On the stage, a set of ropes and pulleys. In the middle, a man prepares to play Richard III. But as the play unfolds, the line between the actor and Shakespeare’s character begins to fade. Why did you choose to depict the world of the theatre to talk about this tyrannical king?
It has to do with my writing process. Engaging with a classic means finding contemporary words and ideas which resonate with a story written centuries before us. You have to make cuts, keep what speaks most powerfully of our reality, and be willing to abandon the dark part of your heritage. When I begin this kind of work, it’s important for me to set it in a universe I am intimately familiar with. In my case, that means the theatre. The very choice of the scenography and the type of character is probably a symptom of this obsession. I have a great fondness for codes of the craft that are increasingly being abandoned: overacting, the language, the costumes, everything that indicates we are entering a distinct space. A dangerous space which speaks to death, dreams, the past, and the future. Even this set, which represents an old backstage area, I am fond of it. It brings us back to a mechanical era of theatre which is disappearing. A time when there were still supporting roles. Actors who dedicated their lives to art, put on make-up every night, even though they had maybe one or two lines to say on stage. Hence the idea of working on one of those characters. Picture a man who stayed in the shadows for twenty or thirty years, and who is finally given the chance to play a starring role: Richard III. But like the king, he is intelligent and ambitious. He wants to stage a play more grandiose and radical than the everyday reality of theatre: because reality can be disappointing, because it is made of financial worries, administrative pressure, misunderstandings. This is a human art, and thus fallible. But he cannot accept that. He is ready to do anything to impose his vision of the play, to gain his share of glory and spotlight. It is from these frictions that I dig into the similarities between the actor and Richard III. These similarities can be dangerous, violent. Their thirst for the absolute places them at the very edge of the human realm…
Speaking of which, there is an animal in your title: “Història d'un senglar (o alguna cosa de Ricard)”. Can you explain the title you gave your monologue?
This play revolves around the mechanisms of contemporary power, desire, and resentment. In doing so, it offers a reflection on the limits of human ambition. Mentioning a wild boar in the title is a way to immediately own the fact that you are telling the story of an animal. A political animal, a theatrical animal, a human animal. It’s also a way to highlight the philosophical difference between barbarism and civilisation. Richard III represents our wild side, which desires absolute power, scoffs at rules, mocks the weak, and declares war. This part is present in each of us. Because deep down, we all want the same things. But it’s the way we go about obtaining them that makes us gentlemen or tyrants. Through this character, I was able to play with this excessive ambition. The ambition of an actor or of a king who thinks he deserves to have power and has to go get it, like a wild boar, brutally and without regard for others. In that way, I was also able to play with the similarities between the society of the ancien régime and the world of contemporary theatre. It’s mostly the hierarchical aspect I am interested in. How one can describe and exaggerate the power relationships within groups of actors and producers by telling the story of Richard III’s violent conquest of power. From the first treachery to the declaration of war, through conspiracies and murders. Of course, the reality of theatre isn’t quite as bloody. But I am fascinated and worried about the possibility of such a slide. Even in the world of art, there are people who think that the end justifies the means, that the well-being of the troupe matters less than the end result. That’s very dangerous. Finally, the subtitle, “something of Richard”, shines a light on the question of translation. I see translation as a radically theatrical issue. Because one must accept never having access to the author’s true intention. Who can say what Shakespeare really thought? Even if you’re watching a performance in Elizabethan English. There will always be the additional layer of interpretation. Because theatre calls on the living. Every actor, director, technician, becomes an interpreter. And this layer must itself be deciphered by the audience. As a playwright, I have no control over what they will take away from it. To borrow the title of Albert Camus’s play, theatre is a giant “misunderstanding.” That is what I wanted to show on stage, even if it means directly addressing the spectator.
It’s true that, in this play, the audience is often directly addressed by the actor. Why disregard the classic conventions of performance?
It is a way to highlight something that is rarely tackled on stage: the gap between the expectations of the actors and actresses, of the playwrights, and of the spectators. And this time, I wanted to tackle this issue both humorously and violently. To ask what really happens during a performance by also exposing what happens backstage as well as the questions about language and the meaning of this collective experience. Going to the theatre isn’t just only paying to see a story, it’s also buying the possibility to take part in the creation of a space between life and death, a circus where everything becomes possible, even the fall. When one accepts that communion, something vital happens. And the actor in this play insists on the role of the spectator. He’s not trying to flatter them, but to challenge this power that stands outside his own. Because this actor wants to break all the rules to be the only one to rule, just like the character of Richard III. Even if it means causing chaos and discomfort for the people watching the performance. It’s part of his ambition, he attacks everyone: actresses because they are women, the spectators because he wants them to be more alert, the playwrights because he thinks they are stupid. It’s my way of working on the figure of the Shakespearean monster in the 21st century, and to challenge the audience. Theatre creates a distance, a gap in our perception, all the better to allow us to think. Using Catalan is a decision that goes in that direction as well. It’s a language that’s rarely used on stage, and at the same time it is a symbol of resistance against centralised power. Another reference to those cultures relegated to the margins and which are now asking for their share of glory. But of course, it doesn’t prevent the magic of art from happening. Theatre unfolds, showcasing the power of its female characters, the rhythm of its words, the attention to gestures, and the virtuosity of the performance. It is precisely that paradox that is so moving. I see this play as a shout to help us think about the place of our discipline today, what it can offer in terms of counterpower, beauty, and simplicity. I guess it means giving the deceptive feeling that we can do anything, that we want everything, and that everything can be achieved. At the very least, for the duration of a performance, we can force ourselves to see beyond our ordinary obligations, to dream the impossible even if it goes beyond the scope of work or of the approval of our loved ones or critics.
Interview conducted by Julie Ruocco (February 2024) and translated to English by Gaël Schmidt-Cléach