An escaped convict is dodging his way through
the tourists. His feet are chained as he shuffles down the cobbled street away
from the Palais Des Papes. French
police, dressed in 1930s uniforms make up the chase. “Arrět!”
they cry, truncheons aloft, and the
throngs of people respond with appreciative smirks on their way to the shaded
street side cafés. Posters for events inside and out of Avignon cover the stone walls around the square. The
theatre has arrived on the sun-soaked streets.
Nothing is considered out of the
ordinary during July in the old city. Further down a jazz trio is playing Old
Nat King Cole jazz standards, backing up a toned, petite girl with a voice to charm even the most hostile local, perhaps more accustomed to sipping a second glass of rosé in the restaurant behind where the band has
set up in peace.
The restaurants are teeming. A waiter spins a tray of drinks on one hand, dancing
around the maze of tables, setting down glasses rhythmically in their places, appropriating a certain nobility to the profession that is far removed from the
eighteen-year-old sloshing wine down on the table with an embarrassed mumble of
apology.
There is plenty for all to see, even for an
Englishman with a limited understanding of the French language.
The amateur dramatics experimentation, ‘The coming storm’, involves a group of English
actors exploring the art of storytelling through a humorous series of sketches,
which occur both simultaneously and then by interrupting each other. It poses questions about
what it is that holds our attention and what it is that makes a story. This
premise is dealt with in a very English way, with typical self-deprecation and
silliness, which would no doubt have an English audience chuckling, but
unfortunately serves to alienate some of the rather serious French theatre
goers, who, not quite grasping the concept, leave mid way through.
The French singer, Camille, performs away from the city, at the most breath-taking of
venues; a hidden hillside quarry, named the Carriérre de Boulbon. A dry and dusty pathway winds up and away from the car park to
reveal a marquee bar and glimmering lights where the singer will delight a
packed audience under the stars. The type of eccentricities displayed can this time be
appreciated unanimously between the French and the few Brits in the crowd. The
rudimentary band set up and rootsy vocal display accompany the eerie spectre of
the singer on the cliff face behind. In sweet contrast, the performance is one
of a playful and melodic nature, which encourages the crowd to imitate small animals
and come up onto the stage to dance. The show is nothing if not original, and
finds the captivating Camille
stamping her feet, singing whilst beating her chest to create vibrato and generally experimenting with the limitations of what the human voice can achieve.
Can science and art occupy the same space? It
seems a brave choice of theme for a play, but there is no better place for such
experimentation than the Avignon festival. William
Kentridge’s ‘Refuse the hour’ is a thought-provoking but, at times,
confusing affair, which blends a colourful array of musicians, dancers and
actors, while concurrently investigating how the concept of time has
materialised. A narrator runs through ideas, incorporating Newton’s idea of absolute time
and Einstien’s theory of relativity; the distortion of space-time created by
the “black hole” phenomenon. No, me neither. It is entertaining enough as a performance piece, and certainly
provocative, but suffers from its attempts at combining too much, and
subsequently feels more exhausting than exciting.
Best of all, is Simon McBurney’s moving and
powerful adaptation of ‘The master and margarita’,
the Russian novel by Mikhail Bulgakov. Set
in the grounds of the the Palais Des Papes at night, the imposing arena and
magnificent palace make it hard for any director to create a sense of intimacy,
but McBurney uses the setting to his advantage, with the simple use of a projector
and a hand-held camera, incorporating impressive moving graphics of Moscow, and
an inspired use of close-up facial expressions on the palace walls. The plot
moves from a Stalinist, Cold War Moscow, where ordinary citizens are
institutionalised for non-conformist views, to parallels with heaven and hell,
blasphemy and redemption. As the programme notes venture, without
underestimation, this is a reworking of an “enormous novel”, dealing with many
aspects of human nature and mortality, and McBurney’s adaptation translates
superbly to the stage; an exhilarating two and a half hours of theatre.
Away from the theatre, on July 14th, it
is France’s national day, and preparations are on-going throughout the city.
Exuberant spreads are set out and distant relatives gather together to
celebrate the occasion. It is a day to indulge in pleasures of food, drink and
good company, and at this, the French are champions. Everyone stumbles down to
the riverside at dusk, looking out across the water at the notorious bridge.
The fireworks are set off, the famous song is played and the crowds sound their
appreciation.
Back at the palace at around midnight, there
is a tangible sense that something is about to happen, but it is difficult to
decipher exactly what. Then a lady appears at a window of the courtyard and
addresses the sizeable crowd. It is translated to me that she is talking about the
history of the festival, how it was started in 1947 by Jean Viler as a rejection
of class snootiness, in an attempt to bring the theatre to everyone. A noble desire. There
follows a thoroughly baffling hour of activity. About seventeen things are happening
at once, from a Mosaic being re-worked, videos of street performers and
interviews with the public being projected onto the walls by people moving
around the space on mini-cranes, right on through to a giant golden key being
carried through the crowd.
It is
a carefully orchestrated confusion that is a befitting tribute to a thrilling
July at the Avignon festival.
