Praised at its creation, A very beautiful, very sad reel, which had not been presented in Montreal for four decades, had since become a forgotten classic of Quebec drama. Resurrecting, or keeping alive, neglected parts of the theatrical repertoire is a noble mission. But it can prove difficult to bring them on stage by reactivating their relevance, we see on the Green Curtain stage.
The 1978 play already described the past: the gloomy world of a family in the 1950s, in Abitibi. In harsh language, Jeanne-Mance Delisle had the merit of addressing poverty unvarnished. Material poverty, but also moral, cultural, sexual and emotional. An unhealthy climate reigns in this isolated clan, with blocked horizons. This is a profoundly endogenous world, restricted to the confinement of the family environment, even incestuous. In Charlotte Rouleau’s all-wood decor, the back wall which descends at the start of the show reflects this isolation of the household, a sort of confinement screen.
The father (Frédéric Boivin, all in one piece), whose dream of fortune has turned sour, drinks his meager paychecks. Despised by his three daughters – who give him Tonio rather than calling him father – who cloisters him at home, this domestic tyrant perversely leers at his eldest, the vivacious Pierrette (Sarah Laurendeau). But the drama will come from the only son, suffering from an intellectual deficit (Christophe Payeur, in an intense composition), who only received his father’s violent behavior as a legacy.
The climax of the text, it seems to me, lies in the powerful confrontation that will break out between the spouses. After a disapproving silence, the mother (Nathalie Mallette, initially very restrained), finally lets her marital disenchantment emerge: the ignorance of Tonio, who never knew what it was to make love. . A scene that always carries.
Otherwise, between tragedy and naturalism, A very beautiful, very sad reel draws the singular portrait of an unhinged, perverted traditional family, which has lost its meaning and its reason, which is not easy to embody. Marc Béland’s respectful staging does not always succeed. The tone deployed can be disconcerting, with this excessive side, and these characters of mocking teenage girls, portrayed here by experienced actresses (Gabrielle Lessard and Ève Duranceau).
And the piece seems to end strangely, as if left in suspense, perhaps reflecting a situation with no way out. More overwhelming than moving, in general, the show leaves an impression of distance, in time as in form, which unfortunately prevents support for this theatrical piece of history.