Suspense prévisible et œuvre prolifique

Claude Chabrol n’accordait pas la priorité à la perfection technique ou à la tension narrative intense qui définissaient Alfred Hitchcock. Ses thrillers manquent souvent de véritable mystère, car l’identité du tueur ou la nature du secret est révélée tôt ou se devine facilement. Dans La Femme infidèle et Le Boucher, l’accent n’est pas mis sur la surprise mais sur la lente désintégration des masques sociaux des personnages. Chabrol était capable de produire près d’un film chaque année parce qu’il considérait la réalisation comme un artisanat plutôt que comme un événement unique relevant du génie. Il était connu pour travailler rapidement et efficacement, utilisant souvent les mêmes équipes et les mêmes lieux pour maintenir un rythme de production régulier. Ses films n’étaient pas toujours destinés à être des chefs d’œuvre de suspense mais constituaient plutôt des examens fiables de la pathologie humaine dans des structures de genre familières.

Collaborations avec Stéphane Audran

La nature prolifique de la carrière de Chabrol a été soutenue par sa collaboration constante avec son épouse, Stéphane Audran. Entre 1964 et 1980, ils ont travaillé ensemble sur des films qui ont défini sa période la plus célèbre. Audran apportait une présence à l’écran stable et sophistiquée qui ancrait les intrigues souvent répétitives de Chabrol. Dans Les Biches, elle incarne une femme riche dont le mode de vie est perturbé par une vagabonde, et dans La Rupture, elle joue une mère luttant pour garder son enfant face à une famille corrompue. Leur relation professionnelle permettait à Chabrol de créer des rôles féminins complexes, émotionnellement distants et moralement ambigus.

Alors que Chabrol ressemblait souvent à un intellectuel non raffiné fumant la pipe, la glamour Audran était celle qui l’avait initialement courtisé. Son apparence modeste et son image publique contrastaient avec le style visuel élégant de leurs films. Chabrol a d’ailleurs déclaré que leur relation fonctionnait parce qu’il aimait manger et qu’elle aimait cuisiner, une simplicité domestique qui ancrait leur production professionnelle de haut niveau.

L’incident de la glace

On ne peut parler de Chabrol et de Hitchcock sans relayer l’une des histoires préférées de Hitchcock concernant ses admirateurs français. La relation entre ces réalisateurs a commencé par une véritable chute au cours de l’hiver 1954. Chabrol et François Truffaut se sont rendus aux studios de Saint Maurice près de Paris pour interviewer Hitchcock alors qu’il travaillait sur La Main au collet. Pendant une pause, les deux jeunes critiques étaient si engagés dans une discussion passionnée sur la théorie du film qu’ils n’ont pas remarqué un réservoir d’eau dans la cour du studio. Le réservoir était recouvert d’une fine couche de glace qui a cédé sous leur poids. Les deux hommes sont tombés dans l’eau glacée et ont dû être séchés avant que l’entretien ne puisse se poursuivre. Hitchcock a raconté plus tard que chaque fois qu’il voyait des glaçons dans un verre, il se souvenait des deux Français trempés. Alors que Truffaut a fini par nouer un lien personnel étroit avec Hitchcock en tant que protégé, Chabrol est resté davantage un disciple intellectuel, ayant coécrit le premier grand livre analytique sur l’œuvre de Hitchcock en 1957.

Critique politique et État bureaucratique

Dans ses dernières années, la production prolifique de Chabrol s’est tournée vers une critique directe de l’État français et de sa bureaucratie étouffante, utilisant souvent les interprétations incisives d’Isabelle Huppert. Leur partenariat a donné naissance à des films moins intéressés par le meurtre individuel que par la corruption systémique qui protège l’élite. Dans L’Ivresse du pouvoir, Huppert incarne une magistrate inspirée par le scandale réel de l’affaire Elf. Elle joue une femme dont la tentative d’exposer la cupidité gouvernementale est systématiquement bloquée par des couches de procédures bureaucratiques. La capacité de Huppert à dépeindre une détermination glaciale correspondait au style tardif sec et observationnel de Chabrol. Ces films montrent un État qui fonctionne comme une machine destinée à préserver les intérêts des puissants, indépendamment de la loi.

Conclusion

La carrière de Claude Chabrol prouve qu’un cinéaste n’a pas besoin d’atteindre la perfection hitchcockienne pour rester une figure essentielle du cinéma. Sa vaste filmographie s’est construite sur un intérêt constant pour les failles de l’ordre social plutôt que sur la mécanique d’une intrigue. Il acceptait la prévisibilité de ses histoires parce que son véritable sujet était toujours l’hypocrisie immuable du monde bourgeois.

Truffaut a écrit un jour dans un essai : « Quelle est donc la valeur d’un cinéma anti-bourgeois fait par des bourgeois pour des bourgeois ? » La filmographie de Chabrol montre que les archives les plus détaillées des crimes indiscrets de la bourgeoisie sont produites par ceux qui résident au cœur même du système.

Predictable Suspense and Prolific Work

Claude Chabrol did not prioritize the technical perfection or the intense narrative tension that defined Alfred Hitchcock. His thrillers often lack genuine mystery, as the identity of the killer or the nature of the secret is revealed early or is easily guessed. In The Unfaithful Wife and The Butcher, the focus is not on the surprise but on the slow disintegration of the characters’ social masks. Chabrol was able to produce nearly one film every year because he viewed filmmaking as a craft rather than a singular event of genius. He was known for working quickly and efficiently, often utilizing the same crews and locations to maintain a steady production schedule. His films were not always meant to be masterpieces of suspense but were instead reliable examinations of human pathology set within familiar genre structures.

Collaborations With Stéphane Audran

The prolific nature of Chabrol’s career was bolstered by his consistent collaboration with his wife, Stéphane Audran. Between 1964 and 1980, they worked together on films that defined his most celebrated period. Audran provided a stable and sophisticated screen presence that grounded Chabrol’s often repetitive plots. In The Does, she plays a wealthy woman whose lifestyle is disrupted by a drifter, and in The Breach, she portrays a mother fighting to keep her child from a corrupt family. Their professional relationship allowed Chabrol to create complex female leads who were emotionally distant and morally ambiguous.

While Chabrol often looked like an unrefined, pipe smoking intellectual, the glamorous Audran was the one who initially pursued him. His modest appearance and public persona contrasted with the elegant visual style of their films. Chabrol famously remarked that their relationship worked because he loved to eat and she loved to cook, a domestic simplicity that anchored their high stakes professional output.

The Icy Incident

We cannot talk about Chabrol and Hitchcock without relaying one of Hitchcock’s favorite stories regarding his French admirers. The relationship between these directors began with a literal stumble in the winter of 1954. Chabrol and François Truffaut visited the Saint Maurice studios near Paris to interview Hitchcock while he was working on To Catch a Thief. During a break, the two young critics were so engaged in a heated discussion about film theory that they failed to notice a water tank in the studio courtyard. The tank was covered by a thin layer of ice, which gave way under their weight. Both men fell into the freezing water and had to be dried out before the interview could proceed. Hitchcock later recounted that whenever he saw ice cubes in a drink, he was reminded of the two drenched Frenchmen. While Truffaut eventually developed a close personal bond with Hitchcock as a protégé, Chabrol remained more of an intellectual disciple, having co-authored the first major analytical book on Hitchcock’s work in 1957.

Political Criticism and the Bureaucratic State

In his later years, Chabrol’s prolific output turned toward a direct critique of the French state and its stifling bureaucracy, often utilizing the sharp performances of Isabelle Huppert. Their partnership resulted in films that were less interested in individual murder and more focused on the systemic corruption that protects the elite. In The Comedy of Power, Huppert portrays a magistrate inspired by the real life Elf Aquitaine scandal. She plays a woman whose attempt to expose governmental greed is systematically blocked by layers of bureaucratic procedures. Huppert’s ability to portray icy determination matched Chabrol’s dry and observational late style. These films show a state that functions as a machine to preserve the interests of the powerful, regardless of the law.

Conclusion

Claude Chabrol’s career proves that a filmmaker does not need to achieve Hitchcockian perfection to remain a vital figure in cinema. His vast filmography was built on a consistent interest in the flaws of the social order rather than the mechanics of a plot. He accepted the predictability of his stories because his true subject was always the unchanging hypocrisy of the bourgeois world.

Truffaut once wrote in an essay “What then is the value of an anti-bourgeois cinema made by the bourgeois for the bourgeois?” Chabrol’s filmography shows that the most detailed records of social hypocrisy are produced by those who reside well within the system.

The live Q&A, conducted in Russian, explores themes of theater as a refuge and the unwavering passion of the artist. The dialogue between these two intellectual figures in exile offers insights into the nature of art, the ethics of the creator, and the current global state.

Note: This interview was transcribed and translated by AI; there may be some transliterations and text-to-speech issues. However, as a Russian speaker who has listened to the interview, I can vouch that the big ideas are accurately represented.

Bykov: Dear friends, good evening! The first question: are there some people who don’t speak Russian? Or should we stay in our brilliant English and honestly speak our brilliant Russian? What would you prefer? Or we can give you the happy feeling of your advantage, understanding that your English is much better and you are much more perfect. So, should we speak English or Russian? This is the first question.

Audience: Russian! English!

Bykov: Russian. Thank you.

Hello, dear friends, but if you want, it’s not difficult for me at all to translate Krymov’s answers into English for those Russians who want to be sure that I received my professorship exclusively through connections. Thank you, dear friends, we are happy to welcome you. We’ll begin then, if we may. The first thing I’d like to say: of course, any moderator feels like an idiot because, as was just shown to you, there are situations in which it’s better to remain silent. Krymov’s plays do not involve the exchange of verbal messages. This is such a non-verbal art that speaking spoils it. Therefore, I will honestly ask a few questions that concern me, and then I’ll give the floor to you, so as not to embarrass myself alone. But I want to say from the bottom of my heart that before us is undoubtedly one of the greatest directors working in the world today. So let’s welcome the master once again. Thank you. Thank you.

And now I can honestly start with the questions. My favorite play of yours is Vse Tut (Everyone is Here). I sobbed through the whole play, all three times I saw it. And I think most people now are guiltily hiding wet eyes. Sobbing is the most common emotion at your plays. I want to ask you: is this the right emotion? Is it even good when an audience cries in the theater?

Krymov: That’s the first question?

Bykov: The first. Yes.

Krymov: Hopefully not the last, as they say. Correct.

Bykov: So it’s part of the task?

Krymov: No, well, it’s not specifically part of the task, but the reaction is correct, of course. It’s the only thing a person does sincerely; everything else can be faked.

Bykov: The second question is also very important for me. Is there a dependency between the quality of the play and the quality of the performance?

Krymov: There is, of course. Indirect. Indirect.

Bykov: What must be in a play for you to take it on?

Krymov: Well... I have to somehow relate myself personally to this plot—what it means to me in general and what I can say through it right now. But that’s also an indirect story. There are some exceptions, probably, if I remember... when there’s seemingly nothing, but you find something in contradiction to it. But I don’t remember any right now, offhand. It should be somehow... well, I think you understand what I want to say. It should be somehow clear why I’m talking about it, clear to me first of all. Otherwise... otherwise, no.

Bykov: But was there at least one play that you didn’t touch as an author, that you staged exactly as it was written?

Krymov: Yes, once it was like that. Ostrovsky’s Late Love. I set myself such a sporting interest: not to change anything. I thought, will it work or not? Well, in general, it worked. I changed almost nothing—well, absolutely nothing. No, I changed something, of course, but textually, nothing. Textually, nothing. I was just interested to see if I was dependent on the “scissors” or not. Can I do something without taking up the scissors and adapting the play or the plot for myself? But here, as he wrote it, that’s how he wrote it. Everything. Let’s try, Dima. And so I tried once. Once.

Bykov: One wonderful theater critic wrote that Krymov’s plays evoke mainly one emotion: gratitude to life. To what extent is this emotion close to you personally? Or, on the contrary, is it dictated by...

Krymov: Well, I’m very glad that it can evoke such an emotion because everything else evokes the opposite emotion.

Bykov: All of life?

Krymov: All of life, and the latest news, and all observations—it evokes the opposite, nauseating emotion. Therefore, how to take this nausea into oneself and then release what... well, I don’t know with what feeling you are sitting here. Someone left, but a lot of people stayed. I am very grateful to you. I hope that at least some of those present felt something similar. Although I watched with shame. I can’t watch my old plays. It seems to me that it all changes so quickly that I don’t know... if you come to see Uncle Vanya, that’s me today. And this is me the day before yesterday. I can’t watch my “day before yesterday.” I can look at photos, but at the art I made—no, I can’t.

Bykov: My daughter is a professional psychologist. She said the optimal age for a Krymov viewer corresponds to his own psychological age, and his age is fourteen. Pasternak’s fourteen years. “I am fourteen years old, through the School of Painting...” How true is this, and what is the ideal age of your viewer? Because many say it’s eighty, when a geriatric acceptance of life sets in.

Krymov: Listen, I’m embarrassed that you’re asking me this. You’re such a master yourself...

Bykov: Well, ask me about...

Krymov: Answer’s yes.

Bykov: Do you want to live?

Krymov: Yes, very much.

Bykov: Why?

Krymov: Because the alternative is worse.

Krymov: Well, I don’t know how to answer so quickly.

Bykov: I practice at the university all the time. But still...

Krymov: And what kind of training do you have to want to live? Let me ask you.

Bykov: With pleasure. Krymov’s theater, first of all. It’s interesting what’s next. No, I’m very interested in what’s next. I—here, I can formulate it. I don’t expect the triumph of good, but I expect the punishment of several scoundrels. And believe me, I will see it.

Krymov: Well, is it really worth living for that? You just... wait a second. My question consists of several sentences. So, because of this, you get up, have breakfast, prepare yourself eggs? (Bykov jumps in) Thank God there’s someone to make the eggs. But while they’re making the eggs, you think: “I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll see.” This is a stimulus.

Bykov: I won’t just wait, I’ll even participate. This is a very important stimulus, essential.

Krymov: Well, you’re brimming with joie de vivre, which simply conquers me.

Bykov: No, I can say: I really love what I do. I’ve written—I’ve written a very good novel. Before that, I gave several good lessons. By the way, my book can be bought here during the intermission. The book is actually in English, but...

Krymov: There will be another one!

Bykov: The book is good. When the scoundrels are punished, then you’ll buy it. Right here in the lobby. The book is in English, but never mind, you’ll like it. So, you can translate it in Google... or you can just download it from the internet. So, returning to the problem, still: what do you think is the ideal age for a viewer?

Krymov: Ideal age... No, at fourteen, a person doesn’t understand anything unless he’s Pasternak. But... well, somewhere around twenty, thirty, thirty-five, forty.

Bykov: When you watched Our Town, you were sixteen, I think, right?

Krymov: No, nineteen.

Bykov: Brilliant play, by the way. And a related question...

Krymov: No, I can tell you why. Not just because twenty is more attractive than, I don’t know, however many else. Because... well, there’s some illusion that you have... Here’s why, when I had students in Moscow—I really miss that now—I had a feeling that I even told them: “Guys, with one hand I’m holding on over there, where my father is, where his friends are, where his teachers are, I don’t know... Efros, Knebel, and so on... over there, going back to Pushkin. Further back I can’t reach my hand, I don’t feel it, though I don’t even want to reach it there, to be honest. This morning, for some reason, I picked up the history of Ivan the Terrible. My God, I don’t want to reach my hand there. It’s just disgusting. But with one hand I’m there, and with the other hand I’m talking to you.” I tell the students—and they were between sixteen and twenty years old. And are. Well, were, when they graduated. This is a staggering feeling. It’s like in the movie... maybe you’ve seen Highlander—when he kills someone, he has this blue glow. Like something happened to him. Some kind of energy passing through. He gets it from murder, and I get it from forming a chain. It passes through you. And when you realize that on the other hand you have what you are giving out, then... well, I don’t know. This is generally... this is generally...

Bykov: As I understand it, a director needs a first profession. For Efros, it was an actor...

Krymov: No, his father was a turner.

Bykov: Well, a turner is the very first, at fourteen. For you, it’s an artist. For Grotowski, it was a psychologist, and so on. What is the ideal first profession for a director? Because it seems to me being an artist is very important: the material world of what you have on stage—those typewriters, those pans, those guns—is always very constructed, thought out, wonderful focuses occur. Who is it better to be before becoming a director?

Krymov: Well, I don’t know.

Bykov: It’s good to be an artist. Useful?

Krymov: Good, but not everyone should be.

Bykov: Can you say... in Everyone is Here, where does the egg come from? And why is the frying pan smoking? How is it made? In that play...

Krymov: Yes, in that first one.

Bykov: ...well, which was at the School of Modern Play.

Krymov: Because I’m an artist, because that’s how it’s made. Here are strings, batteries, the egg is frying... well, it’s like... just as smoke comes from his pant leg. It’s all technology. In this sense, the profession of an artist is not only good but also useful. If they tell you it can’t be done, you say it can. And even if you don’t know how, there must be confidence in your voice. A person realizes they just need to think about it. For me, it’s harder.

Bykov: And as a teacher? How do you make them listen to you?

Krymov: You can’t “make” them. Well, there’s probably technology on this matter, some books that I haven’t read. I don’t know. I don’t know. But first of all, you have to bring an idea that everyone is interested in. A theater based simply on obedience is nonsense. In my opinion, it doesn’t matter. But so that everyone likes this game, you have to offer some game that people might like. Here are ten actors in front of you; they should enjoy playing the football you offer. Or not football, but, say, football with kittens. And they’ll say: “Listen, we’ve played football so many times, it’s not interesting.” So you have to bring some variety of football, or hockey, whatever, boxing, badminton. Bring some game that’s exciting to play. This is actually the main thing. Everything else is... well, added on. It depends on the person, on their character. Making them listen is too... after all, I’m not a factory director. A factory director can probably raise wages. I don’t have such opportunities. And in theater, it’s necessary sometimes, of course it’s necessary, but it’s such an administrative lever. Real theater isn’t made like that. This... everyone should be somehow enthralled. And how is that done? I don’t know, love should be hidden somewhere inside. You bring this egg and you put it down. And if it’s the right egg, then everyone licks their chops in anticipation of what’s next. Who will hatch from it? You describe who will hatch. You know who will hatch. Well, you think you know. And you believe that you know. Well, that’s why they sometimes believe you. If they don’t believe, then you thought it up wrong and didn’t describe it well enough. Well, and so on.

Bykov: Is there any way of preserving a play—filming, retelling, viewing props—so that people can imagine it years later? Well, most of Anatoly Efros’s plays have been preserved.

Krymov: Which ones?

Bykov: Well, A Month in the Country...

Krymov: Everything perished.

Bykov: No, why?

Krymov: No, nothing can be watched, only what he made himself on television. And even now, time has moved on.

Bykov: But The Rest is Silence?

Krymov: Well, you’re looking at... well, at Ranevskaya, simply. This is the only role that’s been preserved, absolutely true. Well, this play is famous for that. I don’t want to belittle my father’s achievements, naturally. But theater in general... it is strong because it dies.

Bykov: It is dear to us for this, I would say.

Krymov: No, it is strong. It is strong because... not like you just watched the video, but as you watch theater, this will never happen again. Simply never again. They will never play like this again, there won’t be these mistakes. The lamp won’t burn out like that. It won’t happen in a way that, at best, will move you. It’s the only... it’s a butterfly. I said it once, I liked it: a butterfly is no less strong than an elephant in terms of nature. Although a butterfly lives one day, and an elephant lives, I don’t know, 200 years or 300. But a butterfly is no less strong a natural creation. And you look at it, you don’t think: “Oh, well, in a day...” No, this is its essence—one day. The essence of beauty that dies. Beauty dies. And because of this, it can be sweet and maybe painful for you to watch. If everything is calculated correctly. If the pattern is correct, if the pollen is well placed, if it flies. If it walks and it’s wet, then...

Bykov: And then it’s even more touching, even more graceful. Dima, you’re the only person for whom I think it would be good to have a permanent repertory theater. Everyone says that stationary theater is dead, but I imagine your theater with colossal luxury, and I think it would be good. What do you think about this?

Krymov: I... I don’t know. I don’t know. But today, at the rehearsal of Uncle Vanya, I watch how they play, and I say: “Guys, if we had the opportunities, if there were a place and resources, and you, then we would have staged... I would have staged with you now, and I’m sure this game would have given you pleasure... five plays reflecting the existence of our world right now.” Because this is something terrible. Something carried me away; I began to tell them some revelations, even pathetic ones. When I left, it seemed to me that I was... well, only struck by one misfortune, one tragedy, and I didn’t see anything else, and somehow... well, one could even bury oneself in all that. But now, when you see everything around you, and what’s happening here, and in general what’s happening in the world, it’s some kind of wind of evil. Then you realize that this is some kind of challenge in general to the creation of something and looking at theater if you perceive it at all as something nurturing. Not as something entertaining, but as something nurturing the soul. Some kind of need. I’m not sure that here in America this is so developed, this need. But generally... this is a place that can nurture the soul, water it, deal with it. In this sense, absolutely even more than a church. Because it’s more diverse. Well, I’m not making a comparison, that’s not my point, of course.

Bykov: But a church should be stationary, I think. It would be good to have a temple for service. I asked Sukhanov what the play Diary of a Madman was about. He said about actors not being people. But how do they differ? They are much more helpless and much stronger. That’s how he explained it. Are you inclined to think that actors are not exactly people? And that they are stronger in many respects?

Krymov: Actors stronger than people?

Bykov: Yes, that actors can do something that a person can never do.

Krymov: That they can do more than an ordinary person? It doesn’t mean stronger; it just means they have some muscle developed... well, so that it works. Well, like a weightlifter, only an actor has some kind of complex. They are both stronger and weaker. And weaker, much weaker. Much weaker, much more unprotected, you feel much more sorry for them. Because... well, what if there are no roles? It’s hard to imagine how it all is, hard to imagine. Their life goes away. They studied and studied, and they won’t play Juliet anymore. Well, and what? That’s it. I don’t know, a terrible feeling, terrible. Do you remember the movie Trybuna? They have eyes that—when they come to get acquainted—it’s better not to look. You know how... in the film I made, Masha Smolnikova says a phrase that she came to the metro and an old woman was selling sour cream there, selling kittens. And she said: “Don’t look, because as soon as your eyes meet, you have to take them.”

Bykov: Do you believe they become different people at some point? Well, I saw that Tsyganov in the play about Don Juan becomes a different person.

Krymov: You mean on stage?

Bykov: Yes.

Krymov: Well, of course. Of course. That’s the point of their existence, of good actors. They can absolutely transform on stage. And... I’m watching now, I really like those guys I work with. How... they don’t even “do” it, but how they dive in there, how they become someone. This is, I don’t know, a special matter. A special matter. When I went out on stage a couple of times, I felt this terrible stiffness and everything. Well, probably it’s both technique and inclination to this, and the number of rehearsals, when you already forget about the audience and do your business. Actually, Stanislavski’s entire system is built on forgetting about this and doing this. Some people are given this... like a gift. Well, that’s a kind of supreme talent. But generally, you have to forget. First of all, understand why you’re doing it. This is a whole step; it’s not so simple. This is a whole step—actually forgetting about the audience and doing this. Oh! If any of you have read Stanislavski, read him; he has a chapter like that. His whole school begins with forgetting about the audience. There are whole trainings, whole exercises—forgetting about the audience. Because it’s generally impossible. A thousand people are sitting there, and I’m going to do... what am I going to do here? You have to know what you’re doing, you have to know why you’re here. And so much so that... as Pushkin wrote—he wrote as he breathed. Well, there are actors who play as they breathe. They learned this, but they learned it. Or they develop this ability in themselves. Staggering. These are generally angels.

Bykov: Can you say that an American actor is more disciplined?

Krymov: Yes, of course.

Bykov: Obedient, if you like.

Krymov: Yes, of course. Of course.

Bykov: What then is the advantage of a Russian actor? I know the advantage of a Russian student. An American one does the task. And a Russian one explains so well why it can’t be done that it’s much better than any task. What is the advantage of a Russian actor?

Krymov: Well, I want to say none, but that’s not right. Probably... I don’t know. You know... sorry... there are just good actors, and there are not very good actors. A good American actor, for example, I think is absolutely comparable to a Russian good actor. Because they... they are capable of understanding the task, capable of fulfilling it, and capable of partnership, capable of not burdening others with their whims or some undisciplined things. This is all part of the concept of a “good actor.” I don’t believe in a good actor who is self-absorbed and late for rehearsal. There are such people; the public may not know them because they only see them on stage, and even then, it’s generally visible. You can see the person. And there are those who are companionable, capable... theater is a company. It’s a company; something should breathe from the stage... well, I don’t believe I’ll look at this actor... I just don’t believe it. I’ll look at this actor and say: “What a good actor,” and everything else is garbage. No, I don’t understand. It’s either everything somehow matters, and this good actor staggeringly lifts it to some level together with everyone. But one person like that, if everything is not like that—it can’t be. For the most part, it can’t be. It’s some kind of... dark 19th century. Touring actors. What is a “good actor”? It’s a sense of company. It’s a sense of company, when someone comes to rehearsal and everyone feels better because of it. And everyone feels good, everyone smiles. And everyone says: “Oh, he’s here, and he’s so simple, so great,” and everyone is having fun, and everyone wants to work, and everyone wants to play.

Bykov: A good doctor comes—the patient feels better.

Krymov: Well, yes. Well, yes.

Bykov: When I work, the main problem is to kill the critic in myself. He keeps getting in my way, this bad look from the outside. Does it work? Well, I want to ask you: you are the son of a great theater critic. How do you silence this half of yourself as you work?

Krymov: I can answer you as you answered me: you dodge. I really love what I do. And when you love, you don’t think about the critic. I always thought about the critic. I always thought about the critic—not because my mother is a theater critic, but just because I have that kind of mind. I thought when I was a theater artist; I thought when I was painting on canvas. When I started staging plays, I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about it. I’m so interested that... well, however it turns out, it turns out. I have great claims against myself regarding this play, the last one, which I watched and thought: “My God, what have you done?” But when we were making it, it was a staggering atmosphere. Staggering. It can’t be imitated with anything. These people... well, at that moment, particularly... to put it mildly, they had a rather difficult attitude toward everything Russian. It was a staggering atmosphere. Staggering. A play born in love. As I understand now, with huge flaws, but you see them later, not when you were making it.

Bykov: I have a lot more questions, but I promised to give the floor to the audience. If the audience has questions, I’ll give them. If not, I’ll continue for myself. As you know, we work for ourselves. Yes, please.

Audience member: Thank you very much, I wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart for Peter Pan; it simply moved me to tears. I had the feeling, as a former Riguer, that you managed to build a bridge to modern Riga, and Soviet Riga, and even pre-Soviet Riga. My question is: how did you manage that? Because it seems to me you must have lived there for 20 years, a whole generation.

Bykov: And at the same time, tell us about your first Riga, how you first got there. To Soviet Riga.

Audience member: And immediately, if I may, a second question. You found yourself in the holy of holies of Latvians—the National Theater of Latvia. I don’t remember invited directors from Russia working there. How did you manage that? And what was it like for you to work with Latvian actors?

Krymov: No, Serebrennikov staged two plays there, very successfully. We rehearsed there, passing his huge poster with large letters—Serebrennikov. How did I manage it? Because for a short time, this theater was managed by a young man appointed there, who was later removed from there—I hadn’t started working yet. But the contract with me had already been signed, and it wasn’t canceled. Well, that’s how I got there. I first offered something else, Russian. Because it was all long-term matters. It was year ‘23, everything had just happened. And I had to offer something. Of course, I offered by inertia what I was thinking about—I don’t remember now, Chekhov or something. And they looked at each other like that—the director and the artistic director came. And we felt... Ina was there, my wife. They asked each other: “Well, you’re the one to answer, what do we answer him? You’re the one to untangle it later,” says the artistic director to the director. He says: “Well, probably we have to agree,” or something. And they left. And I thought that I had somehow broken them. That’s not good. And I called and said: “Listen, let’s change this to Peter Pan.” “Oh, let’s!” There was such joy there. I said: “Only I’ll include Pushkin for 10 minutes anyway, reading poems in Russian.” “Okay, okay, okay!” For this, the play was later removed from there, for Pushkin reading poems in Russian for 5 minutes. They had a strong wave against it. Just recently removed. Well, that’s it. And Riga... well, what about Riga? Riga is a beautiful city; it has a history, unfortunately rather dramatic. Because Chekhov, who is played here—Karilis—he was kicked out of there, if you know. He was kicked out of there. He bathed in glory there for two years; the government changed, and his visa wasn’t extended. He was kicked out of there. That’s where his wanderings around the world began, which ended in Los Angeles. This is a very dramatic place—traumatic place, I would say, for them themselves, of course, first of all. And for a Russian person who finds themselves there. It’s like... you know... there’s a submarine—I mean, an underwater flower that lures fish like that with its beauty, and then... when I arrived in Riga after six months here—I was starting this play there, which later didn’t work out—I thought I was home. Just home. I understand the houses, the corners of the houses, the courtyards, the trash cans. I understand how everything is arranged, unlike New York, which at that moment was something completely different for me. Home! Well, then you realize it’s not... well, it’s not home. It’s not home. They have their own life, and it’s dangerous to think you’re at home. You’re not at home. And you don’t have to be. You don’t have to be. You have to somehow... you have to respect. Well, respect. You want it like this? Like this. Only don’t delude yourself that you’re welcome everywhere.

Audience member: Could you please tell us about how you use music? Because music is very important in your plays. Especially, for example, Gubaidulina’s Offertorium, which runs through Diary of a Madman, or Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater in another play. What is music to you, and how do you choose it?

Bykov: Aleksei German used to say: “If you need music in a film, it means you haven’t finished your work as a director.” To imagine that you would be without music, I absolutely cannot. Although in his last film, he was forced to resort to it anyway.

Krymov: Well, no, it’s generally dangerous to think that you have to... well, such phrases of famous and beloved people...

Bykov: If we take Akhmatova’s phrase that one should be with one’s people, why are we all sitting here?

Krymov: Or that the poet’s place is in the gutter—also a doubtful phrase.

Bykov: Also doubtful.

Krymov: Music, how I use it... well, I use it somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. Well, when a scene develops somehow, usually it’s clear later, somewhere halfway, that it needs something. And you think what. I usually pick it out myself. Well, in good cases, I consult with my friends, assistants with whom I work. Sometimes I pick the same thing, I have to say. This Shostakovich waltz... now, if you watch Uncle Vanya, sorry, it’s there too. Because I like it terribly, terribly. To be honest, I forgot that I used it here. Because I used it in another place, a play you probably didn’t see. In Yale University, Three Sisters. It’s there too. But that I remembered. I thought, well, whatever, no one saw it. Listen! In our apartment in Moscow, there was a table that Sasha Chervinsky gave us—our friend, the son of Masha Chervinsky. You know, who wrote Moscow, Cheryomushki with Shostakovich. Well, we had a table at which Shostakovich and his father sat. I just didn’t know from which side, because it was round. And Sasha said... he heard this... that his father said to Shostakovich: “Dmitry Dmitriyevich, here you have such a passage... well, you had it there... in some opus... you had it.” He says: “Yes? Oh, well, let it be, let it be.” Well, what does that mean? You can replace it. I think now, to come to Uncle Vanya and replace it. But there are two very responsible people there who insisted on inviting a choreographer. They dance a little. Well, it all takes three minutes. In short, if it doesn’t bother you...

Bykov: There’s also the Shostakovich waltz.

Krymov: But you generally have to be careful with this. And then, you know what gets in the way? I... you’ll laugh... you sit and write in one room. And I go to different theaters in different countries. And you think, at some point, you think: in some country, you used it there. No one will see! No one will see! And then, when... for example, here... Sasha Dachevskaya, are you here, no? She left.

Bykov: On business.

Krymov: Maybe that’s why she left. She is a student of my course. This... bathing in the river—in the sea. This was our etude; we had a play called The Death of Katerina. And Katerina was drowning like that. It was the Volga. And Sasha played this Katerina. I think: “With what kind of feeling is she watching this?” Well, generally, you have to stop with this, of course. You have to stop with this. It’s very difficult to stop because there’s so much of it all there. It’s like a barn, you know, which is stuffed with some inventions, plays... there was this, there was that, there was that. And somehow, when you take something in a frenzy... especially when it’s the first two years after the war. It’s panic. It’s panic. You think you can’t do anything, and you have to quickly grab onto something. You grab onto something that your hand already knows where to take. Well, now, besides the Shostakovich waltz, in Uncle Vanya, everything is new. This is my first play that I made from scratch. Simply. I thought it up here and I made it here. I’m very glad if you come and watch, because it’s me today. And not something used there... besides the Shostakovich waltz.

Bykov: I don’t know how you feel about it. Do you use anything from the recordings you have preserved?

Krymov: Yes, unfortunately, yes.

Bykov: You’re only 33.

Krymov: And nothing for you?

Bykov: Fine. There are only seven notes, anyway. That’s how Shostakovich usually answered when they presented him with claims. He’d say: “There are only seven notes, gentlemen.” Well, by the way, I’ve seen many of your appeals to American playwrights. Who is your favorite among them?

Krymov: Wilder. I don’t know them that well, but Thornton Wilder—it’s generally the best play ever written, period. There is such a place where I start crying immediately. Just immediately.

Bykov: When she fries the bacon?

Krymov: No.

Bykov: When she comes to her parents?

Krymov: No! What are you talking about? Earlier. At the beginning, the host says: “This is so-and-so, this is so-and-so, this is so-and-so. And this is the doctor. He will die, by the way, in year ‘30, and a hospital will be named after him.” I start crying here. How he did it all: “This is so-and-so, this is so-and-so, this is so-and-so. And he, by the way, will die in year ‘30, a hospital will be named after him.” My God! It goes, goes, goes, then suddenly soared and looked at it from above. Hell knows.

Bykov: Thornton Wilder just presses his knee on the tear glands. When she says: “Can I stay a bit longer? Just a bit longer.” Unbearable, absolutely. A wild play. And a fantastic play, I have to say. Is there a theatrical role you would like to play yourself? Every director has such a dream.

Krymov: I would have liked to play everything. I would have liked to play a lot. But no one invites me. I was invited here suddenly... Tanya... my assistant, Tanya Khaikina... suddenly says: “There was an inquiry here, for a casting. You came for a casting in a movie.” I thought: “Oh! Finally!” Finally! It was worth leaving. I say: “Can you send the text?” They sent two pages of text. It’s a Russian mobster who demands money from someone.

Bykov: You would have done very well. He would have been kind, sentimental. One would want to give him money. Immediately.

Krymov: She agrees.

Bykov: Of Russian actors, who is your favorite?

Krymov: Masha Smolnikova, my actress. I miss her. I sent her a video today of one actor who plays in our Uncle Vanya. I thought: “I’ll send it.” She says: “I don’t know the language, but I feel so sorry for him! If only he were here, and you were here. We would have rehearsed.” Or her here. I don’t know. There are some people related by blood. Well, that’s her, first of all. And there’s also Zhenya Tsyganov, and Vika Isakova, and Timofei Trybuntsev, who played Godunov in my play. Well, they are simply great people. I don’t know about other works when they are with others. I don’t watch. With me, they are great people.

Bykov: It seems to me that the main theme of your entire theatrical project as a whole is the immortality of the soul, which after your plays is very visible. Not metaphorical, but the real immortality of the soul. Do you admit this thing, or do you prefer not to think about it?

Krymov: No, I think about it very often. Of course, I admit it—it’s obvious.

Bykov: As Jung said: “Believe is a weak word. I know.” That’s the same thing. Of course.

Krymov: You agree?

Bykov: I agree. I just feel it. It’s spilled everywhere, and part of it is in me. Save yourself, and thousands will be saved around you. Is that it, or how?

Audience member: How through your work were you able to bring this to people? Where... how? Or is it impossible?

Bykov: Creativity is the universal code through which you can talk to another. There are no other options, in my opinion. Well, by the way...

Krymov: How—I don’t know. Sorry. How—I don’t know. If I knew, I could write... well, like they write “how to earn a million,” “how to write a million-dollar script.” That’s clear. At least the technology is clear. This is unclear. This is unclear. And before everyone who decides to ambitiously offer a recipe, it is open. It is open to spitting: “Not like that.” Well, that’s all. And he slogged away there, God knows how much time and energy and his faith. But only this. Only this, it seems to me. Only this, some kind of... oh, what a serious topic this really is. Some kind of tenderness. Well, I don’t know. Everyone was killed, but tenderness is there. You can easily imagine it. Well, what does the Gospel start with? The spirit of God was hovering over the earth. No one was there yet! No one had been created yet. But tenderness was already hovering. Tenderness because “I will create.” I will write a poem, I will write a novel. I’ll make some cows, then butterflies. Then something is missing... a person, I don’t know. Then a woman to him. Well, I don’t know. Somehow it turned out all right. Well, let them live then. This all comes from some kind of sympathy. Sympathy for... I don’t know, this word tenderness is a great word.

Bykov: You agree?

Krymov: I just feel it. It’s spilled everywhere, and part of it is in me. Save yourself, and thousands will be saved around you. Is that it, or how?

Bykov: Not quite that. But about that too. How through your creativity were you able to bring this to people?

Krymov: How—I don’t know. If I knew, I could write... how to earn a million.

Bykov: There were more questions, so as not to deprive anyone of the opportunity. Otherwise, I’ll ask again myself. And I have so many more. Well, by the way, did you ever have an idea for a play without words at all?

Krymov: We started with this. Our first three plays I did with artists from my course. They were artists; they couldn’t talk on stage. And from this, we actually came up with the visual theater of artists. What was it? Well, they were Russian fairy tales, first of all. Unfinished Tales was the name of the play. Then there was Demon. There was a bit of singing there, but generally there were no words. And there was Don Quixote. There was a small text spoken by actors whom we invited. And that was it. There were no more words there. Those were three wordless plays.

Bykov: Also a question from a student of mine sitting here: doesn’t it seem to you that your plays could be a wonderful therapy? That is, you could involve patients as participants in the play, and many—I’m sure—everyone would become better. That everyone would become much better. Didn’t you have the idea of making such a theater that heals?

Krymov: I wouldn’t have enough strength for everything. You say opera; I would happily stage an opera. Simply, a lot of energy goes into each work. Well, what you say and what you ask is, of course, a great thing. Like any medical practice, it is generally... well...

Bykov: It heals, through the very participation. I remember playing for Ashuysky. A sick man came, all in pieces, and left completely healthy. Moreover, happy.

Krymov: Yes, I’ll tell you... I’ll tell you now what the difference is. I just thought about what that path is and what I do. I don’t have a goal to heal the public. Absolutely. No. That’s a side effect. I don’t talk to the public at all. Sorry. I somehow do it... I don’t know, differently. If someone likes it and someone is healed, or they tell me something, or I see something in their eyes, or they need it—I’m happy. It means I’m not alone. But generally, this isn’t for them. This is a utilitarian thing. Utilitarian. And this is non-utilitarian. This is non-utilitarian.

Bykov: As Andrei Belousov said: “Honey is not the main thing for a bee.” It’s a side product of its activity. I think it’s the same here. Well, by the way, nice comparison. Nice. Well, also a wonderful film, you made it too, where your dialogue is with your father. Of his plays, what do you love most?

Krymov: Oh, well, it was at his plays that I actually felt the feeling that I would like to be in mine. That’s actually why I took up this matter. When I started making my first play, the underlying reason for me was that I thought: “I don’t know how he did it, but I remember my feeling. I remember my feeling.” I thought: “Can some kind of recipe be found... well, differently?” If you saw Tarkovsky’s film Andrei Rublev, there is a plot about a bell. Remember the guy who said he had a recipe, and then he made the bell, and then he sits crying because he didn’t have a recipe? He just wanted to eat; he was dying of hunger, and so he said he had a recipe, so he wasn’t killed but was told: “Do it.” Well, I wasn’t dying of hunger, but I didn’t have a recipe. I didn’t have one. I had a reaction. I had the ringing of his bell in my soul, which I felt. This is a very strong thing. And I felt it in many things: and Brother Alyosha by the Karamazovs, and The Marriage, and Director of the Theater, and The Lower Depths... well, many... many plays. And A Month in the Country... many plays. And not only his. I generally sometimes felt this... I felt and feel it in theater, this ringing of the bell, basically. How they do it, I don’t know. And how he did it, I don’t know. I sat in on his rehearsals very little; I wasn’t interested in this matter at all at the time.

Bykov: Theater is more complicated, more subtle than cinema?

Krymov: Of course. Well, of course. Hooray! No, well, of course, because cinema—you make it, it remains. But here you have to make it so that it makes itself every day. This is completely different. This is completely different. There you set it... well, I don’t take all that as being also extremely difficult, but in comparison... in comparison, of course theater is a more difficult matter.

Bykov: Also a question from a student of mine sitting here: who is closer to you, Meyerhold or Vakhtangov?

Krymov: Well, I haven’t seen either one. Generally, from what I know about them, Vakhtangov is closer. Meyerhold was a revolutionary. And like any revolutionary, he... he evokes strange feelings, at least caution. Admiration maybe, and caution. I’m not sure that I... first of all, I’m not sure that I would have liked his plays. That’s not even the point. The point is that he invented a huge number of things that we use. A huge number. Just a huge number of theatrical things. This is all his invention. Vakhtangov might have much less. But his invention—which Brecht then developed, and some others—not many, but some... this kind of thing: “I play a Chinese prince.” And you see that I’m playing. That I’m an actor. I’m Zavalski, but I’m playing Kalaf, or Kalafa, whoever he is, in Princess Turandot. Distance, that is. This is a very complex cocktail. Out of the two of them, I... not deeply. I read everything that one wrote and the other wrote. But since I don’t have immediate impressions from the plays, I don’t know. Maybe I would have seen Meyerhold and thought: “My God! It’s indifferent whether he’s a revolutionary or not; it’s staggering!” Quite possibly. Quite possibly.

Bykov: The question that I simply must read aloud, because the formulation is wonderful: “These people have been sitting here since lunch, and we must finish, but I cannot not ask: will you return?”

Krymov: Will I return?

Bykov: I don’t know if we should finish. I really like everything that’s happening. I would be ready for a long time. Well, return to Moscow, that is.

Krymov: I’m not going back to Moscow.

Bykov: Well, quite right. Who can say that this is not Moscow? In many respects. I want to thank you all very much. For being here. Me too, thank you very much. And Dima, you too. I’m happy. The atmosphere is complete happiness. Thank you very much! The book is for sale!

Jacques Tati est passé du statut de cinéaste le plus célébré de France à celui d’un homme ayant perdu sa maison et les droits de son propre travail à cause d’un seul projet. Après le succès mondial de Mon Oncle, il a décidé de tout miser sur une vision unique d’un Paris de verre et d’acier, Playtime. Il a passé des années à bâtir une véritable ville et à diriger chaque pas de ses acteurs avec une intensité proche de la folie. Le film résultant a été un échec au box office qui l’a plongé dans une dette profonde et l’a forcé à la faillite. Bien qu’il soit finalement revenu à la réalisation, la perte de son indépendance l’a hanté jusqu’à sa mort. Il croyait avoir atteint son but artistique ultime mais le monde qu’il a construit a fini par détruire sa vie personnelle.

L’Apogée de Mon Oncle

En 1958, Jacques Tati était une star internationale ayant atteint un niveau de renommée que peu de réalisateurs touchent. Mon Oncle était un succès massif qui a charmé le public de l’autre côté de l’Atlantique et prouvé que son humour visuel pouvait transcender les barrières culturelles et linguistiques. Il a remporté l’Oscar du Meilleur Film en Langue Étrangère et le Prix Spécial à Cannes, confirmant sa place de figure majeure du cinéma mondial. Lors des Academy Awards de 1959, Tati a accepté la statuette des mains de Cyd Charisse et Robert Stack avec une humilité caractéristique. Il s’est adressé à l’assemblée en disant : «Je vais dire quelques mots avec mon très mauvais anglais. J'ai remarqué que les personnes qui parlent le plus mal l'anglais veulent parler plus que les autres. Pour ma première visite à Hollywood, je trouve que je m'en sors bien.»

La célébration ne s’est pas arrêtée à Hollywood. Quand Tati est retourné chez lui à Saint Germain en Laye, la communauté locale a été si émue par son succès qu’elle a organisé une reconstitution de la cérémonie des Oscars. Les habitants ont organisé un défilé et une présentation formelle où Tati a été honoré comme un héros local. Un détail particulièrement touchant de cette journée fut la présence de la mère de Tati, qui regardait depuis la foule tandis que son fils était célébré par ses voisins. Ce moment représentait le sommet de sa connexion avec son public, incarnant cette figure maladroite mais douce qui luttait pour naviguer dans la vie domestique de plus en plus mécanisée de la classe moyenne française. Ce succès lui a donné un sentiment de sécurité totale et la conviction qu’il pouvait tout accomplir.

La Construction de Tativille

Il avait évolué de comédien à cinéaste capable de commander d’énormes budgets et une liberté créative complète. Les éloges et les retours financiers de Mon Oncle l’ont convaincu que son public le suivrait n’importe où, même dans un territoire plus abstrait et expérimental. Il a utilisé cet élan pour planifier un projet qui irait bien au delà de la petite échelle de ses travaux précédents, avec l’intention de remplacer le quartier pittoresque de son film précédent par une métropole sprawling et ultra moderne.

Tati estimait que le vrai Paris n’était plus adapté à ses besoins car il était trop encombré et incontrôlable. Il voulait montrer une ville parfaitement plate et stérile. Pour ce faire, il a commandé la construction d’un immense décor à Saint Maurice, situé entre Vincennes et Joinville le Pont, que tout le monde appelait Tativille. Cette entreprise énorme a été dirigée par l’architecte et décorateur Eugene Roman, qui a travaillé étroitement avec Tati pour réaliser l’esthétique moderniste sévère de la ville. Le projet impliquait la construction de gratte ciel entiers en acier et en verre à une échelle qui en a fait la production la plus coûteuse de l’histoire du cinéma français. Le décor couvrait plus de 15 000 mètres carrés et comprenait des bâtiments atteignant cinq étages, avec des milliers de mètres carrés de vrai verre et des intérieurs fonctionnels. La ville possédait sa propre infrastructure incluant des rues et l’électricité. Tati a dépensé plus de 15 millions de francs pour ce rêve.

Il a investi son propre argent dans le projet et a contracté des emprunts massifs pour maintenir la construction lorsque la météo ou les retards menaçaient d’arrêter le tournage.

Le Poids de la Perfection

Le processus de tournage a révélé la profondeur réelle de l’obsession de Tati. Il a choisi de filmer en 70 millimètres, ce qui signifiait que chaque détail à l’écran était d’une clarté absolue.

Tati a interprété chaque rôle pour ses figurants car il voulait que leurs mouvements soient rythmiques et mécaniques. Il a passé des jours à filmer une seule scène lors d’un salon professionnel juste pour obtenir le son exact d’un couvercle de poubelle. Il ne voulait pas de stars de cinéma ou de jeu d’acteur traditionnel. Il voulait que l’architecture soit la véritable star du film. Ce perfectionnisme a fait que le tournage a duré des années. On voyait souvent Tati sur le plateau, épuisé et accablé par l’échelle monumentale du monde qu’il avait créé. C’était un homme qui ne pouvait pas faire de compromis alors même que son compte bancaire commençait à se vider.

Une Vision de l’Europe Moderne

Playtime devait être la déclaration définitive de Tati sur la façon dont l’Europe perdait son âme à cause de la modernisation. Le film dépeint un Paris où les monuments ne sont visibles que sous forme de reflets dans des portes vitrées. Les personnages errent dans des rangées infinies de bureaux gris et des halls lisses qui ressemblent plus à des hôpitaux qu’à des espaces de vie. Tati voulait montrer que le monde moderne était conçu pour être efficace mais qu’il rendait en réalité les gens plus isolés et confus. Il a utilisé une couche complexe de sons comme le bourdonnement des néons et le claquement des talons pour remplacer les dialogues classiques. Il pensait que c’était la manière la plus honnête de décrire l’expérience de la vie dans une ville des années 1960. C’était une critique profondément personnelle d’une société qu’il jugeait trop froide et standardisée.

La Chute Finale

La sortie de Playtime en 1967 a été un désastre dont Tati ne s’est jamais vraiment remis. Le public était dérouté par l’absence d’intrigue traditionnelle et de gros plans. En quelques années, la dette de Tativille est devenue un poids qu’il ne pouvait plus porter. La banque a saisi sa société de production et sa maison familiale. Il a même perdu les droits légaux de ses chefs d’oeuvre précédents comme Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot. Il a réussi à réaliser deux autres films plus tard dans sa vie mais il a toujours considéré Playtime comme sa dernière véritable réussite car il y avait donné tout ce qu’il possédait. C’est l’histoire d’un homme qui a bâti un monde parfait et a perdu le sien dans l’aventure. Ce sacrifice semble particulièrement poignant à une époque où l’on nous dit sans cesse de vivre nos vies à travers des écrans de verre lisses qui nous renvoient notre propre reflet, tandis que le monde réel à l’extérieur devient de plus en plus difficile à parcourir.

Vous pouvez désormais le regarder avec le sentiment d’admiration et de reconnaissance approprié.

Jacques Tati went from being the most celebrated filmmaker in France to a man who lost his home and the rights to his own life’s work because of a single project. After the global triumph of Mon Oncle, he decided to gamble everything on a single vision of a glass and steel Paris, Playtime. He spent years building a literal city and directing every footstep of his actors with an intensity that bordered on madness. The resulting film was a failure at the box office that plunged him into deep debt and forced him into bankruptcy. While he eventually returned to the director’s chair, the loss of his independence haunted him until his death. He believed he had achieved his ultimate artistic goal but the world he built ended up destroying his personal life.

The High of Mon Oncle

By 1958, Jacques Tati was an international star who had reached a level of fame few directors ever touch. Mon Oncle was a massive hit that charmed audiences across the Atlantic and proved that his brand of visual humor could transcend cultural and linguistic barriers. It won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film and the Special Prize at Cannes, cementing his status as a leading figure in world cinema. During the 1959 Academy Awards, Tati accepted the statue from presenters Cyd Charisse and Robert Stack with characteristic humility. He addressed the audience by saying, “I will say a few words with my very bad English. I noticed that the people who talk the worst English want to talk more than the others. For my first visit to Hollywood, I feel like I’m doing fine.”

The celebration did not end in Hollywood. When Tati returned to his home in Saint Germain en Laye, the local community was so moved by his success that they staged a reenactment of the Oscar ceremony. A particularly poignant detail of the day was the presence of Tati’s mother, who watched from the crowd as her son was celebrated by his neighbors. This moment represented the peak of his connection with his audience, a bumbling but gentle figure who struggled to navigate the increasingly mechanized domestic life of the French middle class. This success gave him a sense of total security and the belief that he could do anything.

Construction of Tativille

He had evolved from a comedian into a filmmaker with the power to command huge budgets and complete creative freedom. The accolades and financial returns from Mon Oncle convinced him that his audience would follow him anywhere, even into more abstract and experimental territory. He used this momentum to begin planning a project that would move far beyond the small scale of his earlier work, intending to replace the quaint neighborhood of his previous film with a sprawling, ultra modern metropolis.

Tati felt that the real Paris was no longer suitable for his needs because it was too cluttered and uncontrollable. He wanted to show a city that was perfectly flat and sterile. To do this, he commissioned the construction of a massive set in Saint Maurice, situated between Vincennes and Joinville le Pont, which everyone called Tativille. This enormous undertaking was led by the architect and set designer Eugene Roman, who worked closely with Tati to realize the city’s severe, modernist aesthetic. The project involved building entire skyscrapers out of steel and glass on a scale that made it the most expensive production in the history of French cinema. The set covered more than 15,000 square meters and featured buildings that reached heights of five stories, complete with thousands of square yards of real glass and functional interiors. The city had its own working infrastructure including streets and electricity. Tati spent over 15 million francs on this dream.

He poured his own money into the project and took out massive loans to keep the construction going when the weather or delays threatened to stop the shoot.

Weight of Perfection

The filming process revealed the true depth of Tati’s obsession. He chose to shoot in 70 millimeter film which meant every detail on the screen was crystal clear.

Tati acted out every single role for his background extras because he wanted their movements to be rhythmic and mechanical. He did not want movie stars or traditional acting. He wanted the architecture to be the real star of the film. This perfectionism meant that filming dragged on for years. Tati was often seen on the set looking exhausted and overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the world he had created.

Vision of Modern Europe

Playtime was meant to be Tati’s definitive statement on how Europe was losing its soul to modernization. The movie depicts a Paris where the landmarks are only visible as reflections in glass doors. Characters wander through endless grey cubicles and slick lobbies that look more like hospitals than living spaces. Tati wanted to show that the modern world was designed to be efficient but was actually making people more isolated and confused. He used a complex layer of sounds like buzzing neon lights and clicking heels to replace standard dialogue. He felt this was the most honest way to describe the experience of living in a 1960s city. It was a deeply personal critique of a society that he felt was becoming too cold and standardized.

Final Fall

The release of Playtime in 1967 was a disaster that Tati never truly recovered from. The public was confused by the lack of a traditional plot and the absence of close ups. Within a few years, the debt from Tativille became a weight he could no longer carry. The bank seized his production company and his family home. He even lost the legal rights to his previous masterpieces like Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday.

He managed to make two more films later in life but he always looked back at Playtime as his final true achievement because he had given it everything he owned. It is a story of a man who built a perfect world and lost his own in the process.

Now you can watch it with the appropriate sense of awe and appreciation.

La Farce du Mal et l’Histoire Contrefactuelle

La production donne souvent l’impression d’avoir une qualité similaire au film Les Producteurs de Mel Brooks. Il y a une tentation claire de se moquer du mal pour ne plus en avoir peur. Cela suit l’idée que «rire du pire, c’est s’armer contre lui». Les acteurs dépeignent les figures historiques comme vaines et assez ridicules ce qui les dépouille de leur aura terrifiante. J’ai regardé la pièce osciller entre cette approche comique et un ton plus sombre. Elle suggère fréquemment que la tragédie de l’histoire aurait pu être évitée si seulement certains événements s’étaient déroulés autrement. Par exemple la pièce souligne le désordre logistique de l’armée allemande pendant l’invasion de l’Autriche. Les chars tombaient en panne et l’opération entière était un bluff qui aurait pu être arrêté par une opposition plus confiante. Cela crée un sentiment de tristesse pour ce qui aurait pu être si les gens avaient fait de meilleurs choix à ces moments critiques.

Les Listes d’Industriels et la Question du Travail

Un des messages les plus directs de la pièce implique la projection d’une liste d’industriels sur un écran. La production place un blâme direct sur ces hommes pour leur soutien financier au parti nazi. Des noms comme Krupp et Siemens apparaissent en grandes lettres pour rappeler au public que le capital a joué un rôle majeur dans l’effondrement politique. Le texte mentionne que ces entreprises ont bénéficié du travail français pendant la guerre. Cependant la pièce n’aborde pas la manière dont ce travail a fini dans les camps de concentration.

Cette section ressemble à la conclusion principale de la pièce où le metteur en scène utilise un blâme appuyé pour souligner l’avidité des entreprises et ses conséquences historiques. Le visuel des noms sur l’écran force le public à affronter la réalité que beaucoup de ces marques existent encore aujourd’hui. Cela ajoute un niveau d’inconfort à la scène car cela connecte le passé directement au monde moderne.

Cela a fonctionné bien sûr car comment en serait il autrement ? Je me suis demandé quels appareils je possède et que je devrais jeter dès mon retour à la maison.

Le Talent de l’Ensemble

Les acteurs sont la partie la plus forte de cette production. Baptiste Chabauty est un virtuose musical qui joue de nombreux instruments différents pendant le spectacle et ajoute une couche d’art au milieu de chaque scène. Il se déplace sans effort entre un xylophone, un violoncelle et d’autres instruments ce qui fait de la musique un participant actif de l’histoire. Laurent Stocker a une présence si puissante qu’il est impossible de quitter ses yeux. Il est le genre d’acteur qui pourrait jouer n’importe quel rôle et rester fascinant par sa voix et son mouvement. Julie Sicard est une maîtresse du timing comique et utilise un style improvisé qui semble très naturel. Elle parvient à trouver de l’humour dans les moments historiques les plus rigides ce qui aide à briser la tension. Jérémy Lopez joue aussi très bien et assume le rôle de narrateur pour garder le public connecté à la chronologie. Il fournit le contexte nécessaire pour que le public puisse suivre les changements historiques rapides.

L’Effort de Mise en Scène et le Texte Source

J’ai eu l’impression que Jean Bellorini et les acteurs ont dû travailler très dur pour rendre cette œuvre engageante. Le texte original de L’Ordre du Jour est essentiellement une archive historique sans un arc dramatique traditionnel séparé de l’histoire. Pour corriger cela le metteur en scène utilise une grande variété d’outils théâtraux comme des masques, un miroir géant et du maquillage blanc sur les visages. Le miroir géant reflète la scène et le public ce qui suggère que nous faisons aussi partie du processus historique. Il y a aussi des têtes de masques et une utilisation constante d’accessoires et de musique pour créer une variété visuelle. Ces éléments sont nécessaires car le talent de la troupe est ce qui maintient l’intérêt du public pour un récit qui serait autrement une récitation sèche de faits historiques.

Conclusion et la Théâtralité de l’Archive

Le processus de transformation de documents historiques secs en drame exige de trouver un pouls humain à l’intérieur des fichiers bureaucratiques. Dix Sept Moments de Printemps y parvient en trouvant le noyau émotionnel d’un espion travaillant à l’intérieur de la machine du Troisième Reich. Il utilise le poids de l’archive et la narration clinique des fichiers pour construire un récit où chaque pause et chaque regard porte le fardeau des dossiers.

À l’inverse Bellorini utilise les outils du théâtre comme les masques et la musique pour combler le fossé entre le document et la scène.

Bien que j’aie énormément apprécié la performance ma réaction honnête n’a pas été de me précipiter pour lire L’Ordre du Jour mais plutôt de revisiter la sophistication de Dix Sept Moments de Printemps qui n’avait pas besoin d’autant d’accessoires ou d’un message aussi didactique pour souligner la banalité du mal.

Farce of Evil and Counterfactual History

The production often feels like it has a quality similar to the movie Mel Brooks’ The Producers. There is a clear temptation to make fun of evil so that we no longer fear it. This follows the idea that “to laugh at the worst is to arm oneself against it.” The actors portray historical figures as vain and somewhat ridiculous which strips them of their terrifying aura. I watched the play oscillate between this comedic approach and a more somber tone. It frequently suggests that the tragedy of history could have been spared if only certain events had happened differently.

For example the play highlights the logistical mess of the German army during the invasion of Austria. The tanks were breaking down and the entire operation was a bluff that could have been stopped by a more confident opposition. This creates a sense of sadness for what might have been if people had made better choices at these critical turning points.

Industrialist Lists and the Question of Labor

One of the most direct messages of the play involves the projection of a list of industrialists on a screen. The production places direct blame on these men for their financial support of the Nazi party. Names like Krupp and Siemens appear in large letters to remind the audience that capital played a major role in the political collapse. The text mentions that these companies benefited from French labor during the war. However, the play does not address how that labor actually ended up in concentration camps.

This section feels like the primary punchline of the play where the director uses heavy handed blame to make a point about corporate greed and its historical consequences. The visual of the names on the screen forces the audience to confront the reality that many of these brands still exist today. This adds a level of discomfort to the scene because it connects the past directly to the modern world.

It worked, of course, how could it not? I was left wondering which appliances I own that I need to throw away as soon as I got home.

The Talent of the Ensemble

The actors are the strongest part of this production. Baptiste Chabauty is a musical virtuoso who plays many different instruments throughout the show and adds a layer of artistry to every scene. He moves effortlessly between a xylophone, a cello and other instruments which makes the music feel like an active participant in the story. Laurent Stocker has such a powerful presence that it is impossible to take your eyes off him. He is the kind of actor who could play any role and remain compelling through his voice and his movement. Julie Sicard is a master of comic timing and uses an improvisational style that feels very natural. She manages to find humor in the most rigid historical moments which helps break the tension. Jérémy Lopez also performs well and handles the role of narrator to keep the audience connected to the timeline. He provides the necessary context so that the audience can follow the fast moving historical shifts.

Directorial Effort and the Source Material

I got the impression (perhaps I’m wrong) that Jean Bellorini and the actors had to work very hard to make this piece engaging. The original text of L’Ordre du Jour is essentially a historical record without a traditional dramatic arc separate from history. To fix this the director uses a wide variety of theatrical tools like masks, a giant mirror, and white face paint. The giant mirror reflects the stage and the audience back to themselves which suggests that we are also part of the historical process. There are also mask heads and a constant use of props and music to create visual variety. These elements are necessary because the talent of the cast is what keeps the audience interested in a narrative that would otherwise be a dry recitation of historical facts.

Conclusion and the Theatricality of the Archive

The process of turning dry historical records into drama requires finding a human pulse within the bureaucratic files. Seventeen Moments of Spring achieves this by finding the emotional core of a spy working within the machine of the Third Reich. It uses the weight of the archive and the clinical narration of the files to build a narrative where every pause and every look carries the burden of the records.

In contrast Bellorini uses the tools of theater like masks and music to bridge the gap between the document and the stage.

Although I enjoyed the performance immensely my honest reaction was not to rush out and read L’Ordre du Jour but rather revisit the sophistication of Seventeen Moments of Spring which did not need as many props or as didactic of a message to make a point of the mundaneness of evil.

L’origine de l’inversion météorologique au Caltech

Charlie Munger a développé son approche de l’inversion alors qu’il servait comme météorologue pour l’armée de l’air pendant la Seconde Guerre Mondiale. Il était stationné à l’Institut de Technologie de Californie où il avait pour mission d’autoriser les décollages des pilotes. Les enjeux étaient absolus : une seule erreur de jugement pouvait entraîner la perte d’appareils et de vies. Au lieu de se demander comment il pourrait être l’officier le plus utile ou le plus efficace, il s’est demandé quel serait le moyen le plus simple de tuer un pilote. Ce recadrage morbide l’a forcé à ignorer les prévisions météo moyennes pour se concentrer sur les cas extrêmes mortels. En inversant le problème, il a réalisé qu’il y avait deux façons principales de provoquer un accident fatal. Il pouvait envoyer un pilote dans des conditions de givre qui alourdiraient les ailes au point de faire décrocher l’avion, ou il pouvait laisser un pilote voler jusqu’à l’épuisement du carburant sans piste d’atterrissage sûre à proximité. Munger a concentré toute son énergie professionnelle à prévenir ces deux scénarios spécifiques. Il a reconnu que s’il pouvait simplement éviter le givre et la panne sèche, il serait un météorologue brillant par défaut. Cette expérience précoce lui a appris que les systèmes complexes possèdent souvent quelques points de défaillance critiques qui, s’ils sont surveillés, garantissent un succès de base. Il a plus tard attribué cette façon de penser au mathématicien Carl Jacobi, qui affirmait fréquemment qu’il faut toujours inverser. Cette logique soustractive est devenue le fondement de sa carrière ultérieure dans le droit et l’investissement chez Berkshire Hathaway.

Fragilité géopolitique et points de passage infrastructurels

L’inversion révèle que la stabilité mondiale dépend souvent d’un petit nombre de vulnérabilités physiques que l’on néglige au profit de la croissance économique. Un exemple frappant est la concentration extrême de l’infrastructure numérique mondiale. Si un acteur hostile voulait paralyser les marchés financiers mondiaux et les communications internationales, the méthode la plus efficace ne serait pas une frappe nucléaire mais la destruction des câbles sous marins. Plus de 95 % des données internationales voyagent par quelques dizaines de grappes de câbles à fibre optique sur le fond océanique. En se demandant comment briser internet, les planificateurs identifient que quelques incidents coordonnés dans des zones comme la Mer Rouge ou l’Atlantique contourneraient presque toutes les défenses militaires traditionnelles. La solution inversée pour la sécurité nationale est de s’éloigner du piège de l’efficacité qui consiste à chercher la connexion la plus rapide et la plus directe par des points de passage maritimes encombrés. Au lieu de cela, il s’agit de construire un réseau coûteux et redondant comprenant des systèmes satellites et des liaisons terrestres traversant des territoires amis. Cette stratégie traite la bande passante comme une préoccupation secondaire par rapport à la survie. En diversifiant les routes des câbles par des eaux alliées et en investissant dans des réseaux maillés capables de contourner les points endommagés, une nation s’assure qu’aucune attaque physique unique ne peut mener à un black out informationnel total. Le succès dans ce contexte ne se mesure pas par la latence la plus faible, mais par l’incapacité d’un adversaire à trouver un point de défaillance unique capable de faire dérailler tout le système.

Une seconde fragilité géopolitique concerne la densité croissante d’objets en orbite terrestre basse. Pour comprendre comment mettre fin à l’ère de la navigation mondiale et de la logistique moderne, il faudrait chercher un moyen de déclencher un syndrome de Kessler. Cela se produit lorsqu’une collision unique entre des satellites crée un nuage de débris qui détruit d’autres objets, créant une réaction en chaîne de débris qui s’auto alimente. Comme le monde dépend de ces satellites pour tout, du GPS à la coordination militaire, l’objectif inversé de la domination spatiale est en réalité la prévention des débris. Les gouvernements réalisent maintenant que le moyen le plus sûr de perdre l’accès à l’espace est de s’engager dans une guerre satellite cinétique, ce qui conduit à un changement de politique traitant les débris orbitaux comme une menace existentielle majeure. Plutôt que de courir après la meilleure technologie satellite, la priorité est passée à la garantie que l’environnement reste utilisable pour tous. Cela nécessite une coopération internationale pour des missions de récupération et des protocoles de désorbitage stricts, car l’alternative est un cimetière de déchets en orbite qui clouerait l’humanité au sol pendant des siècles.

Résilience des entreprises chez Apple et Costco

Dans le monde des affaires, les entreprises qui utilisent l’inversion survivent souvent aux transitions qui tuent leurs concurrents. Apple offre un exemple solide de cette logique soustractive. Lorsque Steve Jobs est revenu dans l’entreprise en 1997, he a demandé ce qui causait les pertes d’argent et la course vers la faillite. La réponse était une gamme de produits gonflée et confuse comprenant plus de 350 articles différents, dont beaucoup étaient impossibles à distinguer pour le consommateur moyen. Au lieu de se demander comment mieux commercialiser ces produits, il a inversé le problème et a demandé ce qui devait être supprimé pour sauver l’entreprise. Il a réduit la gamme de produits de plus de 90 pour cent, se concentrant sur seulement quatre ordinateurs. En évitant le piège de la complexité qui sème la confusion chez les clients et épuise les ressources en ingénierie, Apple est redevenu rentable en un an. La discipline de dire non à des centaines de bonnes idées pour protéger les quelques idées géniales est une application directe de la philosophie de Munger.

Costco utilise l’inversion pour maintenir sa position de leader de la distribution. L’entreprise examine ce qui rend le commerce de détail traditionnel difficile pour les propriétaires et désagréable pour les clients. Elle a identifié la rotation élevée des stocks et le vol par les employés comme des problèmes majeurs. Pour résoudre cela, elle a créé un modèle d’adhésion qui sert de filtre pour les clients et lui permet de payer ses employés avec des salaires plus élevés. En payant plus, elle réduit le coût de l’embauche et de la formation des nouveaux membres du personnel tout en diminuant le risque de vol interne. Elle ne cherche pas seulement à vendre plus d’articles. Elle se concentre sur l’évitement des problèmes structurels qui mènent à des marges faibles et un stress élevé dans le secteur. Elle a reconnu que réduire les marges bénéficiaires à la limite absolue pour le client crée un fossé qui est presque impossible à franchir pour les concurrents sans faire faillite. En demandant ce qui ferait partir un client, elle identifie le prix et la qualité comme les deux seules variables qui comptent vraiment, et elle les protège de manière obsessionnelle en supprimant tout autre coût inutile.

La mécanique de la pensée soustractive

Le pouvoir de l’inversion vient de sa capacité à contourner l’ego humain et l’excès de confiance. Quand les gens se demandent comment réussir, ils créent souvent des listes d’exigences longues et irréalistes qui dépendent de la chance ou d’une exécution parfaite. C’est une pensée additive, qui augmente la surface d’exposition à l’erreur. Quand ils se demandent ce qui les fera échouer, la liste est généralement beaucoup plus courte et plus réaliste. Ce processus est soustractif. Il supprime le besoin pour une personne d’être un visionnaire ou un héros. Au lieu de cela, il exige seulement la discipline de rester à l’écart des pièges connus. Il transforme un champ de possibilités vaste et confus en un petit nombre d’actions interdites. En définissant les limites de l’échec, vous créez un espace sûr pour que le succès émerge naturellement. C’est particulièrement utile dans les environnements à haute pression où l’envie d’agir est souvent plus dangereuse que l’inaction.

Le paradoxe de l’abondance moderne

La pertinence de l’inversion est passée d’un outil de survie à un outil de filtrage de l’information. À une époque où l’intelligence artificielle peut générer un flux infini de réponses plausibles, la valeur de la réponse correcte diminue. Le nouveau défi consiste à identifier et à rejeter la quantité vaste de bruit et d’hallucinations produites par ces systèmes. Le succès aujourd’hui appartient à la personne qui peut inverser le processus de consommation de contenu le plus efficacement. Au lieu de se demander ce qu’elle doit apprendre, elle doit se demander ce qu’elle doit ignorer pour préserver sa santé mentale et sa concentration. L’avantage concurrentiel dans le monde moderne n’est plus de savoir qui peut rassembler le plus de données, mais qui est le plus apte à éviter les distractions qui empêchent les réflexions profondes. En inversant l’objectif d’être informé, on découvre que l’objectif est en réalité d’éviter d’être mal informé.

Conclusion

L’inversion n’était que le début pour Munger. Il a passé sa vie à documenter 24 causes spécifiques de l’erreur de jugement humaine : les bugs mentaux qui nous mènent droit dans les pièges que l’inversion est censée éviter. Vous pouvez les voir dans la Tendance de Super Réponse aux Récompenses, où les gens poursuivent de mauvaises incitations, ou la Preuve Sociale, où nous suivons la foule dans le précipice. Lorsque ces biais s’accumulent, Munger appelait cela un effet Lollapalooza : un échec total du système de l’esprit.

Si vous voulez survivre au vacarme de 2026, étudiez la Psychologie de l’Erreur de Jugement Humaine. C’est le manuel d’utilisation de votre propre cerveau.

Remerciements

L’idée de cet article est née d’une discussion avec mon cher ami Karén Chaltikian, qui travaille toujours sur des projets passionnants et élargit mon esprit à chaque conversation.

Caltech Origin of Meteorological Inversion

Charlie Munger developed his approach to inversion while serving as a meteorologist for the Army Air Corps during World War II. He was stationed at the California Institute of Technology where he was tasked with clearing pilots for flight. Instead of asking how he could be the most helpful or effective officer, he asked himself what the easiest way would be to kill a pilot. By inverting the problem, he realized there were two primary ways to cause a fatal accident. He could send a pilot into icing conditions that would weigh down the wings or he could allow a pilot to fly until they ran out of fuel without a safe landing spot.

Munger focused all his professional energy on preventing those two specific scenarios. He recognized that if he could simply avoid icing and fuel exhaustion, he would be a successful meteorologist by default. This early experience taught him that complex systems often have a few critical failure points. He later credited this way of thinking to the mathematician Carl Jacobi, who frequently stated that one must always invert. This subtractive logic became the foundation for his later career in law and investment at Berkshire Hathaway.

Geopolitical Fragility and Infrastructure Chokepoints

Inversion reveals that global stability is often dependent on a small number of physical vulnerabilities. One prominent example is the extreme concentration of the world’s digital infrastructure. If a hostile actor wanted to paralyze global financial markets and international communications, the most effective method would not be a nuclear strike but the destruction of subsea cables. Over 95% of international data travels through a few dozen clusters of fiber optic cables on the ocean floor. By asking how to “break” the internet, planners identify that a few coordinated incidents in areas like the Red Sea or the Atlantic would bypass almost all traditional military defenses.

The inverted solution for national security is to move away from the “efficiency trap” of seeking the fastest, most direct connection through congested maritime chokepoints. Instead, it involves building a costly, redundant grid that includes satellite networks and terrestrial links through friendly territories. This strategy treats bandwidth as a secondary concern to survivability. By diversifying cable routes through allied waterways and investing in mesh networks that can bypass damaged nodes, a nation ensures that no single physical attack can lead to a total information blackout.

A second geopolitical fragility involves the increasing density of objects in Low Earth Orbit. To understand how to end the era of global navigation and modern logistics, one would look for a way to trigger a Kessler Syndrome event. This occurs when a single collision between satellites creates a cloud of debris that destroys other objects, creating a self-sustaining chain reaction of shrapnel. Because the world relies on these satellites for everything from GPS to military coordination, the inverted goal of “space dominance” is actually “debris prevention.” Governments are now realizing that the surest way to lose access to space is to engage in kinetic satellite warfare, leading to a shift in policy that treats orbital debris as a top tier existential threat.

Business Resilience at Apple and Costco

In the business world, companies that use inversion often survive transitions that kill their competitors. Apple provides a strong example of this subtractive logic. When Steve Jobs returned to the company in 1997, he asked what was causing the firm to bleed money and head toward bankruptcy. The answer was a bloated and confusing product line that featured over 350 different items. Instead of asking how to market these products better, he inverted the problem and asked what should be removed to save the company. He slashed the product lineup by over 90 percent, focusing on just four computers. By avoiding the “complexity trap” that confuses customers and drains engineering resources, Apple returned to profitability within a year.

Costco uses inversion to maintain its position as a retail leader. The company looks at what makes traditional retail difficult for owners and unpleasant for customers. They identified high inventory turnover and employee theft as major problems. To solve these, they created a membership model that acts as a filter for customers and allows them to pay employees higher wages. By paying more, they reduce the cost of hiring and training new staff while lowering the risk of internal theft. They do not just try to sell more items. They focus on avoiding the structural issues that lead to low margins and high stress in the retail sector.

Mechanics of Subtractive Thinking

The power of inversion comes from its ability to bypass human ego and overconfidence. When people ask how they can succeed, they often create long and unrealistic lists of requirements that depend on luck or perfect execution. When they ask what will make them fail, the list is usually much shorter and more realistic. This process is subtractive. It removes the need for a person to be a visionary or a hero. Instead, it only requires the discipline to stay away from known traps. It turns a vast and confusing field of possibilities into a small number of prohibited actions.

The relevance of inversion has shifted from a tool for survival to a tool for filtering information. In an era where artificial intelligence can generate an endless stream of plausible answers, the value of the “correct” answer is declining. The new challenge is identifying and discarding the vast amount of noise and hallucination produced by these systems. Success today is found by the person who can most effectively invert the process of content consumption.

The competitive edge in the modern world is no longer about who can gather the most data, but who is best at avoiding the distractions that prevent deep insights.

Conclusion

Inversion was just the start for Munger. He spent his life documenting 25 specific causes of human misjudgment, the mental glitches that lead us right into the traps inversion is meant to avoid. You can see these in the “Reward Super Response Tendency,” where people chase bad incentives, or “Social Proof,” where we follow the crowd off a cliff. When these biases stack together, Munger called it a “Lollapalooza effect,” a total system failure of the mind.

If you want to survive the noise of 2026, study the Psychology of Human Misjudgment. It is the missing manual for your brain.

Acknowledgement

The idea for this post came from a discussion with my dear friend Karén Chaltikian, who is always working on something exciting and expands my mind with every conversation.

Is theater still alive outside of literate cultures like France and Russia, or do you find the quality is lacking elsewhere?

Léo: Well, it all depends on what we’re talking about. When I go to New York, I see immense artistic and theatrical vitality, but it simply isn’t the same tradition or history. In France, there is a great vitality of creation linked to the history of subsidized theater which actually goes back several centuries, notably to Louis XIV. One could almost say it was Louis XIV who invented subsidized theater with the troupes he supported.

So yes, there is great vitality linked to the fact that this sector has been helped by the State and public authorities, especially since the post-war period. However, one must be careful. What is questionable is that there are many shows that play very little. We have many subsidies for creating shows, but there isn’t necessarily a distribution schedule that follows for everyone. We help creation, but we don’t always ensure the work travels.

I don’t know other countries well enough to fully support a comparison, but what I see in France is a vitality linked to this history of state support. But this shouldn’t prevent us from seeing the bad sides, specifically real problems of diffusion. There are few shows that manage to exceed five performances. I think that’s one of the important subjects regarding how public theater is doing in France today.

Is theater in France shifting toward an exclusively older demographic, as it has in the US?

Léo: We have to be careful because I work all over France and there are many places, especially smaller cities, where there is a problem of audience renewal—where the audience is predominantly elderly. But that is a problem that isn’t unique to the theater; it is the problem of France because France has an aging population.

If we manage to bring young people back to the theater (and I mean theaters in general, not just the Comédie-Française) it is because there are partnerships made with the National Education system to take students to the theater. This fits into the tradition I was talking about: subsidized theater has multiplied partnerships with schools, which allows us to introduce young people to theater within the school framework.

Now, whether the people who went to the theater at school return afterwards of their own free will is a real question. But in any case, it is certain that everything is being done to make it happen.

Can you explain the difference between your two organizations: Nouveau Théâtre Populaire and Animaux en Paradis?

Léo: I founded my company, Animaux en Paradis, and I co-founded the Nouveau Théâtre Populaire (NTP) the same year in 2009. Indeed, they are two very different operations. In recent years, I have concentrated a lot on my company because I wanted to develop this theatrical series on the presidents of the Fifth Republic. Animaux is a structure that is more vertical; even if I work in co-writing, I have the direction and the “final cut,” so to speak. It is where I develop that specific artistic project.

The Nouveau Théâtre Populaire is a different story. It is very important to me because that’s where I was able to really train in theater, not having gone to major drama schools myself. I was able to direct shows at a very young age in front of large audiences and really experience what this job was. It is a collective in which I tend to direct texts from the repertoire including Molière, Shakespeare, etc.

The difference is also that touring is less important for the NTP than for my company. We are less constrained with NTP to make shows that fit within the market framework. We can make shows with lots of people on stage because touring is not the economic fundamental. On the other hand, we have much less rehearsal time for economic reasons.

But it is the same people. It is often the same actors and actresses that we find from one structure to the other—people I have known since I was 15 or 20 years old. We have developed a common grammar of work, and I like continuing to work with them because it allows us to go much further together.

I also think we complement each other. I am not an actor at all, while Julien is an actor to his fingertips. We don’t have the same relationship to the stage or to writing, and we don’t think the same politically. That is what is interesting: we are not clones, and we don’t agree on everything. That creates a sometimes interesting tension for the show.

You focus heavily on areas outside of Paris. Was that a strategic choice?

Léo: I was born in Paris, but when I was much younger, Paris terrified me. I had the impression that it was a place where one didn’t have the right to make mistakes. So I left for Reims because I was assistant director to a woman named Christine Berg who told me, “Come assist me, and I will help you mount your first productions in the Grand Est region.” I left also for personal reasons because it is easier to find housing outside of Paris.

At the same time, I started working in Fontaine-Guérin because we built the open-air stage for the Nouveau Théâtre Populaire in the garden of the grandmother of one of my comrades. It was really chance that took us there. Since then, that person passed away and the municipality decided to buy the place and entrust us with its management.

I had the conviction that I had to leave Paris to start working. But the choice of these specific territories was not really a pragmatic strategy at the start. Of course, afterwards I said to myself, “Ah, it’s easier to be spotted when you are a young director in the regions than in Paris.” But initially, it happened because I met people who took me to those places.

As Balzac said, “There are no principles, there are only circumstances.” The stories that shape our lives are the result of somewhat chaotic circumstances that we must then organize. I spent many years doing things that were perhaps more obscure—real labor with not much of an audience, in territories sometimes economically stricken. We became known nationally around 2021, but we had spent more than 10 years doing unrecognized work.

Would you consider filming your productions to reach an international audience, or do you believe theater must remain ephemeral?

Léo: Actually, all my shows are filmed already and broadcast on a platform called Opsis TV. I am currently working with production companies to build a collection of the complete set on the presidents to be broadcast on French television.

I think the idea is excellent. The work I do with the NTP around Molière or Balzac might interest international audiences more easily because those are known quantities. However, we played Chirac at Princeton University in the United States, and we are going to play Mitterrand there this fall. It interests some people because it is the History of France.

When I discovered foreign directors like Krzysztof Warlikowski or Thomas Ostermeier, I was fascinated because their work was so specific to their nations—Polish and German respectively. Warlikowski says, “Theater can only be national; it is a national dialogue.” But I find that doesn’t prevent it from interesting people outside. The problems the characters encounter in my Eight Kings series—disappointed political aspirations, resentments, fractures inside a society—exist in many Western countries. People could find a thematic resonance there, even if there is a network of references from which foreign spectators might feel excluded.

Can you walk us through the episodes of the “Eight Kings” series you have completed so far?

Léo: We have a very clear timeline for the series. We began in 2020 with The Life and Death of J. Chirac, King of the French, which focuses on the relationship between the President and the “peripheral France” that felt betrayed by him. Then came Generation Mitterrand in 2021, which explores the disillusionment of the left through the eyes of three voters. We staged Dinner with the French by Valéry Giscard d’Estaing in 2023, portraying a bourgeois family receiving the President. Finally, for the Sarkozy and Hollande years, we experimented with form in a piece called Sarkhollande, created in 2025, notably with a sequence where Nicolas Sarkozy performs a stand-up comedy routine, addressing the audience directly on divisive identity issues.

The series has been well received: we have had 400 performances in five years for these first episodes, and it will be even more next season! The shows tour in all types of venues: municipal theaters, National Dramatic Centers (CDN), national stages, subsidized stages, and private theaters.

What is next in your “Eight Kings” series on the Presidents?

Léo: Next is The Therapy of Emmanuel Macron, planned for 2026. It is science fiction. The pitch is that we are in 2058, Macron is 83 years old, and he enters a psychoanalyst’s office to be dissuaded from running for a fifth presidential election. We imagined that Macron never really left the presidency for 50 years. We are creating this while he is still President, so we have to take a step to the side—into the future—to better analyze him.

Later, we will create the De Gaulle, which will be an opera, scheduled for 2028 or 2029. The pitch is that the real General de Gaulle enters the hall with the real audience in 1968. He attends an opera made in his glory that tells the story of 1940, 1944, 1958—the whole Gaullist legend. But this opera falls flat in 1968, and the performers revolt against what they are playing, creating a revolution in the theater that mirrors the May ‘68 student riots. On the ruins of that theater, the film of Pompidou takes place.

Our purpose with Julien, my co-writer, is not to do ideological theater. We try to consider these men of power in their humanity, in their trembling, to make them theater characters we can love or hate. If I stage Shakespeare’s Richard III, I want the audience to love him at some point, even though he is a bastard. We try to find the humanity in these men without “polishing their shoes” or being hagiographic. There is a quote by the infamous Charles Manson (it is strange to quote someone like him, I know) yet it fits the bill perfectly: “Look down at me you will see a fool, look up at me you will see a god, look straight at me you will see yourself.” We want to look at them straight on.

You use fictional “everyman” characters in these historical plays. What is their function?

Léo: We decided that in each show there has to be a character from the people, a fictional character who is our entry point toward the presidents. In Chirac, it is a young boy named Ludovic Muller who comes from peripheral France, the France of medium-sized cities which suffered from deindustrialization—what you might call the “Rust Belt.”

We believe we can only understand the presidents if we introduce them through the sensitive angle of someone like you and me. In Generation Mitterrand, we barely embody the President; it is really these fictional characters who are in the foreground. In Dinner with the French by Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, it is the family that receives the president for dinner.

This allows us to tell the story not just of the president, but of the people who were betrayed or affected by him. For Mitterrand, we tell it from three different points of view: three characters from different social classes who voted together in 1981 but today vote for Macron, Mélenchon, or Le Pen. These characters allow us to embody the contradictory, violent relationships that exist inside society toward the presidential figure.

We mix testimonies and research to build them. For example, for the worker character in Mitterrand, we looked for testimonies of how a worker who voted for him viewed the mandate. But we always have to find a tension between the sociological reality and giving the character a soul so we believe in them. In life, we don’t always react in a coherent way regarding our social situation; sometimes we act in a more irrational, intimate way.

How does your philosophy differ from the didactic political theater of someone like Bertolt Brecht?

Léo: I discovered Howard Barker when I was 18, and I feel very close to his objective of trying to disturb people. What I like about Barker is that he doesn’t give the key to the audience. It is up to people to think on their own.

When I was in high school, I studied Edward Bond, and I hated it because I had the impression they were explaining to me what I had to think. I find it much more enjoyable to make theater that doesn’t take people for idiots. It is riskier.

I hate the exclusively militant character of some French theater where they explain the “correct” thought. As soon as that happens, I want to leave. Having characters who can be very conservative opposed to a character who is very progressive is marvelous if we, as authors, make the effort to understand both. It forces us to think against ourselves, which is why I find it so interesting to write.

How do audiences in rural towns react compared to those in Paris?

Léo: It is paradoxical because I really started working in those territories where it is less glamorous to do theater. This creates real differences on the political level. For example, in our show regarding Sarkozy and Hollande, it starts with a stand-up by Nicolas Sarkozy. He addresses the room on identity subjects which are divisive today. We observe important differences of reception depending on the territory.

One difference is whether we share the same codes. In metropolises, the code of stand-up is clear and accepted; in medium-sized cities, it is less so.

But there is also a form of activism for decentralization. We go to play in territories where there is less culture. The theaters buy our shows, which allows them to take risks because of the subsidized economy. But if we continue to go there, it is also because we propose shows whose themes interest people. People in difficult territories come because having shows about the presidents interests them—it is a common, universal history.

I think one of the problems of public theater was confining itself to subjects that were too militant. It is important to propose a public theater that is innovative but also popular. The money of public theater is not my money; it is the money of the French people. We must not lose sight of the responsibility to propose theater that is demanding but where we also seek to give people pleasure. Public theater has sometimes forgotten that a bit.

Stanley Kubrick famously had his Napoleon, a “white whale” project he never managed to film. Do you have a similar dream project?

Léo: After we finish with the Presidents, I want to tackle the Bible—both the Old and New Testaments—but to seize it as “profane material” for the stage. The goal is not to produce a literal or anecdotal interpretation, but to find the theatrical stakes within it.

There are so many fascinating questions to explore: Who is actually speaking in the Old Testament? Is it God? And if so, how do you play God on stage? How do we make the Gospels speak when they were written by witnesses? How do you represent the Flood, the resurrection of the dead, or the multiplication of the loaves?

I was reading Emmanuel Carrère’s The Kingdom recently, and it deals exactly with this challenge of investigating the Gospels like a witness or a historian, focusing on the very start of Christianity. I am also very interested in the tradition of medieval mystery plays, which brought these stories to the public square.

I want to approach it with a spirit of joyful experimentation. It’s about taking this massive foundational text and seeing how we can construct theater from it, taking a “step to the side” to understand it anew. It’s a daunting challenge, but that is exactly why I want to do it.

Interviewer: You should give Mel Gibson a call to fund the project from the proceeds of The Passion of the Christ.

Léo: (Laughs) Sure, do you have his number?

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L’histoire suit une femme mariée, Zinaïda Fedorovna, qui quitte son époux pour vivre avec son amant, Orlov, dans une quête de liberté romantique et spirituelle. Elle croit entrer dans une vie d’une grande importance, mais elle se heurte à l’indifférence froide d’Orlov et à l’atmosphère étouffante de son appartement de célibataire à Saint-Pétersbourg. Le narrateur, un révolutionnaire se faisant passer pour un valet de pied afin d’espionner le père d’Orlov, observe ses rêves idéalistes s’effondrer en une tragédie romantique.

Tchekhov s’appuyait rarement sur des références littéraires manifestes ; ainsi, lorsqu’il choisit de le faire, nous devons examiner le but de ces allusions spécifiques. Dans ce récit, les choix de Tourgueniev et de Balzac fournissent un cadre à l’auto-illusion des personnages et à leur désagrégation finale.

Orlov comme anti-héros tourguenievien

Orlov, l’amant, est présenté comme un homme défini par ses routines rigides et presque esthétisées. C’est un être de confort et d’habitude, passant ses matinées en robe de chambre, buvant du café tout en parcourant plusieurs journaux à une vitesse incroyable. Sa lecture est sans discernement ; il consomme l’information non par engagement envers le monde ou recherche de la vérité, mais comme une performance d’intellectualisme. Cette consommation rapide et superficielle lui permet de maintenir une distance détachée et ironique par rapport à la réalité des événements qu’il découvre. Ce mode de vie soigneusement orchestré sert de toile de fond à sa liaison avec Zinaïda Fedorovna, dont il perçoit la présence comme une perturbation de son existence de célibataire.

Lorsque ses amis (en réalité de simples compagnons de jeu) commencent à l’interroger sur la présence de Zinaïda dans sa vie, Orlov se lance dans une tirade contre Ivan Tourgueniev, accusant l’auteur d’avoir instauré des attentes romantiques ridicules que les hommes modernes doivent désormais payer au prix fort. Orlov réagit spécifiquement au modèle masculin de Roudine. Le personnage de Dmitri Roudine était la quintessence de « l’homme de trop » (lichniy chelovek) — un intellectuel éloquent et hautement instruit, parlant avec passion d’idéaux, de liberté et de sacrifice de soi, mais ultimement incapable de prendre des mesures décisives dans sa vie personnelle. Bien que Roudine fût un échec au sens pratique, Tourgueniev le présentait toujours comme une figure tragique et noble d’une grande stature spirituelle.

Orlov rejette cet héritage littéraire car il a créé un modèle culturel où même les échecs d’un homme se doivent d’être « grandioses » et « profonds ». Il a le sentiment que Zinaïda, en quittant son mari pour lui, l’a projeté dans un drame tourguenievien pour lequel il n’a jamais auditionné. On attend de lui qu’il soit l’intellectuel brillant et torturé qui finit par se sacrifier pour une cause ou un grand amour.

Zinaïda Fedorovna comme Eugène de Rastignac

Tandis qu’Orlov utilise la littérature comme un bouclier pour son cynisme, Zinaïda Fedorovna s’en sert comme d’un script pour sa libération. Elle nous est présentée comme une femme d’un idéalisme intense, presque désespéré, fuyant l’ennui étouffant de son mariage pour ce qu’elle imagine être une vie d’une signification profonde. Cependant, à mesure que sa relation avec Orlov se désagrège et que la réalité de son ostracisme social s’installe, son recours aux parallèles littéraires devient plus aigu et plus tragique.

L’expérience domestique s’effondre alors que l’indifférence d’Orlov se mue en un évitement actif. Il trouve désormais l’appartement insupportable à cause de sa domesticité, percevant son propre foyer comme une prison dont il doit s’échapper. Orlov disparaît purement et simplement, se cachant chez un ami pour éviter ses confrontations larmoyantes. Ce même jour, Stepan décide de jouer cartes sur table et de briser ses illusions. Il finit par lui dire la vérité brutale : elle est la risée d’Orlov et de ses amis. Dans son désespoir, elle se tourne vers Stepan, qui a abandonné sa mission révolutionnaire pour s’occuper d’elle.

Zinaïda demande à Stepan :

Avez-vous lu Balzac ? À la fin de son roman Le Père Goriot, le héros regarde Paris du haut d’une colline et menace la ville : “À nous deux maintenant !”, et après cela il commence une nouvelle vie. Alors, quand je regarderai par la fenêtre du train Saint-Pétersbourg pour la dernière fois, je dirai : “À nous deux maintenant !”

Tchekhov introduit Le Père Goriot pour nous montrer que Zinaïda n’a presque rien appris de la tragédie qu’elle a endurée. Même au milieu d’une retraite désespérée, elle s’accroche encore à ses illusions romantiques, tentant de présenter leur fuite comme une conquête littéraire grandiose plutôt que comme un échec.

Le défi de Rastignac à Paris marquait le début d’une ascension sociale de sang-froid ; c’était un jeune homme qui avait enfin appris à utiliser le cynisme du monde à son avantage. Zinaïda, cependant, n’est pas un Rastignac, et sa plus grande tragédie est encore à venir.

L’accompagnement musical de la lettre de Stepan

Le narrateur, Stepan, est un noble qui s’est déguisé en valet de pied pour espionner le père d’Orlov. Bien qu’il soit initialement venu dans cette maison pour perpétrer un assassinat révolutionnaire, il se retrouve au milieu d’une tragédie romantique opératique. De sa position de serviteur, il observe comment les archétypes littéraires pompeux de l’élite russe ne résistent pas au poids de la souffrance humaine réelle.

Alors que Stepan écrit sa dernière lettre, impitoyable, à Orlov, il entend Zinaïda dans une autre pièce jouer « Le Cygne » de Saint-Saëns. Zinaïda vient de l’entendre jouer par l’un des amis compatissants d’Orlov, qui lui a conseillé d’entrer au monastère.

Tandis que Stepan écrit cette lettre critique exposant sa propre tromperie — et la tromperie encore plus grande qu’Orlov a commise envers l’amour, les femmes et la vie elle-même — la musique sert d’accompagnement ironique à la nature douce de Stepan. Elle met en lumière un homme qui, malgré ses prétentions révolutionnaires, est fondamentalement incapable de toute violence assez forte pour provoquer un changement réel.

Conclusion

Pouchkine citait Byron pour établir un pedigree romantique ; Tolstoï et Dostoïevski écrivaient la moitié de leurs textes en français pour impressionner leurs lecteurs par leur maîtrise de la grammaire française et leur proximité avec la haute culture européenne. Tchekhov, lui, a dépouillé l’art de cette prétention.

Je considère souvent Tchekhov comme cet oncle ou ce cousin exceptionnel pour raconter des anecdotes. Leur talent est tel que même les plaisanteries les plus vulgaires ou les plus banales possèdent un sens du rythme si parfait qu’on en garde le sourire pendant des jours et des semaines.

C’est ce que cette histoire représente pour moi ; Tchekhov a pris toute la philosophie, la culture et le progressisme du XIXe siècle pour les emballer dans l’anecdote la plus parfaitement construite et la mieux rythmée qui soit.

The story follows a married woman, Zinaida Fyodorovna, who leaves her husband to live with her lover, Orlov, in a pursuit of romantic and spiritual freedom. She believes she is entering a life of grand meaning, yet she is met with Orlov’s cold indifference and the stifling atmosphere of his Petersburg bachelor apartment. The narrator, a revolutionary posing as a footman to spy on Orlov’s father, watches as her idealistic dreams collapse into a romantic tragedy.

Chekhov rarely relied on overt literary references, so when he chooses to do so, we must examine the purpose these specific allusions serve. In this story, the choices of Turgenev and Balzac provide a framework for the characters’ self-deception and eventual unraveling.

Orlov as a Turgenev Antihero

Orlov, the lover, is introduced as a man defined by his rigid, almost aestheticized routines. He is a creature of comfort and habit, spending his mornings in a dressing gown and drinking coffee while he reads through several newspapers with incredible speed. His reading is indiscriminate; he consumes information not out of an engagement with the world or a search for truth, but as a performance of intellectualism. This rapid, superficial consumption allows him to maintain a detached, ironic distance from the reality of the events he reads about. This carefully curated lifestyle is the backdrop against which he conducts his affair with Zinaida Fyodorovna, viewing her presence as a disruption to the order of his bachelor existence.

When his friends (really card playing buddies) start questioning the presence of Zinaida in his life, Orlov bursts into a tirade against Ivan Turgenev, accusing the author of setting ridiculous romantic expectations that modern men must now pay a price for. Orlov is specifically reacting to the male model found in Turgenev’s Rudin. The character of Dmitry Rudin was the quintessential “Superfluous Man”—an eloquent, highly educated intellectual who spoke passionately about ideals, liberty, and self-sacrifice, but was ultimately incapable of taking decisive action in his personal life. While Rudin was a failure in the practical sense, Turgenev still framed him as a tragic, noble figure of high spiritual caliber.

Orlov resents this literary legacy because it has created a cultural template where even a man’s failures are expected to be “grand” and “soulful.” He feels that Zinaida, by leaving her husband for him, has cast him in a Turgenevian drama he never auditioned for. He is expected to be the brilliant, tortured intellectual who eventually sacrifices himself for a cause or a great love.

Zinaida Fyodorovna As Eugène De Rastignac

While Orlov uses literature as a shield for his cynicism, Zinaida Fyodorovna uses it as a script for her liberation. She is introduced as a woman of intense, almost desperate idealism, fleeing the stifling boredom of her marriage for what she imagines will be a life of profound significance. However, as her relationship with Orlov disintegrates and the reality of her social ostracism sets in, her reliance on literary parallels becomes more acute and more tragic.

The domestic experiment collapses as Orlov’s indifference shifts to active avoidance. He finds the apartment unbearable now due to its domesticity, viewing his own home as a prison he must escape. Orlov simply disappears, hiding at a friend’s house to avoid her tear-eyed confrontations. That same day, Stepan decides to come clean and break her delusions. He finally tells her the brutal truth: she is a laughing stock to Orlov and his friends. In her despair, she turns to Stepan, who has abandoned his revolutionary mission to care for her.

Zinaida asks Stepan:

Have you read Balzac? At the end of his novel ‘Père Goriot’ the hero looks down upon Paris from the top of a hill and threatens the town: ‘Now we shall settle our account,’ and after this he begins a new life. So when I look out of the train window at Petersburg for the last time, I shall say, ‘Now we shall settle our account!’

Chekhov brings in Père Goriot to show us that Zinaida has learned almost nothing from the tragedy she has endured. Even in the middle of a desperate retreat, she is still clutching her romantic illusions, attempting to cast their flight as a grand literary conquest rather than a failure.

Rastignac’s challenge to Paris was the beginning of a cold-blooded social ascent; he was a youth who had finally learned to use the world’s cynicism to his advantage. Zinaida, however, is no Rastignac, and her bigger tragedy is yet to come.

The Musical Accompaniment of Stepan’s Letter

The narrator, Stepan, is a nobleman who has disguised himself as a footman to spy on Orlov’s father. Although he originally came to the household to conduct a revolutionary assassination, he now finds himself instead in the middle of an operatic romantic tragedy. From his position as a servant, he watches as the high-flown literary archetypes of the Russian elite fail to withstand the weight of actual human suffering.

As Stepan is writing his final, ruthless letter to Orlov, he hears Zinaida in a different room playing Saint-Saëns’ “The Swan.” Zinaida just heard it played by one of Orlov’s sympathetic friends, who gave her the advice of joining the monastery.

As Stepan writes the critical letter exposing his own deceit—and the even grander deceit Orlov has committed against love, women, and life itself—the music serves as an ironic accompaniment to Stepan’s gentle nature. It highlights a man who, despite his revolutionary pretensions, is fundamentally incapable of anything violent enough to affect real change.

Conclusion

Pushkin name dropped Byron to establish a romantic pedigree; Tolstoy and Dostoevsky wrote half their text in French to impress their readers with their mastery of French grammar and their proximity to European high culture. Chekhov, however, stripped away that pretension.

I often think of Chekhov as that uncle or cousin who is amazing at telling anecdotes. Their skill is so elevated that even the worst, most vulgar or mundane jokes still have such perfect comic timing that you are left smiling for days and weeks to come.

This is what this story represents to me; Chekhov took all the philosophy, culture, and progressiveness of the nineteenth century and packaged it in the most perfectly constructed, perfectly timed anecdote.

Bien que le titre suggère une évasion mythique le film soutient que le destin humain est façonné par le câblage évolutionnaire. Cette prise de conscience est dévastatrice car elle supprime l’illusion du libre arbitre. Nos tragédies et nos triomphes les plus profonds ne sont que les résultats de réactions biochimiques au stress environnemental.

La Philosophie par le Récit

La structure du film est sa caractéristique la plus radicale. Le récit est fréquemment interrompu par le docteur Henri Laborit qui parle directement à la caméra de la psychologie comportementale et de la théorie des trois cerveaux. Ce format reflète le style des Fables de Krylov où une anecdote spécifique est utilisée pour démontrer une morale ou une vérité universelle. Dans ce cas la morale est biologique. Les personnages sont comme les animaux d’une fable. Ils jouent des modèles de dominance de soumission et de fuite. Resnais utilise ces histoires entrelacées pour montrer que ce que nous appelons personnalité ou destin n’est souvent qu’une réaction à des stimuli environnementaux et à des signaux chimiques.

C’est une expérience cinématographique unique car il n’est pas nécessaire de se demander ce qui se passe. Laborit explique la cause sous jacente de chaque état de frustration ou de dépression. Normalement cette approche semblerait pédante mais Resnais évite ce piège. Il y a de l’humour et du sentiment dans la traduction de ces théories. Cela est surtout évident lorsque les personnages habitent physiquement leurs rôles biologiques en portant des têtes de rats géantes. Ces métaphores visuelles transforment le film en une étude surréaliste et sombrement comique de la nature humaine.

Depardieu et Arditi : Des Rôles Fondateurs

Le film présente Gérard Depardieu et Pierre Arditi au sommet de leur art dans des registres très différents. Depardieu joue René un directeur d’usine dont la masse physique cache un état interne fragile. Sa performance capture la désintégration lente d’un homme incapable de s’adapter à la pression de l’entreprise. René est un homme décent et un père de famille fidèle. Cela rend sa tentative de suicide finale incroyablement douloureuse à regarder. Il y a une cruauté spécifique à voir un personnage qui a suivi toutes les règles de la loyauté sociale se retrouver complètement abandonné par sa propre biologie.

À l’inverse Pierre Arditi joue Zambeaux qui est un véritable connard. À ce stade de sa carrière l’interprétation d’Arditi est tranchante et antipathique. Elle n’a pas la chaleur pour laquelle il deviendra célèbre plus tard. Ce rôle a servi de modèle pour sa carrière future. Au cours des décennies suivantes Arditi affinera cet archétype en ajoutant une couche de charme et d’esprit pour devenir le voyou le plus aimé du théâtre français du moins à mes yeux.

La Signification du Titre

L’Oncle d’Amérique du titre est un trope culturel français récurrent. Il représente un parent riche et perdu de vue qui reviendra un jour d’Amérique pour résoudre tous les problèmes financiers et personnels. C’est un mythe de salut lointain. Pour les personnages du film l’Oncle est l’illusion qu’une vie meilleure se trouve juste après un coup de chance ou un changement de décor. Resnais utilise ce titre de manière ironique. Le film démontre qu’il n’y a pas de sauvetage magique venant de l’extérieur. Notre comportement est régi par des impératifs biologiques. Partir en Amérique ou hériter d’une fortune ne changerait pas la façon dont nous répondons au stress ou à la compétition.

Influences et Contexte

Alain Resnais était une figure clé des cinéastes de la Rive Gauche. Ce groupe est souvent associé à la Nouvelle Vague mais il se concentrait davantage sur la littérature et les mécanismes de la mémoire. Son travail est défini par une obsession pour la façon dont le passé et l’inconscient dictent le présent. Cela est évident dans ses premiers chefs d’œuvre comme Hiroshima mon amour et L’Année dernière à Marienbad. Alors que ces films traitaient de la nature subjective du temps Mon oncle d’Amérique déplace l’attention vers la nature objective de la biologie. Resnais a été profondément influencé par les surréalistes et les écrivains du Nouveau Roman. Des auteurs comme Alain Robbe Grillet et Marguerite Duras ont rejeté les intrigues linéaires traditionnelles et les portraits psychologiques. Comme eux Resnais a utilisé des structures fragmentées pour remettre en question la perception de la réalité par le spectateur.

Conclusion

Mon oncle d’Amérique est un film froid qui rejette les idées romantiques. Resnais montre que nous ne dirigeons pas nos vies. Nos synapses nous dirigent. L’Oncle d’Amérique est un mensonge que nous nous racontons en politique en littérature en philosophie et même au cinéma. C’est une promesse de secours qui ne vient jamais car elle ignore les faits de l’évolution.

Le film est un jalon du cinéma car Resnais a réussi à intégrer la science pure dans la forme narrative. Resnais démontre que la chose la plus terrifiante au cinéma n’est pas un fantôme ou un tueur en série mais la vérité objective de notre propre biologie évolutionnaire.

Although the film’s title suggests a mythic escape, the film argues that human destiny is shaped by evolutionary wiring. This realization is devastating because it strips away the illusion of free will, suggesting that our most profound tragedies and triumphs are merely the results of biochemical reactions to environmental stress.

Philosophy through Narrative

The structure of the film is its most radical feature. The narrative is frequently interrupted by Dr. Henri Laborit, who speaks directly to the camera about behavioral psychology and the three brains theory. This format mirrors the style of Basni Krylova, where a specific anecdote is used to demonstrate a universal moral or truth. In this case, the moral is biological. The characters are like the animals in a fable, acting out patterns of dominance, submission, and flight. Resnais uses these interlaced stories to show that what we call personality or destiny is often just a reaction to environmental stimuli and chemical signals.

It is a cinematic experience like no other because there is no need to wonder what is happening. Whether a character is depressed or sexually frustrated, Laborit explains the underlying cause. Normally this approach would feel pedantic and overbearing, but Resnais avoids this trap. There is humor and feeling in the translation of these theories. This is most evident when the characters physically inhabit their biological roles, wearing giant rat heads to demonstrate Laborit’s laboratory experiments within the context of their human lives. These visual metaphors prevent the film from becoming a dry lecture and instead turn it into a surreal, darkly comic study of human nature.

Depardieu and Arditi: Career Defining Roles

The film features Gérard Depardieu and Pierre Arditi at the peak of their craft, though in very different registers. Depardieu plays René, a factory manager whose physical bulk hides a fragile internal state. His performance captures the slow disintegration of a man unable to adapt to corporate pressure. René is a decent and loyal family man, which makes his eventual suicide attempt unbelievably painful to watch. There is a specific cruelty in seeing a character who has followed all the rules of social and familial loyalty find himself completely abandoned by his own biology.

Conversely, Pierre Arditi plays Zambeaux, a character who is a genuine asshole. At this stage in his career, Arditi’s portrayal is sharp and unlikable, lacking the warmth he would later become famous for. This role served as the blueprint for his future career. Over the following decades, Arditi would refine this archetype, adding a layer of charm and wit to become the French stage’s most beloved rascal (at least to me).

The Meaning of the Title

The “American Uncle” of the title is a recurring French cultural trope representing a wealthy, long lost relative who will one day return from America to solve all of one’s financial and personal problems. It is a myth of salvation from afar. For the characters in the film, the Uncle is the illusion that a better life is just one windfall or one change of scenery away. Resnais uses this title ironically. The film demonstrates that there is no magical rescue coming from the outside. Because our behavior is governed by biological imperatives, moving to America or inheriting a fortune would not change the fundamental ways we respond to stress or competition.

Influences and Context

Alain Resnais was a key figure of the Left Bank filmmakers, a group often associated with the French New Wave but more focused on literature and the mechanics of memory. His work is defined by an obsession with how the past and the subconscious dictate the present. This is evident in his earlier masterpieces like Hiroshima mon amour and Last Year at Marienbad. While those films dealt with the subjective nature of time, My American Uncle shifts the focus to the objective nature of biology. Resnais was deeply influenced by the surrealists and the Nouveau Roman (New Novel) writers. Authors like Alain Robbe Grillet and Marguerite Duras rejected traditional linear plots and psychological portraits. Like them, Resnais used fragmented structures to challenge the viewer’s perception of reality.

Conclusion

Mon oncle d’Amérique is a cold film that rejects romantic ideas. Resnais shows that we do not lead our lives; our synapses lead us. The “American Uncle” is a lie we tell ourselves in politics, books, philosophy and even cinema. It is a promise of a rescue that never comes because it ignores the facts of evolution.

The film is a landmark of cinema because Resnais successfully integrated pure science into the narrative form. Resnais demonstrates that the most terrifying thing in cinema is not a ghost or a serial killer, but the objective truth of our own evolutionary biology.

Le film est le résultat d’une collaboration entre deux individus fondamentalement différents : Melville qui était l’incarnation de la “coolitude” cinématographique et Jean Cocteau qui se définissait par une sensibilité poétique et flamboyante.

Origines de la Collaboration

Jean Cocteau a sollicité Melville après avoir vu son premier long métrage Le Silence de la mer. Cocteau a été impressionné par la manière dont Melville avait produit de manière indépendante un film avec un budget très limité et un haut niveau de discipline visuelle. Bien que Cocteau soit déjà lui-même un réalisateur établi il pensait être trop proche de son roman de 1929 pour l’adapter efficacement. Il souhaitait un réalisateur capable d’apporter un sentiment de réalisme au monde onirique de la fratrie.

Cocteau a famously promis à Melville que le produit final serait le film de Melville bien qu’il soit basé sur l’histoire la plus personnelle de Cocteau. Ils ont signé un contrat donnant à Melville un contrôle total sur la mise en scène tandis que Cocteau conservait l’autorité sur les dialogues et l’esprit général du texte.

Lieux de Tournage et Scénographie

Melville a rejeté l’utilisation des studios de cinéma traditionnels pour les décors principaux du film. Il a filmé les scènes centrales de la chambre au sein du Théâtre de l’Athénée et du Théâtre Pigalle. Il a choisi ces lieux car il souhaitait un espace physique qui semble à la fois clos et artificiel afin de refléter l’isolement des personnages. Les configurations de la scène permettaient des plans séquences qui pouvaient se déplacer de manière fluide entre les différentes zones de la pièce ce qui aurait été impossible dans un appartement standard. Pour les scènes extérieures impliquant la bataille de boules de neige Melville a filmé au Lycée Condorcet. C’était l’école réelle que Cocteau fréquentait lorsqu’il était enfant et le lieu spécifique mentionné dans le livre. Ce choix a ancré le récit surréaliste dans une réalité géographique factuelle.

Conflit Entre Frère et Sœur

Le film dépeint le monde intense et isolé d’Élisabeth et de Paul qui se retirent dans une chambre partagée après la mort de leur mère. L’expérience de visionnage est incroyablement stressante non pas simplement à cause de la claustrophobie physique de la pièce unique mais à cause des disputes constantes et cruelles qui définissent leurs interactions. Leur relation est régie par une série de jeux psychologiques qu’ils appellent Le Jeu qui sert à brouiller les frontières entre la réalité et l’imagination. Ce qui se produit réellement est la perversion de l’affection fraternelle en une forme de jalousie romantique qui empêche l’un et l’autre de mûrir. En refusant de quitter leur chambre commune ils maintiennent un état de développement arrêté où leur dépendance mutuelle devient une forme de cruauté meurtrière. Cette volatilité émotionnelle crée un sentiment d’effroi alors qu’ils se manipulent l’un l’autre ainsi que leur entourage pour s’assurer qu’aucune romance extérieure ne puisse briser leur lien.

Conflit Entre le Réalisateur et l’Auteur

La relation entre Melville et Cocteau a été tendue pendant toute la durée du tournage. Cocteau était présent sur le plateau presque tous les jours ce que Melville considérait comme une intrusion dans son autorité. L’incident le plus célèbre s’est produit lorsque Cocteau a accidentellement crié « coupez » pendant une scène ce qui a conduit Melville à l’expulser brièvement du plateau. Ils étaient également en désaccord sur le style de jeu des acteurs principaux Nicole Stéphane et Édouard Dermit. Melville voulait des performances froides et précises alors que Cocteau incitait les acteurs à être plus émotifs. Ils ont fini par former un compromis où Melville contrôlait la chorégraphie technique de la caméra et Cocteau travaillait sur les motivations internes des interprètes.

Innovations Techniques

Melville a utilisé la profondeur de champ et des mouvements de caméra mobiles qui étaient très inhabituels pour le cinéma français de l’époque. Il a collaboré avec le directeur de la photographie Henri Decaë pour créer un style visuel défini par un contraste intense et des lignes nettes afin d’accentuer la claustrophobie de la fratrie. Melville a également fait le choix peu conventionnel d’utiliser Bach et Vivaldi pour la bande sonore au lieu d’une partition de jazz contemporaine ou d’un compositeur de film traditionnel. Il a utilisé les structures répétitives de la musique baroque pour dicter le rythme du montage. Cette approche du son et de l’image représentait un écart significatif par rapport aux traditions liées aux studios qui avaient dominé l’industrie pendant des décennies.

L’Héritage du Film

Les Enfants Terribles témoigne de la friction créative entre le modernisme stoïque de Melville et l’imagination baroque de Cocteau. Cette tension a créé un langage visuel qui transcende l’époque de sa production et les habitudes individuelles de ses créateurs.

L’œuvre est uniquement atypique pour les deux artistes. Cocteau assurera plus tard son héritage avec la trilogie surréaliste d’Orphée tandis que Melville deviendra le maître du noir moderne avec des films comme Le Samouraï. En se réunissant ils ont produit un résultat qui est l’opposé de leurs efforts solitaires habituels ce qui reste une raison convaincante de visionner le film.

Le film culte a obsédé d’autres artistes dont Philip Glass qui a magistralement réimaginé cette tension dans son opéra-ballet en créant une partition pour trois pianos duellistes qui reflète la nature récursive et obsessive de la relation entre le frère et la sœur.

The film is the result of a collaboration between two fundamentally unlike individuals: Melville who was the epitome of cinematic cool and Jean Cocteau who was defined by a poetic and flamboyant sensibility.

Origins of the Collaboration

Jean Cocteau sought out Melville after seeing his debut feature Le Silence de la mer. Cocteau was impressed by how Melville had independently produced a film with a very small budget and a high level of visual discipline. Although Cocteau was already an established director himself he believed he was too close to his 1929 novel to adapt it effectively. He wanted a director who could bring a sense of realism to the dreamlike world of the siblings.

Cocteau famously promised Melville that the final product would be Melville’s film despite it being based on Cocteau’s most personal story. They signed a contract giving Melville total control over the direction while Cocteau maintained authority over the dialogue and the general spirit of the text.

Filming Locations and Set Design

Melville rejected the use of traditional film studios for the primary settings of the movie. He filmed the central bedroom scenes within the Théâtre de l’Athénée and the Théâtre Pigalle. He chose these locations because he wanted a physical space that felt both enclosed and artificial to reflect the isolation of the characters. The stage layouts allowed for long tracking shots that could move seamlessly between different areas of the room which would have been impossible in a standard apartment. For the exterior scenes involving the snowball fight Melville filmed at the Lycée Condorcet. This was the actual school Cocteau attended as a boy and the specific location mentioned in the book.

Conflict Between the Siblings

The film depicts the intense and isolated world of Elisabeth and Paul who retreat into a shared bedroom following the death of their mother. The viewing experience is incredibly stressful not simply because of the physical claustrophobia of the single room but because of the constant and cruel arguments that define their interactions. Their relationship is governed by a series of psychological games they call The Game which serves to blur the lines between reality and imagination. What is actually occurring is the perversion of sibling affection into a form of romantic jealousy that prevents either from maturing. By refusing to leave their shared room they maintain a state of arrested development where their mutual dependency becomes a form of murderous cruelty. This emotional volatility creates a sense of dread as they manipulate one another and those around them to ensure that no outside romance can break their bond.

Conflict Between Director and Author

The relationship between Melville and Cocteau was tense for the duration of the shoot. Cocteau was present on the set nearly every day which Melville viewed as an intrusion on his authority. The most famous incident occurred when Cocteau accidentally called out “cut” during a scene which led Melville to briefly eject him from the set. They also disagreed on the acting style of the leads Nicole Stéphane and Edouard Dermit. Melville wanted the performances to be cold and precise whereas Cocteau urged the actors to be more emotive. They eventually formed a compromise where Melville controlled the technical choreography of the camera and Cocteau worked on the internal motivations of the performers.

Technical Innovations

Melville utilized deep focus and mobile camera movements that were highly unusual for French cinema at the time. He collaborated with cinematographer Henri Decaë to create a visual style defined by intense contrast and sharp lines to emphasize the claustrophobia of the siblings. Melville also made the unconventional choice to use Bach and Vivaldi for the soundtrack instead of a contemporary jazz score or a traditional film composer. He used the repetitive structures of baroque music to dictate the pace of the editing. This approach to sound and image was a significant departure from the studio bound traditions that had dominated the industry for decades.

The Legacy of the Film

Les Enfants Terribles stands as a testament to the creative friction between Melville’s stoic modernism and Cocteau’s baroque imagination. This tension created a visual language that transcends the era of its production and the individual habits of its creators.

The work is uniquely atypical for both artists. Cocteau would later secure his legacy with the surrealist Orpheus trilogy while Melville became the master of the modern noir with films like Le Samouraï. By coming together they produced a result that is the opposite of their usual solo efforts which remains a compelling reason to view the film.

The cult film has obsessed other artists including Philip Glass who masterfully reimagined this tension in his dance opera by creating a score for three dueling pianos that mirrors the recursive and obsessive nature of the siblings’ relationship.

The monumental marble horses and mythological figures that fill the glass roofed Cour Marly are the survivors of a royal estate that no longer exists. While the Château de Marly was destroyed in the early nineteenth century, its decorative program remains one of the most significant collections of eighteenth century art.

These sculptures were designed to convey a message of mastery over the natural world, specifically through the depiction of the struggle between human willpower and the raw energy of nature. The works were relocated to the museum to prevent further decay from exposure to the elements and to provide a permanent home for the fragments of a vanished palace.

The Purpose of Marly

Louis XIV commissioned the Château de Marly in 1679 because he wanted a residence where he could escape the rigid etiquette of the court at Versailles. The architectural layout was unique because it consisted of a central royal pavilion surrounded by twelve smaller pavilions intended for guests. Marly was a landscaped estate where the gardens and water features were the primary focus rather than the size of the building itself. Access to the grounds was a sign of high social status because guests could only visit if they received a personal invitation from the King.

Marble Masterpieces

The gardens of Marly were populated with high quality sculptures that celebrated the King’s power through classical mythology. Antoine Coysevox completed the two winged horses, Mercury and Fame, in 1702 to stand at the upper part of a large watering pond called the Abreuvoir. Decades later, Louis XV decided to move these original statues to the Tuileries Gardens in Paris. To fill the empty spots at Marly, he commissioned Guillaume Coustou to create two new sculptures. Coustou produced the Marly Horses between 1739 and 1745, which depicted grooms struggling to tame wild stallions without the use of harnesses or saddles.

While the “Marly Horses” are the most famous, the collection in the Cour Marly is quite extensive. Here are the primary works:

• The Marly Horses (Chevaux de Marly): Two marble groups by Guillaume Coustou showing grooms taming wild stallions, originally placed at the Abreuvoir.

• Mercury on Pegasus: A winged horse sculpture by Antoine Coysevox, originally at the entrance to the park.

• Fame on Pegasus (La Renommée): The companion piece to Mercury by Antoine Coysevox, showing the figure of Fame blowing a trumpet.

• Neptune: A large marble statue by Charles-Antoine Coypel and later Antoine Coysevox, representing the god of the sea.

• Amphitrite: The companion to Neptune, also by Antoine Coysevox.

• The Seine and the Marne: Allegorical river figures by Nicolas Coustou that decorated the park’s water features.

• The Loire and the Loiret: Another pair of river allegories by Cornu and Regnaudin.

• Pan: A sculpture by David Bourderelle representing the god of the wild.

• Flora and Zephyr: A delicate group by Antoine Coysevox representing spring and the wind.

• Air and Water: Part of a series of the four elements that populated the groves of the garden.

Destruction of the Estate

The decline of Marly began during the French Revolution when the furniture was sold and the buildings were neglected by the state. In 1799, the estate was sold for the bargain price of 500,000 francs (approximately 5M-7.5M euros today) to a business partnership led by Alexandre Sagniel, an industrialist who lived at the prestigious No. 6 Place Vendôme in Paris. Sagniel collaborated with a wood merchant named Jean-David Coste to acquire the grounds. While Sagniel installed cotton spinning machinery in the service buildings, his business model was essentially parasitic.

Even before the factory officially failed in 1806, Sagniel began to treat the palace as a source of raw materials. He stripped the massive lead roofs from the pavilions and dug up the complex network of lead pipes that fed the garden fountains to sell the metal on the scrap market. This stripped the buildings of their waterproofing, leading to rapid structural rot. When the industrial venture finally collapsed, Sagniel systematically sold off the stones of the pavilions as building blocks for local villas. By 1816, the main buildings were completely gone and the terrain was leveled. The sculptures survived because they were recognized as national treasures and moved to public spaces in Paris, such as the Place de la Concorde.

Transition to the Louvre

For nearly two centuries, the original Marly sculptures remained outdoors where they suffered from erosion and urban pollution. In 1984, the French government decided to move the original Marly Horses to the Louvre for permanent protection, replacing them with concrete copies in the city. The architect I.M. Pei designed the Cour Marly as part of the Grand Louvre project in the 1990s. This glass roofed courtyard allows the statues to be viewed in natural light while keeping them in a climate controlled environment that prevents further chemical weathering of the marble.

Modern Preservation and Virtual History

The survival of the Marly sculptures provides a physical link to a palace that can now only be seen in paintings and engravings. Today, the site at Marly le Roi is a quiet park where visitors can walk through the empty footprints of the former pavilions. Ironically, the greed of Alexandre Sagniel created a historical vacuum that allowed for something far more profound than a simple reconstruction. By clearing the site of its physical structures, he inadvertently ensured that the sculptures would eventually be gathered into a space that transcends their original purpose.

The architectural achievement of I.M. Pei in the Louvre surpasses the grandeur of the lost royal gardens by fundamentally recontextualizing the art. The space has transitioned from a lavish, terrestrial garden designed to display royal power and exclusionary style into an ethereal environment of spiritual uplifting and contemplation of true beauty.

Cette production marque la première collaboration de Dante avec la Comédie-Française et sa première mise en scène de Molière, créant un monde qui semble immédiat et vivant.

Mon expérience personnelle du spectacle ressemblait à une soirée dans une boîte de nuit très branchée où l’on prendrait quelques cocktails incroyables sans avoir de gueule de bois le lendemain.

Scénographie et costumes ingénieux

La scénographie de Vanessa Sannino est à la fois fonctionnelle et visuellement superbe. La pièce commence par une introduction méta théâtrale où les membres de la troupe sortent des costumes d’époque et des perruques incroyables de sacs suspendus. Ces vêtements sont un élément central de la production, mélangeant la grandeur historique avec une esthétique usée. Les hommes de la pièce, notamment le patriarche Chrysale et le prétendant Clitandre, portent des vêtements traditionnels rigides qui contrastent avec les vêtements plus modernes des femmes. Ce choix visuel souligne l’artifice des personnages et le poids de l’histoire théâtrale dans laquelle ils s’inscrivent.

Musique et danse, leur autre vocation

La troupe de la Comédie-Française livre des performances avec un sens comique parfait, une compréhension approfondie du texte et des mouvements de danse très réussis. Dante intègre des numéros de musique et de danse ultra stylés qui servent à divertir tout en enrichissant considérablement l’histoire. Ces séquences chorégraphiées brisent le flux traditionnel des alexandrins et soulignent les obsessions spécifiques des personnages. Elsa Lepoivre incarne Philaminte avec une présence autoritaire, utilisant parfois des grognements animaux pour intimider les hommes de sa maison. Stéphane Varupenne joue Trissotin comme une figure parasite dont la pédanterie est représentée par des mouvements rythmiques grotesques. La performance d’Alix Poisson dans le rôle de Bélise est la perfection même, capturant les délires du personnage avec un timing comique naturel. Une fois de plus, j’ai eu l’impression que la Comédie-Française n’a pas de traînards et que chaque interprète joue son rôle avec une maîtrise totale. Ces interludes musicaux transforment la pièce en une farce psychédélique qui maintient l’engagement total du public.

La satire de Molière dans un contexte moderne

Dante gère le regard condescendant de Molière sur l’intellect féminin et sa flatterie de la cour en s’appuyant sur l’absurdité des personnages. En présentant les “savantes” comme des figures piégées par leurs propres ambitions ridicules, elle fait de la critique du dramaturge une étude de caractère divertissante. La mise en scène parvient à garder les éléments de cour et la moquerie de la prétention passionnants en les traitant comme faisant partie d’un spectacle plus vaste.

Mouvement et espace domestique

Le cadre domestique est transformé en un espace de mouvement constant où les acteurs construisent et déconstruisent activement la scène. Plutôt que d’évoluer dans un décor fixe, la troupe manipule l’environnement, déplaçant des meubles comme des fauteuils en velours sur roulettes et manipulant les accessoires de manière à donner l’impression qu’ils vous racontent l’histoire directement. Cette dynamique s’étend à l’utilisation de la lumière comme objet physique. Dans plusieurs séquences, la troupe danse avec des lampes LED portables, les utilisant pour tracer des motifs lumineux dans l’air et pour éclairer les cérémonies de mariage. Ces lumières apportent un contraste moderne et électrique au texte classique, renforçant l’ambiance de boîte de nuit et le sentiment d’une célébration à haute énergie.

Conclusion

J’ai assisté à une représentation qui était filmée pour être retransmise en direct dans les cinémas. J’espère que cette production atteindra autant d’écrans que possible pour aider le public non francophone à voir à quel point Molière peut être passionnant.

Cette production prouve que lorsque l’intellect est utilisé uniquement pour l’ego, il cesse d’être un outil de progrès pour devenir une forme de tyrannie domestique. En regardant l’absurdité sur scène, j’ai eu une soudaine prise de conscience concernant mes propres habitudes intellectuelles. Bien des adolescents obsédés par Sylvia Plath et désagréables avec leurs parents feraient bien de voir cette pièce, et Dante la rend heureusement si accessible et divertissante qu’ils pourraient bien l’écouter.

This production marks Dante’s first collaboration with the Comédie-Française and her first time directing Molière, resulting in a world that feels immediate and alive.

My personal experience of the show felt like visiting an ultra cool nightclub and having a few amazing cocktails with no hangover the next day.

Ingenious Stage Design and Costumes

The scenography by Vanessa Sannino is both functional and visually stunning. The play begins with a meta theatrical introduction where the cast members pull incredible period costumes and perruques from hanging bags. These garments are a central feature of the production, blending historical grandeur with a worn aesthetic. The men in the play, including the patriarch Chrysale and the suitor Clitandre, wear rigid traditional dress that contrasts with the more modern clothing of the women. This visual choice highlights the artifice of the characters and the weight of theatrical history they are stepping into.

Music and Dance, Their Other Calling

The troupe of the Comédie-Française delivers performances with perfect comic timing, in-depth understanding for the text, all coupled with cool dance moves. Dante incorporates music and dance numbers that are ultra stylish, serving to entertain while significantly enriching the story. These choreographed sequences break the traditional flow of the alexandrines and highlight the specific obsessions of the characters. Elsa Lepoivre portrays Philaminte with an authoritative presence, occasionally using animalistic growls to intimidate the men in her household. Stéphane Varupenne plays Trissotin as a parasitic figure whose pedantry is portrayed through grotesque rhythmic movements.

The performance by Alix Poisson as Bélise is perfection, capturing the character’s delusions with effortless comedic timing.

Yet again, I was left with the impression that The Comédie-Française has no laggards. Every performer plays their role with complete mastery.

Molière’s Satire in a Modern Context

Dante handles Molière’s patronizing view of female intellect and his flattery of the court by leaning into the absurdity of the characters. By framing the “savantes” as figures who are trapped by their own ridiculous ambitions, she makes the playwright’s critique of their behavior feel like an entertaining character study. The production manages to keep the courtly elements and the mockery of pretension exciting by treating them as part of a larger spectacle.

Movement and Domestic Space

The domestic setting is transformed into a space of constant movement where the actors actively build and deconstruct the stage. Rather than existing within a fixed set, the cast manipulates the environment, moving furniture like velvet armchairs on wheels and handling props in a way that feels as if they are telling you the story directly.

This dynamic extends to the use of light as a physical object. In several sequences, the cast dances with handheld LED lights, using them to trace glowing patterns through the air and to illuminate wedding ceremonies. These lights provide a modern, electric contrast to the classical text, reinforcing the nightclub atmosphere and the sense of a high energy celebration.

Conclusion

I attended a performance that was being filmed to be livecast into cinemas. I hope this production makes it to as many screens as possible to help non-francophone audiences see how exciting Molière can be.

This production proves that when intellect is used solely for ego, it ceases to be a tool for progress and becomes a form of domestic tyranny. Many a teenager obsessing over Sylvia Plath (and being nasty to their parents) would do well to see this play, and Dante makes it very accessible and entertaining.

Nikolai Gogol defined the Russian national character while refusing to live in Russia and claiming a Ukrainian identity. He remains a central figure of the literary canon who was born in Ukraine and spent much of his life in Western Europe. His work includes the epic novel Dead Souls and absurdist short stories like The Nose and Diary of a Madman. He struggled with imperial censorship and religious mania while influencing the development of the Russian theater.

Dostoyevsky wrote The Village of Stepanchikovo as an attempt to imitate Gogol. While critics debate the success of this imitation, the work demonstrates the deep admiration Dostoyevsky held for the absurdist comical social genre that Gogol pioneered.

Dead Souls as the Russian Odyssey

Dead Souls is frequently described as the Russian version of the Odyssey because of its structure as a sprawling journey across the landscape of the Russian Empire. The protagonist Chichikov travels through the provinces to purchase the titles of dead serfs from various landowners. These serfs still appear on the official tax census and Chichikov intends to use these paper assets to secure a large government loan.

Sound familiar? Think of modern influence peddlers, those trading in crypto non-fungibles, special-purpose acquisition IPO tsars and the like. Chichikov is their patron saint, a master of the grey market who understands that in a sufficiently broken system, a well-documented lie is more valuable than a poorly managed truth.

This premise provides a framework for Gogol to present a gallery of social archetypes. Each landowner represents a specific human failure or stagnation. Manilov represents empty sentimentality while Sobakevich embodies crude materialism and Plyushkin represents the total decay of the human spirit through greed. The novel serves as a catalogue of the personalities that populated the mid nineteenth century Russian social order.

The genius of Gogol’s creation is the constant oscillation between a social climbing fraudster and the potential for a deeper metaphysical reading of the soul collection.

The story is further complicated by absurd digressions, such as the Tale of Captain Kopeikin or the local rumor that Chichikov might be Napoleon in disguise. These elements add a layer of surrealism that perfects the genre.

Absurdity of The Nose and Diary of a Madman

Gogol is a pioneer of the grotesque and his short stories are celebrated for their comedic and surreal qualities. In The Nose a bureaucrat named Kovalyov wakes up to find that his nose has disappeared. He later discovers the nose traveling through Saint Petersburg dressed as a state councillor of a higher rank than Kovalyov himself. The humor relies on the extreme obsession with civil service ranks in imperial society.

In Diary of a Madman the comedy is grounded in the psychological breakdown of a low level clerk named Poprishchin. He begins to believe that dogs are communicating through letters and eventually becomes convinced that he is the King of Spain. These stories use absurdity to expose the alienation and the rigid hierarchy of urban life.

Ukrainian Heritage and Culture

Gogol was born in the Poltava region of modern day Ukraine and his early literary fame was built on his Ukrainian background. His first successful collection titled Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka drew heavily from the folklore and traditions of the Ukrainian countryside. He filled these stories with witches and devils and Cossack heroes that fascinated the reading public in Saint Petersburg. While he wrote in the Russian language his prose often incorporated Ukrainian vocabulary and sentence structures. This background created a unique linguistic style that set him apart from his contemporaries. His identity remained complex because he moved within Russian imperial circles while maintaining a deep connection to the land and legends of his youth.

Exile and Imperial Censorship

Gogol spent a significant portion of his adult life living in Western Europe and he wrote much of Dead Souls while residing in Rome. He believed that distance allowed him to see Russia with greater clarity. His work often faced challenges from the state censorship apparatus. His play The Inspector General only reached the stage because Tsar Nicholas I personally intervened to support its production. The censors initially viewed the play as an attack on the integrity of the government because it depicted every local official as corrupt.

Gogol on the Stage

The theatricality of Gogol’s writing transformed the Russian stage. The Inspector General is considered the most important comedy in the history of the Russian theater. It uses a case of mistaken identity to reveal the panic and hypocrisy of provincial leaders when they believe an auditor is arriving from the capital. Gogol was deeply involved in the production of his plays and often complained that actors focused too much on slapstick instead of the underlying social critique. His influence extended into the twentieth century where directors used his texts to experiment with modern performance techniques. His ability to blend tragedy with comedy created a new standard for dramatic realism.

Conclusion

Gogol used the absurd to reveal truths about institutional corruption and human vanity. He created a literary map of a society struggling to define itself between rural traditions and bureaucratic ambitions. This dual identity makes him highly relevant today as modern states contest the ownership of his heritage.

The current war in Ukraine has turned his biography into a cultural battleground because both nations claim him as their primary storyteller. Understanding Gogol is no longer just an academic pursuit of nineteenth century satire but an essential exercise in deciphering present world events.