Among the best-kept secrets in the history of literature, this one: Chekhov is funny.
To cry.
We have seen it so much and so much mounted in the bass -
Uncle Vanya
and
La Mouette
in mind - that we would end up forgetting it.
Last year, Jean-Louis Benoît, at Poche-Montparnasse, had already given a delightful adaptation of his pieces in one act and we were not bored.
Peter Stein puts the table back to the Atelier.
We are not bored either.
In the first of these three farces,
Le Chant du cygne
, Jacques Weber is a comedian on the return.
Role of composition, of course.
Old, proud, bitter, after fifty-five years spent declaiming in front of a public, Vassioucha is doing the count.
And the count is not good.
When the spectators left the room, which he had for his count of applause
("sixteen reminders, three bouquets")
, the old mutt remains alone on the empty and dark stage.
"
You won't see them again ... The bottle is almost empty, only the bottom remains ...
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