Eight years after the triumph of Richard III at the TNM, Brigitte Haentjens reconnects with Shakespeare by measuring herself against five works whose subject is taken from Roman history: The Rape of Lucretius, Coriolanus, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra And Titus Andronicus. From the prologue of Rome, a marathon lasting 7.5 hours (including two short intermissions), we understand that the director and her accomplice, the translator-adaptor Jean Marc Dalpé, picked up where they left off. Before our eyes a world of sound and fury arises, a society of fire and blood. A series of uprisings and abuses of power appear, portrayed with as much rigor as they are earthy, in a way that is as tragic as it is playful, as intimate as it is political, as historical as it is current.
More than 400 years after their creation, Shakespeare’s Roman plays have lost none of their ability to bring to light with astonishing contrasts, from a unique perspective, the outlines of human experience. In this prodigious melting pot, Dalpé and Haentjens seize impulses as well as ideas, seek to make clear the intentions of each other, to depict the motives of each faction with the greatest possible clarity. They also make sure, without forcing the line, by quebecizing the language, by slipping here and there comical anachronisms, that their rereading concerns the present, that it is addressed to their contemporaries. Let us specify all the same that the last two parts, Antony and Cleopatra And Titus Andronicuslean a little too frankly into caricature and the grotesque.
A metaphor city
Shakespeare made Rome a perfect metaphor, a theater scene, a civilization which, from its rise to its fall, makes it possible to represent the noblest virtues and the lowest instincts of the human species. The city is a prime setting for tyranny and domination, imperialism and chaos. The worst abuses are committed there, the most atrocious rapes, the cruellest betrayals, the most brutal murders. Adventure calls for a strong heart (and a hindquarters to match); you won’t be made to believe otherwise. Fortunately, here and there there are outbursts of solidarity, the beginnings of democracy, men and women who are beginning to see the limits of the law of retaliation.
The action takes place in the four corners of the room. Some thirty performers from three generations, long-time companions and newcomers, lend life to a vast gallery of characters via mezzanines, footbridges and vomitory. Clearly establishing the relationship of power, the space designed by Anick La Bissonnière (scenography) and Julie Basse (lighting) is as refined as it is efficient. Both ancient and contemporary, the costumes of Julie Charland and the accessories of Julie Measroch are for a lot in the beauty and the visual cohesion of the show.
In this cast, carefully accompanied by Bernard Falaise and two other musicians, there is not the shadow of a weak link, but it must be recognized that two performers stand out clearly. First, Madeleine Sarr, who is an exceptional Cleopatra, irresistible, of an unnamed humor, but also ruthless, larger than life and yet very human. At the heart of this immense fresco, like a beating heart, he is an actor endowed with an incredible charisma, a unique presence. Sébastien Ricard is a Coriolan whose unshakable conviction is extremely moving. Fascinating: the word is not too strong, its interpretation alone is worth the detour to Usine C.