Flora Détraz, Hurlula. Photo © Vincent Delesvaux

review

Festival d’Automne 2023 gets going

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Flora Détraz, Hurlula. Photo © Vincent Delesvaux
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The Festival d’Automne, a Parisian melting pot ‘à consommer sans modération’

The Festival d’Automne was conceived in 1972 to showcase contemporary, multidisciplinary creation in Paris. Focused on creation, the Festival primarily promotes new works and commissions artists. Since its inception, the Festival has endeavoured to present a wide range of artists, mixing those rarely (if ever) programmed in France, such as German director Susanne Kennedy or American dancer and choreographer Trajal Harrell for this edition, with long-standing partners like composer Pierre-Yves Macé.

The programme is so rich that it can be hard to find one’s way around: for over 4 months, there’s always a Festival d’Automne show, reading, or exhibition happening somewhere. Spread over more than 70 venues in and around Paris, the festival brings art into unusual places (like Alessandro Sciarroni’s opening event in a neighbourhood swimming pool).

With so many things to see – but not as much time as I’d like – I had to make a choice! For this first article (of two), I selected four shows: 100% female creators and performers in fairly light formats and set design.

Gisèle Vienne, L’Etang

I was eager to discover the now iconic L’Etang (‘the Pond’), originally written by Swiss writer Robert Walser in 1902. Adapting this ‘monologue in ten voices’ for only two performers is quite a challenge – risen to by the talents of actress Adèle Haenel, Bausch veteran Julie Shanahan, and stage director Gisèle Vienne.

The show opens with an unsettling image: five life-sized puppet teenagers slumped on a bed, techno music blaring. A technician removes them from the stage one by one, while Haenel and Shanahan enter in slow motion, as if underwater.

Haenel is mostly Fritz, a teenager who doubts his mother’s love so much that he will fake a suicide in the pond to try her. But Haenel is also his two siblings, Karla and Paul, and their friends, in turns, and all at once. Her acting is breathtaking. She transforms her voice for each character, yet her corporeal quality remains the same, blending several identities in a single body. Shanahan is the mother, but also the father, representing the structure of domination in a family, where protective social norms don’t always apply.

Everything is done to maintain discomfort and tension. Voices are amplified, they fill the room and collide with the walls of the enclosed stage. Slow-motion bodies exude a disquieting sensuality and keep the audience on its toes. Haenel and Shanahan’s bodies radiate softness, while their voices speak of suffocation and inner screams. L’Etang is a troubling piece that explores adolescence and its struggles with norms, providing much food for thought.


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Nadia Beugré in Robyn Orlin’s ‘in a corner the sky surrenders – unplugging archival journeys… #1 (for nadia ❣️)…’ Photo © Francois Kohl
Nadia Beugré in Robyn Orlin’s ‘in a corner the sky surrenders – unplugging archival journeys… #1 (for nadia ❣️)…’ Photo © Francois Kohl

Nadia Beugré, ‘in a corner the sky surrenders – unplugging archival journeys… #1 (for nadia ❣️)…’

This year’s Festival d’Automne spotlights Ivorian artist Nadia Beugré, with three of her own pieces plus one by South African choreographer Robyn Orlin in which she performs: ‘in a corner the sky surrenders – unplugging archival journeys… #1 (for nadia ❣️)…’, created in 1994 to reflect on the ‘survival conditions’ of the homeless in New York City. In 2020, Orlin offered this solo to other artists to perform and reflect on the isolation of the Covid pandemic. A fine challenge for Beugré, whose work explores the margins, the ‘excluded’.

Glowing in her golden bra, with a tent-fabric skirt, Beugré owns the stage. She stands next to a tall cardboard box: her palace. In a dim light, she shows her skin and addresses the audience: ‘Appréciez! C’est beau non?’ The performance sometimes veers towards the one-woman-show, as the audience laughs heartily from time to time. With a subtle balance between humour and gravity, Beugré draws us into her palace and into her revolt. She is on stage to be rebellious, volcanic and transgressive.

Beugré’s personality seems to almost overwhelm the original work. It undoubtedly updates and universalises it, incorporating issues from today’s society, but it also erases it. I can’t help but wonder what this piece, performed by Robyn Orlin herself, was like. And I’m really looking forward to discovering Beugré as a choreographer in November!


Katerina Andreou, Mourn Baby Mourne. Photo © Hélène Robert
Katerina Andreou, Mourn Baby Mourne. Photo © Hélène Robert

Katerina Andreou, Mourn Baby Mourn

Mourn Baby Mourn is a cry not to be heard, but read. As performer Katerina Andreou methodically builds what we understand to be a wall of lament, a text scrolls across it. ‘I’M THROWING WORDS AT THE WALL,’ it begins. Concrete blocks, dust in the air, neon lights on the floor, Andreou evolves into a work of art in the making. She works hard, using her whole body to move each block and raise this wall. And as she busies herself on stage, her inner monologue scrolls by unabated, in capital letters. The text is of crucial importance, for Andreou has built her performance around these words, “expelled” after the Covid crisis.

She dances a disjointed puppet dance in front of the wall, seemingly overcome by despair. Mourn Baby Mourn is at once visual, choreographic, textual, and musical (Andreou also created the sounds she wished to give to her elegy). At some point, she sits on top of her wall and plays her own composition on a synthesiser. She mourns a future she doesn’t believe in.

In the end, I would have expected the performance to hit me harder, given the magnitude of its emotional discharge. The words are strong, but they remain silent. And yet, there’s something interesting in this restraint, this silence, where melancholy is stronger than anger.

Flora Détraz, Hurlula

Dressed in a long blue shirt and thick white stockings, Flora Détraz resembles an odd bird, or a mime artist. The set design is even more puzzling: at one point, the floor forms a hump that cracks open to reveal rivulets of lava. Two musicians wearing black wigs and sunglasses stand on the sides of the stage, performing live sounds and music.

Standing on her tiny luminous volcano, Détraz accompanies her jerky gestures with exaggerated facial expressions. She returns to a kind of Ausdruckstanz of the 30s, a sort of Valeska Gert, but with colour and sound.

Hurlula is the result of a long research into screaming and the effect it has on the body. The outcome is an astonishing blend of conceptual research and spontaneous, deliberately unsightly bodily manifestations. Passing through all possible uses of her voice (a scream, a howl, a call, a moan, a gargle, a squeak, a diabolical laugh, a child’s laugh, a song), Détraz explores different physical states; her dance becomes playful, shamanic, or ritualistic. Like a disconcerting Pythia in a trance, she announces prophecies that we don’t understand; I found myself astonishingly fascinated.

I do, though, see several others leaving the room, more or less discreetly. It’s certainly not an easy show, and one could argue it ticks off many clichés of contemporary performance (shouting, spitting, grimacing…). Yet at the end, Détraz spends long, beautiful minutes with her face turned towards the cracks of lava, reciting a powerful text, and laughing loudly as if towards the centre of the earth. And I found myself disappointed when, on that poetic scene, the lights went off.


These four shows, although different, resonated with each other, most notably in their emphasis on words, whether spoken, shouted, or written. For me it’s the start of a dialogue that I can’t wait to continue with the next Festival d’Automne shows, in November and December. 


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