­ ruiz-­les-­trans-­sont-­la-­revolution-­de-­demain.html. Accessed 20 July 2022. 22. Rancière, Jacques. 2003. Savoirs hérétiques et émancipation du pauvre. In Les Scènes du peuple, 40. Lyon: Horlieu. 23. Charon, Aurélie. 2019. Ian de la Rosa, l’un dans l’autre. Libération. January 31. https://next.liberation.fr/theatre/2019/01/31/ian-­de-­la-­ rosa-­l-­un-­dans-­l-­autre_1706639. Accessed 22 July 2022.

CHAPTER 7

Conclusion

Towards a Potential Politics of Public(s) On May 28, 2021, the remaining members of Occupation Odéon officially decamped to the Cent Quatre, a public cultural space at the northwestern edge of the 19th arrondissement. Soon after, the Odéon, as well as most of the other theatre houses in Metropolitan France, came out of lockdown for the second time and, barring any cancellations due to illness, has mostly returned to pre-pandemic operating levels. Aside from the masks and, for a time, the extra security checks to scan vaccination passes at the entry, one could almost think things were returning to something approaching “normalcy”. Yet, while it is too soon to fully measure effects and consequences of the theatre occupations aside from the extension of the année blanche, what can be said at least is that in occupying these spaces, those involved in the movement not only through the act of occupation and reappropriation of these spaces re-invigorated them as sites of constant creation and imagination of various possibles, but also—and especially in the case of the Odéon—in inviting others outside of their “sector” to join them, momentarily established them as some of the sole sites for the daily realization of a public forum, albeit one that openly affirms the heterogeneity inherent in its composition: convergence without universal consensus. At the same time, neither of these elements emerged as a result of either the restricting of access to public space due to the COVID-19 pandemic or the © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 I. Gonis, Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0_7

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occupation itself. The difference is that, perhaps in part due to an absence of official directives from the Ministry, they were allowed to exist in the open. Indeed, though the theatres and the pieces examined in this book predate the pandemic, variances in artistic direction as well as aesthetics in mise-en-scène reveal that a continued imagining of the public theatre as an institution in the service of a singular project does not accurately reflect what goes on in these spaces nor the potential for what kinds of relationships could be realized, should their potential for divergence—and with that discord, yes, but also the possibilities for new perspectives—be fully recognized. It would be a disservice to these spaces, as well as to those who create in or visit them, to continue to imagine the public theatre as a sector set apart from the territory that surrounds it. Instead, what has emerged through these case studies is the possibility for a new kind of cultural politics, one that does not necessarily work to serve the aim of national unity that has underscored the Ministry’s projects since its inception. In brief, it is a politics of the “s”, of the plural, the difference, and all that is in between, in the term “publics”. However, this passing from the singular to the plural is not without its risks towards the very institution that it operates within. While the public theatre in France has, since its inception, presented itself as a democratic and potentially socially emancipatory institution, for it to truly become so, it must contend with an inherent paradox of State-funded public theatre. For a public theatre to be truly emancipatory, it must allow for individual pathways to access and interpret a work as well as variation in aesthetic, relational, and spatial choices on the part of the production and directorial staff that encourages this plurality without necessarily attempting to transcend it. To do so, however, it must, to a degree, go against the larger project that funded—and continues to subsidize—its creation, which may recognize the presence of difference but only to the extent that it will eventually give way to an illusion of unity. Upholding such a model that implicitly insists upon connection via a lowest common denominator of consensus arguably only leads to exclusion, as, whether purposefully or not, it privileges a certain mode of seeing and relating with the world either through the creation of artistic works or through the manner of interpreting them. There will, in other words, always be those who rightly feel as though their voices, their manner of seeing, creating, and interpreting are not welcome in this model, precisely because acknowledgement of

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their perspective risks throwing an accepted way of being in the world into a precarity from which there may be no turning back. At the same time, a public theatre by its name, and by its association as a representative of the State, has a responsibility towards its publics, namely, to grant them full access to this site of creation, imagination, and constant renegotiations and revelations of the possible. In simplest terms, what this would mean would be the transformation of the public theatre as the site where the illusion of French universalism dissolves to make way for emancipation, but that is not quite the disaster that the language may initially suggest. Rather, emancipation in the public theatre has the potential to result in, first, full recognition of the extent of the presence of plurality amongst its greater publics and, second, following this recognition, a new mode of relationality that continuously interrogates its presence both on the stage and in the house. Thus, the public theatre can begin a process of truly being both of and for its publics within an atmosphere structured around a kind of mutual recognition that openly acknowledges that the notions of unification via Culture that underscored its founding may no longer (or indeed have never been) be sufficient for it to reach its potential as one of many sites engaged in the production, commentary, and critique of current public discourses. Given the present situation surrounding the public theatre in France, such a reorientation of its position in the greater social fabric may not be that far off, though much depends on actions and perspectives developed in individual theatre houses as well as in the institution as a whole. As has been demonstrated throughout the course of the four core chapters of this project, one of the commonalities shared between the theatres studied is their status as creators of micro-spaces wherein the modes and parameters of negotiation and interaction are put into practice. They are places of accord, yes, but also of discord, divergence, plurality, and difference that “mirror” the larger territory they are situated within, insofar as, between them, they represent a larger body that is almost as incoherent as a group as the various individuals who purchase a seat to a particular performance. I insist on the “almost” here because, as has been established, what further unites these theatres is an acknowledgement of the presence of difference among their patrons. Yet, it would be difficult to categorize this acknowledgement as a greater politics precisely because while there is a degree of shared recognition, there is, however, no shared status regarding how to respond to or interact with difference. It is in this space of action and process that the political is situated and subsequently

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manifested through both the theatre’s artistic direction/programming and the possibilities for interaction and negotiation created within its walls during a performance. Indeed, it is arguably this divergence in terms of precise definition of artistic or cultural politics that allows for public theatres to more closely approach the very “publics” they purport to exist in the service of. With the idea of difference or plurality as a point of departure, there also follows an absence of a larger, more universalist, imagination towards singularization of these publics. In other words, it is a move away from a mode of thinking that proposes a model of what the eventual, singular “public” should be. Such a model not only falls in with larger conversations over the question and definition of national identity—similar, in fact, to those that prompted the initial creation of the Ministry under Malraux—but it is also by nature exclusionary. This becomes even more evident when one takes the question of spectator emancipation into account. If, as suggested here, one considers one of the primary evidences of spectator emancipation to be the creation or opening of pathways to reception and critique of a theatrical work that allows the spectator to retain full autonomy over if and how said pathways are accessed, can it be said that emancipation occurs when it is framed within the confines of a specific political project? Of equal consideration here is the fact that for this project to exist as a goal, a certain set of criteria must be first put into place and then met to affirm its completion. This, then, brings forward the following: if emancipation is situated as a step towards a final goal of recognition of shared identity, what, then, becomes of those publics for whom autonomous engagement involves the creation of pathways between themselves and the theatrical work that affirms a status of being not of this imagined national identity? Additionally, this suggestion of the necessity to meet certain criteria does not do much to move the larger conversation on the status of public theatre in France away from the framework of utility or usefulness that has created the image of crisis it is often plagued by, particularly when the conversation turns to “justifying” its continued subsidies. Even further, what it does not account for are not only the variety of negotiation types that are possible in the theatre space, but also the differing, and singular, artistic, and programming ethe currently in operation in public theatres that influence the range of possible negotiation pathways a spectator can expect to encounter in them. An alternative model of approaching the presence and fostering of the public theatre, however, does not necessarily

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imply an abandonment of State financial support. Rather, where it starts from is first in the reformulation of what kind of space the theatre house is. Instead of situating it as a space whose existence and inner operations serve a specific goal, one can begin here to rethink the theatre as, perhaps, a lot less stable than a universalist cultural politics would make it out to be. No longer a space of a singular function, the theatre here is one that is engaged in a constant process of renegotiation with itself in terms of what it wants to be. This structural fluidity is, again, reflected both through its artistic direction and through the fact that, in terms of programming, once the individual spectator enters the theatre space, they also enter into a process of redrawing boundaries and/or of establishing and at times destroying elements of spatial relationality. Elements often thought of as stable, such as the architecture of the space, become almost inconsequential when, as in Bovary, for example, following a word or a gesture from the stage, the space can move from a private room to a courtroom, to a suspended state, undefined except in the relationality the individuals in the house wish to set up with it in that moment. This does not, of course, mean that the public theatre cannot also be a space that engages in the kind of potentially exclusionary relation-building described earlier. They can, but even this points to a more global or structural rather than sitespecific problem. What has become the most evident throughout the course of this study is the extent of the independence that the theatres featured operate under in terms of their larger conceptions of the space in relation to both its patrons and its greater territory. Yet, rather than a detriment, what it arguably allows for is the creation of space for the development of a perspective of a theatre house as a single voice among—and that contains—multitudes, one that creates possibilities for interaction and critique on a singular level among its publics precisely because it is an extension of its own rather than a larger, national, cultural thesis. This does not, however, mean that all traces of the former, particularly the Malraux era, conception of the function of public theatre have entirely disappeared. There is, to a degree, even in this model, traces of universality in that concepts nominally referred to as “universal”—that is, they are applicable to and able to establish a relationality with all those who partake in the human experience—are still present not just in the projects of the artistic directors of the various theatre houses, but also in the pieces discussed in this study. Dying Together, Contes immoraux, Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner, Que viennent les barbares, and Trans (més enllà), for example, all touch on

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questions of community or of belonging. Similarly, Notre Innocence and, to some degree, Bovary address questions of mortality, of what remains of a life after a person has died. What changes in the recognition of the relative autonomy of the various theatres, however, is that these concepts regain some level of independence in that there is no longer attached to them the responsibility to uphold a larger ideal. Any conclusions that can be drawn from their engagement in the context of a larger theatrical work are, then, re-­localized in two places simultaneously. The first is in the artistic director, to the extent that such themes relate, in some way or another, back to their own larger project for the theatre whose programming they are currently running. The second is in the individual spectators. Yet, it would also be in error to say that this insistence on leaning into the plurality and emphasis on difference inherent in the “s” in publics is simultaneous with a move towards hyper-individualism. While it does call for an increased emphasis on the autonomy of individual patrons, this autonomy does not preclude the possibility for individual recognition of connection, of empathy, of momentary unity with others, even as it also allows for the possibility of the simultaneous creation of pockets of space for divergence, for potentially destabilizing voices to assert themselves, that is, a striking absence of any eventual consensus. In both cases, however, the connections come directly from the individuals in the public, of their own critical volition and manner of interpretation, as opposed to being directly, or more precisely, didactically, transmitted to them. Indeed, among other things, what this study into the state of spectator/spectacle relations in the public theatre scene in the Greater Paris region has revealed are the various possibilities for individual engagement not just with a theatrical work, but with a theatre in general, as though the latter was another part of those publics who otherwise patronized them. This can, in turn, arguably provide a possible avenue towards exploring what an applied cultural politics of the “s” could look like. Admittedly, it is difficult to divest entirely from the notion of necessity towards fulfilment of a need when attempting to answer the question as to why the State should continue its funding of public theatres. Insistence on the centrality of this necessity as a means of justification of validity, however, has not been without its own, not easily ignored drawbacks. Perhaps what needs to be changed, then, is the centrality of this necessity or rather a pluralization of it that mirrors the territorial expansion and multiplication of sites of cultural production that characterized the push towards theatre decentralization under Malraux. In this case, the “necessity” in

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question would be that of the need to “speak”, to use the theatre as a medium through which, on the side of the producer of the work, to grant space for one’s perspective and manner of conceiving of the world within the larger territorial framework and, at the same time, put this perspective on a level playing field with those of the persons who will eventually interact with it. One could classify such a process as a kind of multiplication of space or, to use a more familiar image, a continued adding of a seat to the table of public discourse. Yet, this spatial restructuring must also happen immediately, reflecting the urgency behind the need to rectify the glaring absence of certain (read: non-White, non-Western, non-masculine, non-­ heteronormative) perspectives in the public theatre space. We must break the table, in other words. To do otherwise, that is, taking “baby steps” via granting gradual permissions for full access and appropriation of space for the sake of stability, would only result in the maintenance of a status quo under the illusion of plurality. Conversely, while potentially more institutionally destabilizing in the immediate term, what a reorienting towards continuous plurality could, on a larger scale, potentially result in is the development of a larger theatre network that, in its variations, incoherencies, intersections, pluralities, and—critically—its moving away from the mythology of the singular imagined “public”, perhaps moves slightly closer to those publics it purports to engage in discourse with.

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———. 2018. La jeunesse à cœur ouvert de Wajdi Mouawad. Le Temps.ch. April 2. www.letemps.ch/culture/jeunesse-­coeur-­ouvert-­wajdi-­mouawad. Accessed 06 August 2022. Denailles, Corinne. 2018. Une jeunesse en quête de sens. WebThéâtre. March 23. www.webtheatre.fr/Notre-­innocence-­de-­Wajdi-­Mouawad. Accessed 06 August 2022. F. 2017. Écriture sans dialogue. La Parafe, December 12. www.laparafe. fr/2017/12/suis-­p ays-­d e-­v incent-­m acaigne-­a ux-­a mandiers-­e criture-­ dialogue/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Faudeil, Margot. “Je suis un pays”, L’amour de la destruction. Manifesto 21. November 26. manifesto-­21.com/suis-­pays-­de-­vincent-­macaigne-­lamour-­de-­ destruction/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Giolito, Christophe. 2018. Une fable fantastique aux résonances politiques et métaphysiques. Le Littéraire.com. January 13. www.lelitteraire.com/?p=36996. Accessed 06 August 2022. Guédot, Valérie. 2017. Une comédie burlesque et tragique de notre jeunesse passée. France Inter. October 23. www.franceinter.fr/theatre/je-­suis-­un-­pays-­de-­ vincent-­m acaigne-­a -­n anterre-­t heatre-­d es-­a mandiers-­d u-­2 5-­n ov-­a u-­5 -­ dec-­2017. Accessed 06 August 2022. Guillot, Augustin. 2017. “Je suis un pays” de Vincent Macaigne, point de future. Libération. November 30. https://www.liberation.fr/theatre/2017/11/30/ j e -­s u i s -­u n -­p a y s -­d e -­v i n c e n t -­m a c a i g n e -­p o i n t -­d e -­f u t u r _ 1 6 1 3 6 9 3 / ? redirected=1&redirected=1. Accessed 5 August 2022. Hotte, Véronique. 2018 Notre Innocence (anciennement Victoires). Hottello. March 18. hottellotheatre.wordpress.com/2018/03/18/notre-­innocence-­ anciennement-­victoires-­texte-­et-­mise-­en-­scene-­wajdi-­mouawad/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Kuttner, Hélène. 2017. Je suis un pays: Macaigne enflamme Nanterre. Artistikrezo. November 28. www.artistikrezo.com/spectacle/je-­suis-­un-­pays-­macaigne-­ enflamme-­nanterre.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. ———. 2018. “Notre Innocence” crie “Victoire” à la Colline. Artistikrezo. March 18. www.artistikrezo.com/spectacle/innocence-­crie-­victoire-­a-­colline.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Lacour, Théodore. 2017. Une sorte de liberté qui pourrait être anarchiste. Un fauteuil pour l’orchestre. November 29. unfauteuilpourlorchestre.com/je-­suis-­ un-­pays-­ecriture-­et-­mise-­en-­scene-­de-­vincent-­macaigne-­centre-­dramatique-­ national-­nanterre-­amandiers-­festival-­dautomne-­a-­paris/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Lasserre, Guillaume. 2017. Le crépuscule comme préambule à la renaissance: Macaigne, immense pays. Médiapart. December 12. blogs.mediapart.fr/ guillaume-­l asserre/blog/071217/le-­c repuscule-­c omme-­p reambule-­l a-­ renaissance-­macaigne-­immense-­pays. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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Le Morvan, Agnès. 2017. “Je suis un pays”, débridé et exubérant. Ouest France. November 13. www.ouest-­france.fr/bretagne/rennes-­35000/festival-­du-­tnb-­ rennes-­je-­suis-­un-­pays-­debride-­et-­exuberant-­5375915. Accessed 06 August 2022. Panegy, Rick. 2017. “Je suis un pays” une cohérence touchante. Rick et Pick. December 2. www.ricketpick.fr/2017/12/02/theatre-­critique-­je-­suis-­un-­ pays-­vincent-­macaigne/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Pascaud, Fabienne. 2018. À la Colline, Vincent Macaigne fait exploser le théâtre par tous les bouts. Télérama. May 29. www.telerama.fr/sortir/a-­la-­colline,­vincent-­macaigne-­fait-­exploser-­le-­theatre-­par-­tous-­les-­bouts,n5670358.php. Accessed 06 August 2022. Person, Philippe. 2018. Un sujet passionant qu’est l’“état de jeunesse”. Froggy’s delight. March 18. www.froggydelight.com/article-­20247-­Notre_innocence. Accessed 06 August 2022. Picheta, Alexandra. 2018. Mais le sang? Théâtre Actu. March 18. theatreactu. com/notre-­innocence/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Potiron, Jean-Michel. 2017. “Je suis un pays” Vincent Macaigne (2017). Blog jmp. September 25. blogjmpblog.wordpress.com/2017/09/25/je-­suis-­un-­ pays-­vincent-­macaigne-­2017/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Rossel, Natacha. 2017. “Mes pièces se révèlent dans leur rencontre avec le public”. 24 heures. September 16. www.24heures.ch/culture/theatre/pieces-­revelent-­ rencontrepublic/story/31310702. Accessed 06 August 2022. Salem, Lola. 2018. Braver le vide. I/O Gazette. March 18. www.iogazette.fr/critiques/creations/2018/braver-­le-­vide/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Sartoretti, Thiery. 2017. “Je suis un pays”: le théâtre explosif de Vincent Macaigne. RTS.ch September 9. www.rts.ch/info/culture/spectacles/8929867%2D% 2Dje-­suis-­unpays-­le-­theatre-­explosif-­de-­vincent-­macaigne.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Sourd, Patrick. 2017. Macaigne met le feu au lac. Les Inrocks. September 22. www. lesinrocks.com/2017/09/22/scenes/macaigne-­m et-­l e-­f eu-­a u-­l ac-­1 198 8309/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Thibaudet, Jean-Pierre. 2017. Vincent Macaigne, un artiste en état d’urgence permanent. Mediapart. September 23. https://blogs.mediapart.fr/jean-­pierre-­ thibaudat/blog/230917/vincent-­macaigne-­un-­artiste-­en-­etat-­d-­urgence­permanent. Accessed 5 August 2022. Ubetalli, Olivier. 2017. Vincent Macaigne: “Mieux vaut le théâtre que la guillotine”. Le Point. November 25. www.lepoint.fr/culture/vincent-­macaigne-­le-­ public-­est-­un-­acteur-­un-­etre-­vivant-­19-­11-­2017-­2173545_3.php. Accessed 06 August 2022. Velter, Marie. 2018. “Notre innocence,” cri d’une jeunesse à cœur ouvert: choc mais confus! Le Bruit du off tribune. March 27. lebruitduofftribune. com/2018/03/27/notre-­innocence-­cri-­dune-­jeunesse-­a-­coeur-­ouvert-­choc-­ mais-­confus/. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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219

Nanterre-Amandiers Beauvallet, Ève. 2019. “Ciao! C’est pas ça la gauche!” Philippe Quesne jette l’éponge aux Amandiers. Libération. July 14. next.liberation.fr/culture/2019/07/14/ciao-­c -­e st-­p as-­c a-­l a-­g auche-­p hilippe-­q uesne-­j ette-­l -­ eponge-­aux-­amandiers-­de-­nanterre_1739956. Accessed 20 July 2022. Communiqué de la Ville de Nanterre suite à l’annonce de Philippe Quesne de quitter la direction du Théâtre national des Amandiers. Ville de Nanterre, July 15, 2019. www.nanterre.fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. Cycle n.d. Mondes Possibles. Nanterre-Amandiers. nanterre-­amandiers.com/ cycles/mondes-­possibles. Accessed 06 August 2022. Déclaration du Maire de Nanterre suite à la nomination du nouveau directeur du Théâtre des Amandiers. Ville de Nanterre. November 29, 2013. www.nanterre. fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. Gayot, Joëlle. 2016. Philippe Quesne, dompteur de taupes. Une saison au théâtre. France Culture. October 23 www.franceculture.fr/emissions/une-­saison-­au-­ theatre/philippe-­quesne-­est-­un-­dompteur-­de-­taupes. Accessed 5 August 2022. Héliot, Armelle. 2013. Philippe Quesne prend la tête de Nanterre-Amandiers. Le Figaro. November 29. www.lefigaro.fr/theatre/2013/11/29/03003-­2013 1129ARTFIG00367philippe-­quesne-­prend-­la-­tete-­de-­nanterre-­les-­amandiers. php. Accessed 06 August 2022. Le Maire de Nanterre s’oppose à la décision de ne pas renouveler Jean-Louis Martinelli à la direction du Théâtre des Amandiers et demande à être reçu par la Ministre de la Culture. Ville de Nanterre, March 29, 2013. www.nanterre. fr/721-­les-­communiques.htm. Accessed 20 July 2022. Portraits. n.d. Philippe Quesne. Institut Français. www.institutfrancais.com/fr/ portrait/philippe-­quesne. Accessed 06 August 2022. Salino, Brigitte. 2013. Philippe Quesne dirigera le Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers. Le Monde. November 29. https://www.lemonde.fr/culture/article/2013/ 11/29/philippe-­quesne-­nomme-­a-­la-­tete-­du-­theatre-­nanterre-­amandiers_ 3522921_3246.html. Accessed 5 August 2022. Solis, René. 2013. Aurélie Filippetti impose Philippe Quesne à la tête du théâtre des Amandiers. Libération. November 29. next.liberation.fr/theatre/2013/11/29/aurelie-­filippetti-­impose-­philippe-­quesnes-­a-­la-­tete-­du-­ theatre-­des-­amandiers_962978. Accessed 20 July 2022.

Performances Dosch, Laetitia, writer and director. Hate. September 16, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Drouet, Léa, creator. Boundary Games. September 20, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre— Amandiers, Nanterre.

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Garcia, Rodrigo, writer and director. Evel Knievel contre Macbeth. March 29, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Kennedy, Susanne, director. Warum Läuft Herr R. Amok? [Pourquoi M.R. est-il attaint de folie meurtrière?], based on a screenplay by Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Michael Fengler. January 26, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Luz, Thom, director. Léonce et Léna, by Georg Büchner, January 17, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Maxwell, Richard, writer and director. Paradiso, October 4, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Ménard, Phia, concept and direction. Contes immoraux—partie 1: maison mère. May 13, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Mercier, Théo and Steven Michel, direction and choreography. Affordable Solutions for Better Living. October 16, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Morin, Gwenaël, director. Re-Paradise, by The Living Theatre, May 12, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Öhrn, Markus, director. Sonata Widm [La Sonate des Spectres], by August Strindberg, January 20, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Perez, Sophie and Xavier Boussiron, concept and direction. Purge, Baby, Purge, based on a text by Georges Feydeau, April 14, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre— Amandiers, Nanterre. Quesne, Philippe, director. Crash Park, la vie d’une île. November 27, 2018a. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. ———, writer and director. La démangeaison des ailes. March 15, 2018b. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. ———, concept and direction. La Nuit des Taupes. April 18, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Rau, Milo. La Reprise, histoire(s) du théâtre (I). September 23, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Régy, Claude, director. Rêve et Folie, by Georg Trakl. December 11, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Rosenthal, Ruth and Xavier Klaine (Winter Family), writers and directors. H2— Hebron. October 18, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Siéfert, Marion, director. Pièce d’actualité n°12: du sale! April 7, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Van den Berg, Lotte, director. Dying Together. March 31, 2019. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre. Yassef, Virginie, director. The Veldt [La Savane], based on a text by Ray Bradbury. November 20, 2018. Théâtre Nanterre—Amandiers, Nanterre.

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221

Critiques Beauvallet, Ève. 2018. “Maison mère” de Phia Ménard, un abri en débris. Libération. July 08. https://www.liberation.fr/theatre/2018/07/08/maison­mere-­de-­phia-­menard-­un-­abri-­en-­debris_1665038/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Bliman, Marianne. 2019. Penser l’Europe et le réchauffement climatique avec Phia Ménard. Les Echos May 15. https://www.lesechos.fr/weekend/spectacles-­ musique/penser-­leurope-­et-­le-­rechauffement-­climatique-­avec-­phia-­menard-­1 212157#xtor=AD-­6000. Accessed 14 July 2022. Blisson, Cathy. 2019. “Dying Together” en position fatale. Libération. March 28. next.liberation.fr/theatre/2019/03/28/dying-­t ogether-­e n-­p osition-­ fatale_1718010. Accessed 20 July 2022. Braz-Vieira, Chloë. 2019. “Contes immoraux—Partie 1: maison mère” de Phia Ménard: déesse sisyphienne. Maze. May 16. https://maze.fr/2019/05/ contes-­immoraux-­partie-­1-­maison-­mere-­de-­phia-­menard-­deesse-­sisyphienne/. Accessed 14 July 2022. Caruana, Stéphane. 2019. La Dernière pièce de Phia Ménard aux subsistances. Hétéroclite. June 5. https://www.heteroclite.org/2019/06/phia-­menard-­ subsistances-­maison-­mere-­57822. Accessed 06 August 2022. Dieutre, Vincent. 2019. Phia Ménard: Maison Mère (Contes immoraux—Partie 1). Diacritik. May 28. https://diacritik.com/2019/05/28/phia-­menard-­ maison-­mere-­contes-­immoraux-­partie-­1/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Dying Together. Paris Art. March 29, 2019., www.paris-­art.com/lotte-­van-­den-­ berg-­nanterre-­amandiers-­dying-­together/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Dying Together de Lotte van den Berg. Sceneweb. March 29, 2019. sceneweb.fr/ dying-­together-­de-­lotte-­van-­den-­berg/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Ménard, Phia, Les Contes Immoraux—Partie 1: Maison Mère. Cie Non Nova, 2022. http://www.cienonnova.com/portfolio/les-­contes-­immoraux-­partie-­1­maison-­mere/. Accessed 14 July 2022.

MC93 Archambault, Hortense. 2018. Carnets #6. La MC93 de janvier à juin 2019. MC93.. www.mc93.com/magazine/carnets-­6. Accessed 20 July 2022. Billetterie. MC93. www.mc93.com/billetterie/accueil#pass_illimite_anchor. Accessed 20 July 2022. Bliman, Marianne. 2018. Femmes de culture, femmes de combat: Hortense Archambault. Les Echos, August 24. weekend.lesechos.fr/culture/spectacles/ 0302035840570-­femmes-­de-­culture-­femmes-­de-­combat-­hortense-­archambau lt-­2199774.php. Accessed 20 July 2022. Bouchez, Emmanuelle. 2017. Hortense Archambault: “Le théâtre ne peut pas tout régler mais il a un rôle à jouer” Télérama. May 11 (updated February 01,

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2018) www.telerama.fr/scenes/hortense-­archambault-­le-­theatre-­ne-­peut-­pas-­ toutregler-­mais-­il-­a-­un-­role-­a-­jouer,157673.php. Accessed 20 July 2022. Bourgeois, Raphaël. 2017. Le théâtre ideal d’Hortense Archambault. La Grande Table, France Culture. May 29. www.franceculture.fr/emissions/la-­grande-­ table-­1ere-­partie/le-­theatre-­ideal-­dhortense-­archambault. Accessed 20 July 2022. Cavafy, Constantin. n.d. Περιμένοντας τοὺς Bαρβάρους. The Cavafy Archive—The Canon. Onassis Foundation, https://www.onassis.org/el/initiatives/cavafy-­ archive/the-­canon/waiting-­for-­the-­barbarians. Accessed 26 July 2022. Festival d’Avignon. 2003–2013. www.festival-­avignon.com/fr/histoire#2003­2013. Accessed 20 July 2022. Fiche technique générale de la MC93. n.d. MC93. www.mc93.com/sites/default/ files/fiche_technique_mc93-­19.pdf. Accessed 20 July 2022. Formulaire 12753*03. n.d. Service-Public.fr. https://www.service-­public.fr/particuliers/vosdroits/R16995. Accessed 5 August 2022. Fuchs, Baptiste. 2017. Les droits culturels à la MC93: conforter la visée universelle et populaire du théâtre public. L’Observatoire N° 49: 49–52. Gross, Terry. 2013. “Orange” Creator Jenji Kohan: “Piper Was My Trojan Horse.” NPR. August 13. www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php? storyId=211639989. Accessed 20 July 2022 La Fabrique d’expériences. Rejoignez le conseil des jeunes! MC93. www.mc93. com/saison/rejoignez-­le-­conseil-­des-­jeunes. Accessed 20 July 2022. La garderie éphémère. n.d. MC93. https://www.mc93.com/info-­pratiques/ garderie-­ephemere. Accessed 05 August 2022. La MC93 de Bobigny, dans ses habits neufs, veut s’ouvrir sur la ville. Franceinfo. May 22, 2017. www.francetvinfo.fr/culture/spectacles/theatre/la-­mc93-­de-­ bobigny-­d ans-­s es-­h abits-­n eufs-­v eut-­s -­o uvrir-­s ur-­l a-­v ille_3280745.html. Accessed 5 August 2022. Le Projet de la nouvelle direction. MC93. July 1, 2015. www.mc93.com/la-­ mc93/le-­projet-­de-­la-­nouvelle-­direction. Accessed 20 July 2022. N°1014 Rapport d’information déposé en en application de l’article 146-3, alinéa 6, du Règlement, par le Comité d’Évaluation et de Contrôle des Politiques Publiques sur l’évaluation de l’action de l’État dans l’exercice de ses missions régaliennes en Seine-Saint-Denis et présenté par MM.  François CORNUT-GENTILLE et Rodrigue KOKOUENDO députés. L’Assemblée Nationale. May 31, 2018. Pascaud, Fabienne. 2013. Dix ans d’Avignon avec Hortense Archambault et Vincent Baudriller: “Il ne faut pas avoir peur des artistes”. Télérama. July 27. www.telerama.fr/festivals-­e te/2013/dix-­a ns-­d -­a vignon-­a vec-­h ortense-­ a r c h a m b a u l t -­e t -­v i n c e n t -­b a u d r i l l e r-­i l -­n e -­f a u t -­p a s -­a v o i r-­p e u r-­d e s -­ artistes,100607.php. Accessed 20 July 2022. Robert, Martine. 2017. La MC93 se veut un modèle de la culture pour tous. Les Échos. May 29. www.lesechos.fr/2017/05/la-­mc93-­se-­veut-­un-­modele-­de-­la-­ culture-­pour-­tous-­171554. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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223

Salino, Brigitte. 2017. Hortense Archambault: “Rassembler les gens qui ne se ressemblent pas”. Le Monde. March 20. www.lemonde.fr/scenes/article/2017/03/20/hortense-­a rchambault-­r assembler-­d es-­g ens-­q ui-­n e­se-­ressemblent-­pas_5097365_1654999.html. Accessed 20 July 2022. Volle, Hadrien. 2017. Hortense Archambault prépare la réouverture de la MC93. Scèneweb, April 20. sceneweb.fr/itw-­hortense-­archambault-­prepare-­reouver ture-­de-­mc93/. Accessed 06 August 2022.

Performances Abecassis, Eryck and Olivia Rosenthal, concept and direction. Macadam Animal. December 8, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Bel, Jérôme, choreography. The Show Must Go On. December 16, 2017, MC93— Bobigny, Bobigny. Costa, Silvia, director. Dans le pays d’hiver, based on texts by Cesare Pavese, November 18, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Creuzevault, Sylvain, director. Au Désert précédé de Un Coup de Dés jamais n'abolira le Hasard, based on a text by Stephan Mallarmé, December 15, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. El Attar, Ahmed, writer and director. Mama. October 11, 2018, MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Gintersdorfer, Monika, director. Nana ou est-ce que tu connais le bara? based on a Text by Emile Zola, February 13, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Gosselin, Julien. director and performer. Le Père, based on a text by Stéphanie Chaillou, September 25, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Ingold, Grégoire, director. Gymnase Platon, based on Plato, March 28, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Kaegi, Stefan and Dominic Huber (Rimini Protokoll), writers and directors. Nachlass, pièces sans personnes. November 7, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Kirsch, Paul, director. La Princesse Maleine, by Maurice Maeterlinck. October 14, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Louarn, Madeleine, director. Le Grand théâtre d’Oklahama, based on a text by Franz Kafka, January 31, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Martinelli, Jean-Louis, director. Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner, by Christine Citti, January 24, 2019, MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Marzouki, Myriam, director. Que viennent les barbares, by Sébastien Lepotvin and Myriam Marzouki, March 14, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Meurisse, Jean-Christophe, director. Jusque dans vos bras, Les Chiens de Navarre, company, April 24, 2018. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Pauthe, Célie, director. Le Chauve-souris, based on an operetta by Henri Melhac and Ludovic Halévy, March 16, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Sika, Hervé, director. Douze cordes. May 3, 2019. MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Vassiliev, Anatoli, director. Le Récit d’un homme inconnu. by Anton Chekhov, March 29, 2018, MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny. Vincey, Jacques, director. La Réunification des deux Corées, by Joël Pommerat, November 29, 2018, MC93—Bobigny, Bobigny.

Critiques Barbancey, Pierre. 2017. Au cour d’une foyer d’urgence pour ados avec Christine Citti. Le Journal des Activités Sociales de l’énergie. January 17. journal.ccas.fr/ ils-­navaient-­pas-­prevu-­quon-­allait-­gagner-­au-­coeur-­dun-­foyer-­durgence-­pour-­ ados-­avec-­christine-­citti/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Bouquet, Vincent. 2019. Les barbares fantômes de Myriam Marzouki. sceneweb.fr. March 20. https://sceneweb.fr/que-­viennent-­les-­barbares-­de-­sebastien-­ lepotvin-­et-­myriam-­marzouki/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Candoni, Christophe. 2019. Pas de théâtre au foyer, seulement la dure réalité. Sceneweb, January 20. sceneweb.fr/jean-­louis-­martinelli-­met-­en-­scene-­ils-­ navaient-­pas-­prevu-­quon-­allait-­gagner-­de-­christine-­citti/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Cantù, Frédérique. 2019. Le théâtre en prise avec le réel. ARTE. January 18. www.arte.tv/fr/videos/087351-­0 00-­A /le-­t heatre-­e n-­p rise-­a vec-­l e-­r eel/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Champenois, Sabrina. 2019. “Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner”, dans la pétaudière de la protection de l’enfance. Libération January 16. www.liberation.fr/france/2019/01/16/ils-­n-­avaient-­pas-­prevu-­qu-­on-­allait-­gagner-­ dans-­la-­petaudiere-­de-­la-­protection-­de-­l-­enfance_1702988. Accessed 20 July 2022. D’Agostin, Kristina. 2016. Éternelle humanité. Carnet d’Art. September 16. www.carnetdart.com/nachlass/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Diatkine, Anne. 2019. Des “Barbares” en crise d’identités. Libération. March 28. https://www.liberation.fr/theatre/2019/03/28/des-­barbares-­en-­crise-­d-­ identites_1718009/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Nguyen, Huê Trinh. 2019. “Que viennent les barbares”: le théâtre politique et poétique de Myriam Marzouki. Saphirnews. March 21. https://www. saphirnews.com/Que-­viennent-­les-­barbares-­le-­theatre-­politique-­et-­poetique-­ de-­Myriam-­Marzouki_a26157.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Toulouse. 2019. Que viennent les Barbares, mise en scène de Myriam Marzouki, à la MC93. Un Fauteuil pour L’Orchestre. March 18. http://unfauteuilpourlorchestre.com/que-­v iennent-­l es-­b arbares-­m ise-­e n-­s cene-­d e-­m yriam-­ marzouki-­a-­la-­mc93/. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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225

Théâtre de la Bastille Hordé, Jean-Marie. 2008a. Le Démocratiseur. De quelle médiocrité la démocratisation culturelle est-elle aujourd’hui l’aveu? Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. ———. 2008b. Un directeur artistique. Pour un théâtre singulier. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. ———. 2017. L’Artiste et le populiste. Quel peuple pour quel théâtre ? Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. Présentation. n.d.-b Théâtre de la Bastille. www.theatre-­bastille.com/le-­theatre/ presentation. Accessed 06 August 2022 Rodrigues, Tiago. 2015. Bovary. Trans. Thomas Resendes. Besançon: Les Solitaires Intempestifs. Saison 2014–2015. n.d. Papers, manuscripts and archives. Département des Arts du spectacle, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, code WNA–13 (2014–2015). ——— 2016–2017. n.d. Papers, manuscripts and archives. Département des Arts du spectacle, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, code WNA–13 (2016–2017).

Performances Amann, Baptiste, writer and director. Des territoires (…d’une prison l’autre…). November 13, 2017. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Béasse, Nathalie, director. Roses. May 22, 2019, Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Champinot, Céline, writer and director. La Bible. Vaste entreprise de colonisation d’une planète habitable. November 30, 2018. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Geselson, David, director. Doreen, based on a text by André Gorz, January 21, 2019. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Mata, Oscar Gómez, director. Le Direktør, based on a film by Lars von Trier, March 15, 2019. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Minder, Florence, writer and director. Saison 1. December 17, 2018. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Rodrigues, Tiago, writer and director. Bovary. March 12, 2018a, Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. ———, writer and director. Sopro. November 19, 2018b. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Ruiz, Didier, director. Trans (més enllà). February 10, 2019. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Tg Stan and De Roovers, concept and direction. Infidèles. September 11, 2018. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Tg Stan, concept and direction. Quoi/Maintenant. January 29, 2018, Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Thomasset, Vincent, director. Ensemble ensemble. October 19, 2017, Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris. Verdonck, Benjamin, director. Chansonette pour Gigi. February 16, 2019. Théâtre de la Bastille, Paris.

226 

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Critiques Adler, Laura. 2018. Désirs avec Tiago Rodrigues. L’Heure bleue, France Inter. March 1. www.franceinter.fr/emissions/l-­heure-­bleue/l-­heure-­bleue-­01-­ mars-­2018. Accessed 06 August 2022. Barbaud, Marie-Laure. 2018. Bovary ou “La mémoire de l’injustice”. M La Scène. March 4. mlascene-­blog-­theatre.fr/bovary-­tiago-­rodrigues/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Blaustein Niddam, Amelie. 2018. “Trans (més enllà)”, Didier Ruiz nous trouble au festival d’Avignon Toute la Culture. July 10. toutelaculture.com/spectacles/ theatre/trans-­enlla-­didier-­ruiz-­trouble-­festival-­davignon/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Brianchon, Jean-Christophe. 2016. Vie et mort de Madame Bovary. I/O Gazette. April 18. www.iogazette.fr/critiques/regards/2016/vie-­mort-­de-­madame-­ bovary/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Brizault, Nicolas. 2019. Ce n’est pas le sexe qui donne le genre. Un Fauteuil pour L’Orchestre. February 8. unfauteuilpourlorchestre.com/trans-­mes-­enlla-­mise-­ en-­de-­didier-­ruiz-­theatre-­de-­la-­bastille-­paris/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Candoni, Christophe. 2016. Madame Bovary, heroine litigieuse de Tiago Rodrigues. Toute la culture. April 18. toutelaculture.com/spectacles/theatre/ bovary/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Charon, Aurélie. 2018. “TRANS”, naître en scène. Libération. July 16 next.liberation.fr/theatre/2018/07/16/trans-­naitre-­en-­scene_1666911. Accessed 22 July 2022. ———. 2019. Ian de la Rosa, l’un dans l’autre. Libération. January 31. next.liberation.fr/theatre/2019/01/31/ian-­de-­la-­rosa-­l-­un-­dans-­l-­autre_1706639. Accessed 22 July 2022. Chevilley, Philippe. 2016. Emma Bovary prend la Bastille. Les Echos. April 14. www.lesechos.fr/week-­e nd/culture/spectacles/021834361948-­e mma-­ bovary-­prend-­la-­bastille-­1213781.php#xtor=AD-­6000. Accessed 06 August 2022. D’Agostin, Kristina. 2018. Des paroles libérées. Carnet d’Art. July 14. www.carnetdart.com/trans-­mes-­enlla/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Demey, Eric. 2018. Trans (més enllà). Journal la Terrasse. June 22. www.journal-­ laterrasse.fr/trans-­mes-­enlla/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Dion, Jack. 2020. Cachez ces esprits subversifs que je ne saurais tolérer! Marianne. April 17. www.marianne.net/theatre/cachez-­ces-­esprits-­subversifs-­que-­je-­ne-­ saurais-­tolerer-­100242175.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Draparon, Christian. 2018. Le “cas Emma B”. Crayonné au théâtre. March 5. thtre132.wordpress.com/2018/03/05/le-­c as-­e mma-­b -­b ovary-­m ise-­e n-­ scene-­tiago-­rodrigues/. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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227

F. 2016. Quand la littérature devient théâtre. La Parafe. April 20. www.laparafe. fr/2016/04/bovary-­dapres-­flaubert-­a-­la-­bastille-­quand-­la-­litterature-­devient-­ theatre/. Accessed 22 July 2022. Garnier, Nicolas. Passions libertaires. Ma Culture. April 18. maculture.fr/theatre/ bovary-­tiago-­rodrigues/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Han, Jean-Pierre. 2016. Madame Bovary dans toute sa lumière. Frictions. April 17. revue-­frictions.net/enligne/index.php?post/2016/04/17/Madame-­ Bovary-­dans-­toutesa-­lumière. Accessed 06 August 2022. Héliot, Armelle. 2016. Un laborieux spectacle de Tiago Rodrigues. Le grand théâtre du monde, Le Figaro. April 17. blog.lefigaro.fr/theatre/2016/04/ bovary-­un-­laborieux-­spectacle.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Heluin, Anaïs. 2018. Didier Ruiz met Avignon en Trans. Sceneweb. July 9. sceneweb.fr/trans-­enlla-­de-­didier-­ruiz/. Accessed 11 Mar. 2020. Hotte, Véronique. 2016 Dans l’effervescence d’un rapport inné de la littérature au théâtre. Théâtre du blog. April 13. theatredublog.unblog.fr/2016/04/13/ bovary-­texte-­et-­mise-­en-­scene-­de-­tiago-­rodrigues/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Kuttner, Hélène. 2018b. Didier Ruiz: les “trans” sont la revolution de demain. Artistikrezo. July 22. www.artistikrezo.com/spectacle/didier-­ruiz-­les-­trans-­ sont-­la-­revolution-­de-­demain.html. Accessed 20 July 2022. Lasserre, Guillaume. 2018. Bovary ou la création artistique en procès. Médiapart. March 8. blogs.mediapart.fr/guillaume-­lasserre/blog/040318/bovary-­ou-­la-­ creation-­artistique-­en-­proces. Accessed 06 August 2022. Merle, Sylvain. 2018. Soufflés par cette “Bovary” revisitée. Le Parisien. March 19. www.leparisien.fr/culture-­loisirs/sortir-­region-­parisienne/theatre-­souffles-­par-­ cette-­bovary-­revisitee-­19-­03-­2018-­7616604.php. Accessed 06 August 2022. Naud, Elisabeth. 2019. “Trans (més enllà)” de Didier Ruiz. Théâtre du blog. February 11. theatredublog.unblog.fr/2019/02/11/trans-­mes-­enlla-­de-­ didier-­ruiz/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Pascaud, Fabienne. 2016a. La lecture lumineuse du roman de Flaubert par Tiago Rodrigues. Télérama. May 3. www.telerama.fr/sortir/bovary-­la-­relecture-­ lumineuse-­du-­roman-­de-­flaubert-­par-­tiago-­rodrigues,141217.php. Accessed 06 August 2022. ———. 2016b. Tiago Rodrigues: “N’est-ce pas un geste révolutionnaire que d’aller au théâtre?” Télérama. April 11. www.telerama.fr/scenes/le-­metteur-­ en-­scene-­tiago-­rodrigues-­n-­est-­ce-­pas-­un-­geste-­revolutionnaire-­que-­d-­aller-­ au-­theatre,140825.php. Accessed 06 August 2022. Prieur, Xavier. 2019. “Trans (més enllà)”—Au-delà de la naissance. Culturopoing. February 6. www.culturopoing.com/scenes-­expos/trans-­mes-­enlla-­m-­e-­s-­ didier-­r uiz/20190206?fbclid=IwAR22FGDZS17xEAY9dHB7tAHmROuhqh ioU3xXpXjs4FJOh3yFaM2uJzgCWfw. Accessed 06 August 2022.

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Saint Loup. 2016. La vie est un songe et la République un roman. Le nouvel Economiste. April 22. www.lenouveleconomiste.fr/bovary-­a-­la-­bastille-­30566/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Salino, Brigitte. 2016. Madame Bovary à la barre. Le Monde. May 5. www.lemonde.fr/scenes/article/2016/05/05/madame-­bovary-­a-­la-­barre_4914087_ 1654999.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. ———. 2018. Femme ou homme, juste être soi. Le Monde. July 12. www.lemonde.fr/festival-­d-­avignon/article/2018/07/12/femme-­ou-­homme-­juste-­ etre-­soi_5330176_4406278.html. Accessed 06 August 2022. Sanglard, Denis. 2016. Madame Bovary ce sont eux! Un Fauteuil pour L’Orchestre. April 14. unfauteuilpourlorchestre.com/bovary-­de-­tiago-­rodrigues-­au-­theatre­de-­la-­bastille/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Sibony, Judith. 2016. À la lumière de Madame Bovary. Coup de théâtre. April 15. theatre.blog.lemonde.fr/2016/04/15/a-­la-­lumiere-­de-­madame-­bovary/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Sirach, Marie-José. 2016. Accusée Emma Bovary, levez-vous! L’Humanité. April 18. www.humanite.fr/accusee-­emma-­bovary-­levez-­vous-­604879. Accessed 06 August 2022. ———. 2018. Masculin, féminin, est-ce une fille ou un garçon? L’Humanité. July 12. www.humanite.fr/avignon-­masculin-­feminin-­est-­ce-­une-­fille-­ou-­un-­ garcon-­657981. Accessed 06 August 2022. Soleymat, Manuel Piolat. 2016. Une exploration multidimensionnelle passionnante. Journal la Terrasse. April 26. www.journal-­laterrasse.fr/bovary/. Accessed 06 August 2022. Thibaudat, Jean-Pierre. 2016. “Bovary” debout occupe le théâtre de la Bastille. Médiapart. April 13. blogs.mediapart.fr/jean-­pierre-­thibaudat/blog/120416/ bovary-­debout-­occupe-­le-­theatre-­de-­la-­bastille. Accessed 06 August 2022. Volle, Hadrien. 2016. Tiago Rodrigues occupe le Théâtre de la Bastille. Sceneweb. April 17. www.sceneweb.fr/tiago-­rodrigues-­occupe-­le-­theatre-­de-­la-­bastille/. Accessed 06 August 2022.

Index1

A Abirached, Robert, 12, 17n18, 52n4, 52n6, 52n7, 52n9, 53n11, 53n17 Access, 22, 25, 28, 38, 61, 135, 137 accessibility, 22, 127 cultural access, 26, 37, 39, 135 Alabama (Notre Innocence), 64, 70–73 Albanel, Christine, 46 Alienation, 51, 83 de-alienation, 95 Alston, Adam, 101 Appropriate, see Appropriation, appropriate Appropriation, 7–10, 13, 14, 47, 97, 99, 127, 131, 134, 144, 172, 186, 205 appropriate, 8, 26, 31, 96, 166 reappropriation, 85, 199 Archambault, Hortense, 15, 125–137, 149, 150 Architecture, 6–9, 115, 126, 203 scenic architecture, 6

Architecture-scape, 92 Aristotle, 32 Artistic director, 3, 5, 11–16, 28, 41, 56, 63, 90, 92, 93, 121, 126–128, 163–171, 203, 204 artistic direction, 13, 15, 200, 202, 203 Assemblage, 32, 57, 72, 134 Athens, 32, 33, 114–116, 118, 120 Athens-as-birthplace, 118 Autonomy, 7, 10, 26, 27, 35, 38, 44, 79, 86, 110, 148, 185, 186, 191, 195, 196, 202, 204 Avignon (city), 128 B Baudriller, Vincent, 128 Benda, Julien, 60 Biet, Christian, 6 Bifrontal relationship, 80 Binary, 187–189, 191–193, 195, 196

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 I. Gonis, Re-Situating Public Theatre in Contemporary France, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-22472-0

229

230 

INDEX

Bobigny (city), 125–127, 131, 132, 134, 136 Bogart, Anne, 9 Boisliveau, Mathieu, 174, 179, 180 Gustave Flaubert (Bovary), 174, 179 Léon (Bovary), 180 Boisliveau-as-Flaubert, 180 Bovary, 171–184, 203, 204 Braunschweig, Stéphane, 3 C Carrel, Marion, 129, 130 Catharsis, 68 Cavafy, Constantine, 152, 160 Centralization, 148 Centralized dynamics, 148 Centre, 20, 23, 26, 27, 29, 50, 51, 127, 139, 146, 149, 157 political centre, 16 Centre Dramatique National (CDN), 29, 55, 56, 90, 91, 93 National Drama Centres, 16 Certeau, Michel de, 7–9 Chorus (Notre Innocence), 66, 67, 70, 72, 73 Citti, Christine, 137–149, 152 Collective, 26, 32, 37, 38, 59, 72, 102, 109, 129, 173, 174, 182 collectivity, 57, 168, 182 Comédie-Française, 16, 23, 25, 26, 55 Commercialization, 23 Communion, 94, 98 Community, 31, 34, 36, 41, 91–93, 97, 99, 100, 102, 103, 111–113, 118, 120, 128, 129, 135, 186, 187, 192, 196, 204 community-building, 67, 97, 99, 119 community-making, 100 community creation, 102, 103, 108, 110, 118, 128

community outreach, 128, 129, 132 transgender community, 187, 192, 196 Consciousness, 10, 103, 104 Consensus, 15, 37, 48, 109, 191, 199, 204 Constellation, 107–111 Consumerism, 20 Contes Immoraux–Partie I: Maison Mère, 112–121, 203 Convergence, 2, 3, 6, 16, 33, 44, 199 Copeau, Jacques, 23, 24 Cross-temporal dialogue, 22 Cultural, 28, 39 Cultural capital, 58, 61 Cultural politics of the “s”, 204 Culture, 19–22, 30, 36–39, 41, 43, 44, 46, 47, 201 D d’Aubignac, François Hédelin, 3 De la Rosa, Ian (Trans), 192–195 Debauche, Pierre, 90 Décentralisation théâtrale, 4 decentralization, 11–14, 19–52, 56 decentralization process, 32 decentralization project, 4, 12, 13, 25, 33, 37, 52, 125 theatre decentralization, 4, 22–29, 204 Décolonisons les Arts!, 145 Democracy, 30, 32, 114, 118 Democratization, 24, 25, 30, 46, 135 Denis, Michel, 8 Destabilization, 26, 40, 45, 49, 112, 120, 121, 159, 173, 180, 188, 204, 205 destabilize, 146, 155 Dialogue, 154, 156, 157

 INDEX 

Didactic, 9, 73, 111, 113, 145, 154, 158, 189–191, 195 approach, 116 model, 34, 70, 113, 157 relationship, 71 theatre, 35 Difference, 15, 31, 32, 36, 48, 63, 87, 100, 129, 134, 137, 149, 151–155, 157, 167–169, 182, 191, 196, 200–202, 204 Discord, 15, 48, 92, 200, 201 Dissensus, 134, 168 Divergence, 48, 74, 87, 155, 169, 172, 200–202, 204 Diversity, 15, 132, 134, 135, 137, 149, 150, 195, 196 diversification, 4 Doumbia, Eva, 145 Duhamel, Jacques, 37–41 Dying Together, 99–113, 117, 121, 203 Dynamics, 5, 7–10, 27, 32, 70, 71, 73, 75, 79, 98, 134, 137–149, 165–167, 169, 177, 178, 182, 183, 191, 194 dynamics of relationality, 86 master/student, 10 negotiation-based, 14, 49 performer/spectator, 80 power, 10, 145 relational, 4, 9–14, 58, 106 spatial, 7, 9, 14, 72, 82, 107 E Emancipation, 10, 51, 63, 86, 169, 201, 202 emancipating theatre, 11 emancipation of the spectator, 9 emancipator, 13 emancipatory, 69, 181, 200 individual emancipation, 74

231

social emancipation, 10–11, 38 spectator emancipation, 63, 183, 202 Encounter, 11, 99, 127, 134, 144, 160 Engagement, 73, 74, 95–97, 99, 101, 109–111, 113, 120, 121, 129, 134, 148, 158–160, 165, 180, 183, 184, 191, 192, 202, 204 critical engagement, 62, 74, 110, 111, 191, 192 direct engagement, 97, 128 Epic, 64, 74 Exchange, 3, 21, 35, 41, 42, 44, 68, 99, 126, 127, 144, 145, 149, 160, 176, 178, 180, 182, 193 Experimentation, 40, 49, 93 F Filippetti, Aurelie, 90, 92 Fraser, Nancy, 130 French identity, 19 French State, 155, 156 Frontality, 65, 158 bi-frontality, 82 frontal dynamic, 71, 72, 158 frontal relationship, 8, 116, 157, 158 Front Populaire, 25, 26 G Gaulle, Charles de, 19, 30 Gaze, 184, 186–189, 192, 194, 196 gazing, 187, 188 Gémier, Firmin, 24 Gender binary, 185, 188, 193 Gender identity, 185, 187, 193 Geselson, David, 176, 178 Sénard (Bovary), 176, 178 Greece, 32, 63, 66, 115

232 

INDEX

Greek, 58 Greek dramatists, 59 Greek theatre, 57 Greek tragedy, 32, 57, 58 H Habermas, Jürgen, 130 Hamidi-Kim, Bérénice, 12, 13, 85 Heterogeneity, 24, 48, 74, 94, 99, 100, 111, 137, 149, 168, 169, 183, 199 heterogeneous, 3, 5, 15, 20, 24, 38, 113, 149, 168 Homogeneity, 3, 20, 48, 120, 171 homogeneous, 24, 113, 120 homogenization, 3, 7, 10, 38, 173 Hordé, Jean-Marie, 15, 112, 163–171 I Identity, 4, 19, 31, 36, 37, 48, 67, 72, 102, 152, 154–157, 171, 172, 185, 187, 189, 191, 193, 194, 202 collective identity, 67 cultural identity, 42 French identity, 40, 47, 152, 154, 156 gender identity, 4 national/national-cultural identity, 19, 32, 33, 44, 202 sociocultural identity, 4, 99 sociopolitical identity, 4 Ideology, 20, 21, 60–62, 74, 158, 159 material(-based) ideology, 59–61, 74 Ils n’avaient pas prévu qu’on allait gagner, 137–150, 152, 157, 203 Inclusion inclusivity, 97, 126, 167, 170 public inclusion, 24

Individual space, 9 Instability, 30, 36, 77, 113, 117, 139, 156, 172, 176 Intellectual engagement, 158, 160 Intellectual labour, 190, 195 Intermittants de spectacle, 1, 2 intermittent workers, 1 Intersection, 5, 135, 205 J Jacotot, Joseph, 190 Jarry, Patrick, 91, 92 Je suis un pays, 63, 74, 75, 80–82, 85, 86 K Kohan, Jenji, 137, 138, 140, 142, 148 L Labor hidden labour, 2 intellectual labour, 147, 158 labour movement(s), 3 La Colline, Théâtre National, 15, 55–87, 149, 170 Landau, Tina, 9 Lang, Jack, 36, 40–42, 44–52, 55 La Nuit des taupes, 94–99, 112, 113, 121 Loi sur le spectacle, 28 M Macaigne, Vincent, 63, 75, 76, 80, 85, 86 Macro-Alabama, 73 Maison(s) de la Culture MC(s), 19, 20, 33–36, 47, 90, 131

 INDEX 

Malraux, André, 12, 19–22, 25, 30–48, 52n1, 53n16, 53n17, 53n19, 54n27, 56, 63, 89, 90, 125, 131, 202–204 Marginalized dynamics, 148 Marginalized groups, 47, 138, 139 Marginalized persons, 145 Marginalized space, 144 Margins, 139, 149 marginalization, 47 marginalized, 50, 138, 139, 146–148, 186 Martinelli, Jean-Louis, 91, 92, 137–149 Marzouki, Myriam, 150–160 May 1968, 66, 67 Generation ’68, 66, 67 Youth of ’68, 66 MC93, Bobigny, 15, 36, 57, 125–160, 170 Ménard, Phia, 98, 112–121 Millennials, 67 millennial generation, 63, 65 Minister, 44 Ministère de la Vie Culturelle, 25 Ministère des Affaires Culturelles, 30 Minister of Culture, 12, 19, 36, 40, 44, 46, 48, 55, 90 Ministry, 16, 33, 40, 41, 43–45, 48, 91, 92 Ministry of Culture, 1, 16, 30–37, 40, 45, 47, 90, 91, 200, 202 Monsaingeon, Grégoire, 176 Charles Bovary (Bovary), 176, 177 Monsaingeon-as-Charles, 180 Mouawad, Wajdi, 15, 56–64, 74, 86, 87, 149 N Nanterre (city), 90–94, 97, 98, 112, 121, 129 Nanterre-Amandiers, 170

233

Narrative, 12, 20, 28, 30, 32, 34–36, 38, 42, 48, 50, 56, 58, 63, 64, 70, 77, 96–98, 112–121, 138, 139, 142, 151, 154, 157, 159, 174, 176–179, 181, 182, 185–187, 191, 195 narrative of crisis, 12 personal narrative, 185, 191 Nation-building, 19 Negotiation, 5, 7, 9, 51, 80, 86, 99, 138, 148, 149, 171, 188, 194, 201, 202 pathways, 202 types, 202 Neveux, Olivier, 10, 11, 49, 50, 120, 164, 181 Non-space, 13 Norm, 150, 151 Notre Innocence, 63, 64, 69, 70, 74, 86, 204 O Occupation, 3 Occupation Odéon, 1, 2, 4, 199, 200 “Ode à l’ennemie,” 60 Other, 60, 142, 150–152, 154, 156, 157, 164–169, 172–183, 185–193, 195, 196 Othering, 61 P Palacio-as-Emma, 180 Palacios, Alma, 176 Emma Bovary (Bovary), 176 Parks, Suzan-Lori, 150, 151 Parthenon, 118–120 Participation, 20, 34, 80, 99, 101, 105, 108, 110, 117 active participation, 78 indirect participation, 110, 118, 120 productive participation, 101, 105

234 

INDEX

Pathways, 24, 52, 64, 73, 74, 118, 138, 158, 163–172, 186, 187, 200, 202 Pedagogical, 11 Pedagogy, 11, 25, 119, 190, 191 civic pedagogy, 25 pedagogical model, 181, 191 pedagogical theatre, 189 Performer/spectator dynamic, 191 Pétain, Philippe, 26, 27 Maréchal Pétain, 26 Physical space, 177 Picon, Gaëtan, 34 Place, 6–8 playing place, 7 scenic place, 6, 7 scenographic place, 6 theatrical place, 6 Plato, 96 Plural, 164, 168, 171, 175, 194 Plurality, 3–6, 15, 38, 40, 48, 59, 63, 74, 86, 87, 97, 112, 127–130, 134, 135, 137, 149, 150, 166, 168, 170, 171, 175, 182, 184, 191–193, 196, 200–202, 204, 205 pluralization, 10, 97, 171, 204 pluralize/pluralizer, 96, 151, 163–196 pluralized, 4, 5, 112, 169, 170, 191 Poirrier, Philippe, 44 Political, 11, 51, 69, 113 post-political, 85 Political theatre, 11, 12, 49, 51, 120 Politics, 5, 10, 11, 26, 29, 30, 33, 37, 38, 41, 44, 45, 48, 134, 135, 164, 201 aesthetic politics/politics of aesthetics, 11, 14

cultural politics/politics of culture, 12, 16, 20, 23, 26, 27, 35–52, 200, 202, 203 micro-politics, 39 politics of access, 30, 40 politics of diffusion, 36 politics of impartiality, 35 politics of public(s), 199–205 politics of the “s,” 200 spatial politics, 9 state politics/politics of the State, 20, 25 Porosity, 70 Possible, 2, 44, 98, 99, 199, 201 Pottecher, Maurice, 23, 27 Programming, 12, 14, 15, 27, 35, 36, 46, 50, 59, 90–93, 98, 99, 112, 113, 121, 132–135, 149, 164–170, 183, 184, 202–204 programming choices, 93, 169 programming mission, 56 Programming team, 167, 168 Publics, 2–5, 14, 20, 23–25, 27, 32, 35, 37, 41, 43, 46, 47, 50, 51, 56, 61, 62, 65, 73, 74, 87, 92, 112, 114, 116, 118, 125–137, 140, 149, 166–171, 181, 186, 189, 197n1, 200–205 anti-public, 129, 130 public dialogue, 2 public discourse, 1, 2, 137, 151, 165, 201, 205 public good, 56 public need, 43 public opinion, 43 public policy, 43 public stage, 41 public theatre, 2–5, 11–16, 36, 41, 49, 52, 63, 149, 200–204 Public space, 130 Public theatre space, 205

 INDEX 

Q Quesne, Philippe, 15, 89–99, 112, 113, 121, 128, 129 Que viennent les barbares, 150–160, 203 R Rancière, Jacques, 9, 10, 190 Raùl, Roca Baujardon, 186, 188 Reappropriating, 194 Relational, 200 Relational dynamics, 177 Relationality, 3, 4, 6, 41, 64, 69, 73, 75, 94, 113, 121, 150, 151, 180, 182, 201, 203 relation-building, 38, 203 top-down relationality, 61 Relationship, 12, 167, 171, 175, 176, 180–183, 191, 192 Renegotiation, 2–4, 27, 41, 42, 52, 63, 78–80, 82, 99, 183, 196, 201, 203 Rétoré, Guy, 55, 56 Reunification, 20, 28, 32 Rodrigues, Tiago, 171–184 Ruiz, Didier, 184–196 S Sarkozy, Nicolas, 36, 46–48 Servais, Christine, 69 Sexual identity, 4 Social emancipation, 190 Sophocles, 57, 59 Space, 5–9, 13, 98 cultural space, 24, 38, 129, 131, 133, 134, 136 dramatic space, 6 fictional space, 5, 65, 68 homogenous spaces, 6 interior space, 8

235

internal space, 8 micro-space, 129, 173, 201 performance space, 134, 136, 148 playing space, 6, 9, 109, 110, 116, 117, 119, 159 scenic space, 6 sociopolitical space, 51 socio-urban space, 164 stage space, 78, 98, 159, 164, 174, 182, 186 theatre space, 5, 6, 9, 14, 47, 61, 63, 68, 81, 86, 112, 120, 126, 128, 129, 167, 173, 184, 202, 203 undefined space, 6 Spatial dynamics, 178, 194 Spatial relationality, 203 Spatiotemporality, 173, 176, 178, 180 spatiotemporal, 14, 49, 62, 68, 70, 112, 171, 173, 175, 176, 178–180, 182, 195 Spatiotemporal shift, 176 Spatiotemporal union, 65 Spectator/spectacle, 171, 182, 191 dynamic, 51, 63, 69, 71, 86, 182 exchange, 64, 144 negotiation(s), 15 negotiation space, 14 relation(ship), 5, 9, 11, 63, 75, 78, 113, 121, 192, 204 surrogate, 142, 146–148, 157 Spectator’s gaze, 184, 189, 192 Stage/house dynamic, 183 gap, 73, 84 relationship, 73, 148, 183 State (the), 4, 11, 12, 16, 21, 23, 25, 28–31, 33, 35–37, 39, 46, 50, 90–92, 152, 155, 157–159, 165, 167, 172, 174, 192, 201, 203, 204 Subjectivity, 64, 72, 96, 139

236 

INDEX

T Temporal space, 174, 180 Temporality, 22, 82, 84, 107, 117, 154, 159, 164, 173, 174, 177–180 Tension, 7, 8, 15, 44, 56, 63, 69, 91, 98, 137, 139, 144, 147, 150, 169, 170 Territorial relationship, 131 Territory, 4, 5, 9, 15, 20, 26, 27, 31, 35, 42, 56, 59, 61, 86, 99, 112, 128, 129, 131, 132, 134, 135, 149, 156, 159, 165–167, 200, 201, 203 social territory, 15 Théâtre de la Bastille, 15, 56, 57, 112, 163–196 Théâtre du Peuple (People’s Theatre), 23 Théâtre du Vieux Colombier, 23, 24 Theatre house, 24, 41, 51, 126, 128, 133, 134, 137, 165, 167, 169–171, 183, 184, 199, 201, 203 Théâtre Nanterre-Amandiers, 15, 89–121 Théâtre National, 55, 56 Théâtre National Populaire (TNP), 24, 25 Theatre space, 173 Theatrical space, 62 Trans (més enllà), 184–196, 203 Transformation, 145, 172, 175, 178, 186, 192, 194 Triau, Christophe, 6 U Ubersfeld, Anne, 5, 6 Unification, 44, 48, 103, 149, 201 social unification, 20

Union des Théâtres de l’Europe, 41 Unity, 33, 47, 100, 111, 118, 168, 200, 204 national unity, 30, 200 Universalism, 87, 152, 155, 160, 201 universalist, 15, 31, 33, 38, 44, 57, 156, 202, 203 universality, 39, 41, 42, 48, 51, 63, 155, 203 Universal, 31, 87, 203 Universal subjectivity, 8 Utility, 50, 51, 164, 202 Utopia, 13 utopian, 31, 127, 130 V Value, 50, 51, 165, 190 Van den Berg, Lotte, 99 Vega Fernandez, Ruth, 175, 177 Ernest Pinard (Bovary), 175, 177, 178 Rodolphe (Bovary), 177 Vichy, 26–28 Victoire (Notre Innocence), 64, 70, 71 VIème Plan de développement économique et social, 37 plan, the, 37 VIe Plan, 38, 42 Viewpoints, 9, 101, 106, 107 Vincent Macaigne, 74 Vivre ensemble, 100, 102, 103, 109, 111, 112 Voilà ce que jamais je ne te dirai, 63, 74, 80, 81, 83, 84 Z Zhong Mengual, Estelle, 102