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Rather than a "review," each post features a collection of observations, intended primarily for people who've already seen the play. Check out the introduction post for more context.
La Bête by by David Hirson
Soulpepper Theatre
Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann
Shortly after La Bête’s 1991 stint on Broadway, the play also graced the stages of Edmonton’s Citadel Theatre (1992) and the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (1992). The 2010 West End revival — featuring Mark Rylance and David Hyde Pierce — transferred to Broadway for a limited run. Have there been any other North American productions of La Bête? Despite my Google sleuthing, I’ve been unable to locate any other evidence of the play (of course, theatre records from the 1990s are rarely digitized, especially for smaller and/or non-professionalized companies). In any case, David Hirson’s text deserves more time in front of the footlights — La Bête is a wild adventure with laughs at every turn.
Within the first five minutes of the play, the narrative premise is explicitly stated: a royal patron compels a theatre troupe to accept a new member. A few minutes later, though, the audience implicitly senses what seems to be the real focus of La Bête: the polished Elomire and raunchy Valere will launch into a fierce tête-à-tête before falling head over heels. How rare — and amusing — to watch a play unfold with a woman and man engaging philosophically, rather than romantically.
Foolish me! After watching the Soulpepper production, I discovered that Hirson’s original script listed the roles of Elomire and Prince(ss) Conti as men (thus explaining the absence of romantic comedy tropes noted in the previous point). The decision to cross-cast those roles not only bolsters the gender parity of the ensemble, but also enriches the audience’s perception of the play’s themes. Two men debating their artistic ideals quickly turns into a contest of measuring codpieces (and it’s also covered by Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, Sabina Berman’s Molière, etc.). With Elomire as a woman, the play spins on a different axis; Valere’s physical stature removes any possibility of his forcible removal from the premises, empowering him to manspread his way across the stage. Moreover, Valere’s ultimate abandonment by the theatre company resonates more profoundly with Sarah Wilson in the role; the contemporary audience identifies with the predicament of a competent woman faced with losing her life’s work at the expense of a bumbling man. Of course, I could be grasping at thematic straws, much like Princess Conti and The Parable of the Two Boys From Cadiz.
Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann
What is the point of artistic virtuosity? (And let there be no question — Gregory Prest delivers a virtuosic performance, especially in a 30-minute marathon of physical antics, precise wordplay, and rambunctious mannerisms). Many performers claim to “become” a character — an acting method that’s even mentioned in La Bête, by one of Elomire’s actors. But if an artist becomes a character, then does the audience stop seeing the artist? Because in the presence of a virtuosic performance, the audience engages with the character, while concurrently recognizing the brilliance of the artist. In any case, I find theatrical virtuosity is more desirable in comedy than tragedy, where an awareness of technical proficiency tends to disrupt immersion in the world of the play. In any case, the role of Valere demands a masterful performer and Prest is very, very, very funny.
A dramatic soliloquy can exist in a vacuum, but a comic speech needs sharply timed reactions to maximize the laughter. With wry glances and snappy interjections, Sarah Wilson (Elomire) and Oliver Dennis (Bejart) deftly amplify the hilarity of Valere’s first act romp. Moreover, director Tanja Jacobs shaped the monologue’s pacing in clever ways that keep the audience assuming the rant is over, until — surprise — it keeps on roaring.
Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann
What’s in a name? I wonder how the title of a play impacts its marketability. Might potential patrons be intimidated by a non-English title? (Of course, the joke of using multiple meanings of “bête” only works in French).
On one hand, David Hirson’s script is traditional in structure: there are rhyming couplets, iambic pentameter, and strict adherence to the unity of time, place, and action. On the other hand, Hirson manages to convey a sense of contemporary relatability (as a playwright, he certainly leans closer to Valere than Tom Stoppard, a dyed-in-the-wool Elomire).
In most of the dozen or so productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that I’ve seen, the performance of Pyramus and Thisbe was the comic highlight. In similar fashion, the performance of Valere’s “masterpiece” soared as a particularly hilarious section of the Soulpepper production, featuring ensemble shenanigans, ludicrous innuendo, and outrageous technical elements. Plus, The Parable of the Two Boys From Cadiz plays an unexpected role in shifting the characters’ (and audience’s) perspectives about populist art.
Photo by Cylla von Tiedemann
Last December, my eight-year-old was captivated by Fiona Sauder’s vibrant performance in Peter Pan. Her boundless energy injects dynamism into the eclectic (and mostly silent) character of Dorine. For a play about the camaraderie of theatre ensembles, there’s a delightful echo at Soulpepper, where audiences can see younger performers like Sauder on stage with celebrated artists like Oliver Dennis and Raquel Duffy.
On a cool summer’s night, the Distillery District is a charming place for an evening stroll or a post-show ice cream.
—Nick Hanson