Despite some commonplaces, No need to add sauce by Neev, which premiered Tuesday at the Olympia, is based on a story the likes of which humorous Quebec has rarely known.
Born in Montreal, Neev belongs to Moroccan Jewish culture. He is therefore both Jewish and Arab. “Aren’t these people supposed to hate each other? » he says, overplaying the Quebec accent, a question that was often asked of him when he was trying to demystify his identity, which never ceases to amaze.
The 39-year-old comedian has therefore not escaped anti-Semitism which has been expressed, in his life, in a more or less explicit manner. Would Jews control the banks and the media? Since the Jewish people represent only 0.2% of the world’s population, this theory seems as far-fetched as if someone were to claim that the population of Sorel controls the whole of Quebec, he observes, a comparison which hits the mark.
No need to add sauceNeev’s first show, started about thirty minutes ago when Saint-Laurent’s son addresses the fascinating subject of his roots, noting that the fear that would spread among Israelis and Palestinians if they learned that it exists in Quebec such a horror as chocolate hummus, would be enough to defuse their conflict and unite them in the face of a new common enemy.
PHOTO JOSÉE LECOMPTE, PROVIDED BY PRODUCTION
Neev
The most experienced newcomer to laughter had until then made us fear not the worst, but at least a spectacle drawing on commonplaces: the precocious nostalgia of an almost forty-year-old, the preciousness bordering on the ridiculousness of cafés. third wave or, again, the aggressiveness which seems to have corrupted social networks for good. Subjects that Neev serves with all the mastery of an artist who has been heating up the scene for fifteen years, although without offering them a particularly unique perspective.
It is when he approaches his own trajectory that he enters new territory and finally names something that belongs to him, and not to the spirit of the times. This story, that of a second generation immigrant who tries to sort out the heritage of his parents and that of his native country, composes a story like humorous Quebec has rarely known.
A singular heartbreak
By going to shoot a film in Morocco, Neev thought he was entering the promised land. But as he will quickly see, the gender roles within a parental duo have not been deconstructed in the same way as here. First little discomfort. Then, when a complete stranger kisses her child in a shopping center, her first instinct will be to let go… a good old coronation.
Like so many second-generation immigrants, Neev experiences this singular feeling of heartbreak: never Quebecic enough in the eyes of the society where he was born, but never Moroccan enough in the eyes of the country of his ancestors. Like the poet, Neev is a scrappy man who, too, finds his bearings in love: the love he has for his children, the love he developed for the (not very Jewish) holiday of Christmas. , as well as the one that will forever link him to the bread bar at Pacini.
Although obviously in a much more comic tone, this show is partly reminiscent of the novel Where I hide by Caroline Dawson. We will keep in mind for a long time this image of Neev for whom integration meant watching Throw and count in his parents’ bedroom, eating Moroccan clementines.
A funny passage about his father’s passion for bargains is tinged with the same melancholy: his father could afford financially to no longer chase discounts, but a man who one day had to count each of his pennies in order to feed his children will never get rid of this habit.
Long live the joual
If he is therefore not the first comedian from diverse backgrounds to conquer Quebec, Neev is among the first to describe with such acuteness what it means to be torn apart in this way. Like Rachid Badouri, however, he also punctuates his observations and anecdotes with a panoply of accents – Quebec, Italian, Creole – all of which he embraces with a judicious mixture of teasing and tenderness.
There is a lot of tenderness at the end of the show, two numbers in the form of a tribute to Montreal’s cultural quilt as well as to Quebec French. In the first, Neev celebrates the (often colorful) richness of the metropolis’ community radio stations, joyfully imitating the tone and color of each of these frequencies, from the Arabic station to the Haitian station.
In his ode to joual, the former philosophy student is moved by this language’s ability to compress a lot of information into a few syllables. To put things effectively, nothing beats this not very clean speech stained with sludge and oil.
“I am who I am thanks to my father,” says Neev, but Neev is also who he is thanks to this Quebec having shaped his imagination and his humor. It is Bopebine by Plume Latraverse which sounds when the curtain falls, a choice as surprising as it is surprisingly moving.
No need to add sauce
On tour throughout Quebec
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