Histoire d'amour (derniers chapitres)

Never, to my knowledge, has Jean-Luc Lagarce gone so far in his attempt to reconcile these two extremes that make up our theater: "pretending or living our lives". Two extremes which, as is often the case with Lagarce, are no longer opposed but intermingle, a subtle play of mirrors between auditorium and stage, set and backstage, history and the absence of history.

Here, history is constructed, in front of us, with us. The actors, for they are, speak to us and live their lives. Between the beings on the stage and those in the room, we, now an intimate adventure can be born, on the humanist foundations of understanding, of reason. Living our lives. Here, the story is played out, felt. The characters, because we want them to, try to say what happened before, fail, start again, disappear, then step forward again into the light and drop the word that clicks. Sound effect, light effect, the assumed theater of a still possible wonder. Faire semblant.

Monter Histoire d'amour (derniers chapitres) is for me part of this strange and perilous process of telling one's story without sacrificing anything. To be able to make a theater that is lucid and enchanted, a theater that is demanding and smiling, a theater that measures up to the light, so pertinently contemporary gravity that Jean-Luc Lagarce offers us. It's art, if you like, and certainly living.

Speaking of love, yes, in a strong voice, poised between the enchantment of the world and a frightening lucidity. "Playing, just, nothing else. "