After "The Puritans" and "The Righteous", the company La Vie est Courte and Pulsion Entreprise present David Noir's latest creation
Text, staging, soundtrack and video editing
Original musics: Jérôme Coulomb, Pascal Groleau, Clément Mathieu
Original poster: Philipe Savoir
Pictures: Karine Lhémon
Ghost children with black noses like those of koalas form the new human zoo. You touch them and get touched in a gang bang of disgusting orangutans. You will be able to join your bodies to our mixed flesh, naked if you want, like at the dawn of humanity in black and white trains, also ghostly, to the debris camps of our nights, when we were little.
Distribution at creation
THE INNOCENTS / Course
Premiere at Dieppe Scène Nationale (DSN) on 14 March 2003
as part of the event Nuit Rouge - Festival VISU
DSN, Quai Brétigny, 76200 Dieppe - direction Jérôme Lecardeur
23rd May 2003
Théâtre des Deux Rives, Rouen
Centre de Création Dramatique Régional de Haute Normandie (Regional Dramatic Creation Centre of Upper Normandy)
Théâtre des Deux Rives, 48 rue Louis Ricard, 76000 Rouen - direction Alain Bézu
Avignon 2003 | Avignon 2004
Festival Off - Pulsion Théâtre
Pulsion Théâtre, 56 rue du rempart Saint-Lazare, Avignon 86000
direction Maria Ducceschi
7, 8, 9, 10, 11 March 2004
2, impasse Lamier 75011 Paris
24, 25, 30 January 2005
Le Hublot | Festival " Décapages " (Stripping)
87 rue Félix Faure 92700 Colombes
Is the white clown made for fine lingerie?
The koalaz are wild Klownz that climb up to the tents. Dissertation.
The post office is the beard. Who wants to stick my stamp in her pussy? Does it make sense? Comment: Is there a lady here who wants to stick my stamp with her pussy?
Ribes, you got a big head!
Ribes, you got a big head!
We're all niggas, we're all niggas, we're all...
There's no room for tourists on this trip to black country.At the time, although she had to defend herself against it, I propose to set off again for the marvellous horizons of colonization, which we are more or less ashamed of today but which exalted the crowds at the time of the Universal Exhibitions. And rather than inviting you to "Wonders of the World", we will plunge and lead our banana audience towards the power of our white negritude in search of which I and my acolytes have set out."Body, naked, tribal of little white and a closeness to the spectator that you would never have imagined! »A feeling of Oceania, and a dream of past adventures in the heart of the kingdom of white intimacy unwrapped in the room and on the stage through one of its most coveted ornaments: the bed.Breast, ear and duvet covers and duffel bags will be our totems and idols.
They look like penitents - in burrs, white nightgowns - everything is white except the noses, black, and the rest ... the bodies, the hair, what makes us them; they are actors, actresses. Their bodies are naked under the white burrs.
It makes love or pretends; it does what it wants on the set; it's not that important. It's actors, actresses, back, front, and into the room.
We unveil our bodies without really thinking about it. We think rather of latent desire, of rape; of possible rapes, of you, of us, between you and us. It's lurking. All the rapes; the ones we scream about, the ones we laugh about. Little rapes of the heart; some leave a mark there, like the thumb on the modelling clay, on the rubber pear that has trouble returning to its primitive form - sometimes music, often whispered texts over the microphone, a little jungle of words; the Australian bush in the time of an Aboriginal dream.
Songs, more text and dances, sometimes deliberately aborted. Text again, and a gap of white cotton sheets between you and me, between us and you.
We're at the Theater. A Theatre entirely wanked by hand, a mechanism of painful, shameful pleasure.
Like children's onanism, the theatre at the back remains shameful; it is done in the dark, alone, in one's room. Afterwards one can talk about it, show it, exhibit it, but that's how it's done, by a lonely, slightly childish individual, in his room. So it's a succession of X scenes in a Y bedroom for lambda spectators by a big circus of klownz and koalaz mixed together, with Zs. We meet white klownz and august, proud and haughty klownz, sure of their blow, always on the go, often lying down, tied together and on top of each other in soft white beds, a sort of padded pockets filled with white down where they dream that they can suck their thumbs again and finally those of others.
How do clowns make love? How does it feel to discover that you have a clown's dick, or a small mould shaped like a mouth, or a mouth shaped like a small talking mould, formed by two small horizontal lips and topped by a big black ball, a small, downy, dark mountain, a big nose as black as a nun's chocolate hat.
They are big children, big children, hairy children with their old bodies of adulterants cast in the canvas, in the unbleached crust that hurts them, where the bottom hurts, where they sink and twist themselves to come and take refuge from their caresses.
With an ovarian slowness of koalas, we climb up, unreal, faces dazed by life, weighed down by these big black and falling peaks, surreal as a nasal face. Apes in fake bear costumes suddenly come to life. So slow, so slow, coming down and going up from their eucalyptus trees as one goes to mass. A marsupial birth, without violence, without trauma according to the movement of the 2 letter crossword puzzle - we slowly, vitally climb up these suspended bolsters, then go down barefoot on the invisible carpet of white hair. 2×16 feet; 32 feet x 5 toes, 160 toes from the biggest to the smallest and so on, all facing you. The human body sliced up in large numbers and parading, as in a circus parade; a white circus with a white sound like the tired voices of children, almost voiceless, hoarse from never having smoked a single cigarette. The Great Number; so many cocks, so many tits, so many slits and so much pussy hair, so many buttocks, so many fingers, so many lips, eyelashes and eyebrows, so many visible or invisible asses, out of the cresses, under the cresses of these new folks in christ, naked sparrows in the bosom of our contemporaries. At feeding time, a slow cohort of penitents eager for depressive and clownish and tragic religion is set in motion - These dark years, childhood, adolescence, collaboration - On music, lots of music, and words and sounds; a ghostly parade for a life that exists only in our fetal heads.
Will we manage to get a hard-on, if only to awaken this great body of actors, of spectators, and in this common brain create the retinal, auditory persistence of a lymphatic eroticism, like the indelible mark of an ephemeral that made our life sweeter would it seem? Would theatre be only that for us? Would it ring the hour each night of a blissful sleep?
And then again at the back, sometimes in front, a puzzle of images constantly renewed to the rhythm of a video slide show, images of holographic dreams; those of the countless children's rooms, English boarding school dormitories, of undone beds. Word games dance in the heads, innocent turns of nut, small tendrils made to the brains in places - the crown of thorns - the camshaft - the pouring of a white, milky, sleepy and solitary drug, engulfing the chaotic and colourful images of a mediatized world.
When everyone's finally in bed, maybe some peace comes over. It is then that the light, sweet and distant sound of a child's body comes in, in desperation.