Baraï Chom Ast-Fragments de femmes: DOWN

Well, here it is. My first thumbs DOWN.
However, in order to be fair to the performances I thought were amazing...I could not give this play an UP. To be undecided would have meant not making the choice for UP so therefore, why not simply say DOWN.

Although the stories collected by Myrtille Bastard (writer, director, performer) were moving stories of the plight or condition of several women in Afghanistan, although her staging was engaging--she too had her props strewn all over the stage at Le Théâtre du Verbe Fou (See post, Paroles d'étoiles)--her transitions were too formulaic; they weren't subtle, she would start laughing or singing which indicated the switch to a new story. It was first distracting, then boring. Perhaps this kept me from entering her worlds.

You might think perhaps I just overdid it with these stories of pain, murder, struggle. I could be simply épuisée worn out by these tales of human failure--not of the victims who are sharing their stories, but by the failure of l'occident, of these civilizations where women walk and dress themselves freely, where a man can eat or sleep wherever he can afford to regardless of the color of his skin.

Today, I went to mass and the gospel reading was the story of the Good Samaritan! And I thought, "What else could it have been!" Helping your neighbor. Now, that is a novel concept.

I said that I would choose my plays based on a theme. I couldn't name the theme at the time, but it looks like I'm looking for les témoignages--stories, performances in which the actors and the text all bear witness to some ill, to some pain -- which based on my understanding and the fortune I have had -- seems to be one that can be overcome by a little help from one's neighbor...It just seems too obvious. But who is my neighbor? Who was their neighbor?

What to do? Cry out? Or simply, listen? Listen to these tales, because they need to be told, exorcised...and for this, an audience is required.

At the end of the performance, I went outside and spoke with the woman who sold us the ticket. About 5 feet tall, with white hair and small frame. Her kind blue eyes smiling, nervously she began speaking. Earlier, before the performance, she had been giving directions--"La porte de la ligne...oui--li-GN-e...li-GN-EUH...enfin, LEE--GN-EUH, comme à la pêche! (The Line gate...yes--lie-nnn, l-eye-nnnn...oh come on already--l-eye-nnnnn, as in fishing line!)" She was the mother of the director.

We were saying thank you for the performance. "The stories were moving." I said--lied?

"My daughter collected these stories or the ideas for these stories from family members, books and articles that she'd read. We went to Pakistan where we met so many family members. Her father is Afghani, but his father, my daughter's grandfather lives in Pakistan. Even though the border is closed, many family members came to meet us. We were like princesses from another land, and they came with all they had, which was very little. There was a couple, cousins, who were very poor. They walked for 24 hours in the snow over the mountain, and crossing the border into Pakistan, shared with us bread they had made. It was," --and tears come to her eyes as she said this-- "so beautiful. They had nothing, and they saved for so long to offer us their bread. It was more powerful than the host we receive at mass on Sunday."

Madame, the mother of the director, is French. She continued her reminiscing..."And we had some left over money. There was no question. We gave all we had left to the grandfather to distribute as he saw fit to those family members in need. And then, gosh, I wasn't thinking, I said stupidly one day, 'Look at all this stuff we have. I hope they don't tax us at the airport. It would be a shame to have to pay for excess baggage.' Well, don't you know, my daughter's grandfather came to us the next day with all the money I had given. We finally convinced him to keep it. I was sooo ashamed. When we returned, I was depressed for some time. I mean, we had been living for weeks with over 20 people sleeping in a room. Each night, we would take out the pillows or cushions from the storage place on the roof. It was so comforting to be with all those people. And at night--in the mornings it was sooo quiet, you wouldn't imagine that all those people were sharing the same room. We were with family, and it was such a nice feeling. When I returned to France, I felt so alone. They have nothing and yet, it was extremely wonderful to be there."

At that moment, I thought, whoa! Maybe--maybe this should get a thumbs UP. It was so par hasard accidental. Her daughter would be out in a moment to talk with us, but I thought Madame's memories fulfilled the Q & A session. How fortunate I was to talk with her. Before we left, she kindly asked if we could advertise for her daughter. Her daughter is studying at the conservatory here in Avignon, and she just started this company, La Compagnie Afikamaya, this past December. And here she is, performing for the festival. Myrtille has large, almond shaped dark eyes. They were her tools as she told different stories. If at the beginning, her performance is staged in a darkened room, by the time the spots hit her face, her eyes seem to jump off the page...I mean stage. She used them to address each member of the audience directly, at different points of the performance--she knew to play up her eyes...

There were good moments in the performance: her delivery of an ad for ammunition which you could also get in pink, her rendition of the telephone recording which encourages you to hold the line for a live person do discuss your bank account...

But Mademoiselle must continue to develop her craft. In time, she will be able to impart the energy, the nebulous tendrils required to en-trance her spectators and lead them into the world of her creation and enable them to experience the stories as if they were there as well.

This is a skill I wish I had. It is great to watch it being developed in others.