I sat before the stage knowing only that Victoria Thierrée Chaplin had directed the piece and that Aurélia Thierrée, her daughter, was the main performer. Watching the work of Charlie Chaplin's blood line, comedic star of the silent silver screen, was enough to captivate my attention.
Aurélia's parents conceived of the admired Le Cirque Imaginaire in the 70's, where she was already performing before the age of 5. Victoria and Jean-Baptiste (her parents) gave birth to circus as beautiful performing art. The tableau style of silent story telling finds life in the descendants of the Chaplin family.
Aurélia's world is a charming dreamscape. Like most dreams, the world is a place of the everyday impossible. Aurélia's Oratorio begins with an old chest, on a stage framed in beautiful, disheveled red velvet. The phone rings, a man leaves a message on the answering machine. The drawers mysteriously slide open to reveal the hands and legs of a lady. In seemingly impossible contortionist movements, the woman is getting dressed from inside the chest. Only once she has put on her dress, shoes, and enjoyed a cigarette with a glass of wine, does Aurélia emerge from one of the drawers, an extra third leg lagging behind to reveal the trick of the illusion.
The low-fi illusions aren't made to confound the audience with their technical skill. This is not the Cirque du Soleil, meant to dazzle with grandeur. The performance is wrapped in charming simplicity and playfulness. The audience is shown glimpses of the mechanics behind the tricks, allowing onlookers the freedom to swim languidly in incredible visual beauty. Yet, these simple tricks leave behind a spell-binding sense of awe. It stirs the old waters of innocent, intellectual magic, nearly forgotten in an age of electronic toys and shockingly realistic graphics. I was reminded that we do not need the anchor of realism to be intoxicated, only the willingness to believe.
Thierrée's fits this world perfectly. She has a whimsical ambiance and quirky personality. Her thin, elegant body and unusual beautiful face are haunting amidst the backdrop of a rich shadow world. Her presence saturates the aura of mystery. Every object on stage glows with the possibility of life, inanimate objects have distinct personalities and interact with people. She struggles with a stubborn red scarf, which takes on a life of it's own, fusing with the curtains, lifting her into the air in a delicate, tangled dance. The splendor of this surreal world comes to life though graceful acrobatics and a zany humor which speaks of time-honored child-like wonder. Empty garments of clothing come to life and waltz with their human partners across the stage. A creature born in a winter landscape of lace and yarn unravels the knitter.
Inspired by medieval artwork depicting upside-down worlds, Aurélia takes a lovely bouquet of flowers, and lovingly places them in a vase, stems up, and blossoms in the water. She goes to sleep as her alarm clock starts ringing. An audience of puppets watches their human perform. Shadows become living animations, and we their reflection. Kites fly people. Our perceptions are turned inside out, gravity and space loose all mean.
However, not all is light hearted cheerful play: Like many dreams, dark elements seep in like fleeting shadows. An antique puppet attempts to seduce it's human entertainment, knocking her unconscious. A dress turns into an hour glass, Aurélia turning to sand as the seconds fly by. A man frantically chases Aurélia throughout her dream, as though trying to find and rescue her.
Linking threads appear through the vignettes, suggesting a ephemeral plot. Much like the memory of a dream, the story line vanishes when you try to define it. I was left sensing that there was a coded message in the beguiling fantasy.
The thespian show itself is almost intangible. It is not circus, it is not a play, it is not a thoughtless visual display. Trying to define this piece of living art is nearly impossible, as no mundane labels seem to fit.
