Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Anna Christie

2015; Penn State University Press; Volume: 36; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.5325/eugeoneirevi.36.2.0235

2161-4318

Katie N. Johnson,

Theatre and Performance Studies

The sensual posters throughout the Paris Metro advertising the latest “Anna Christie” compel me to find the Théâtre de l'Atelier, tucked away in Montmartre, one chilly January evening. The curtain time is listed as 9:00 pm, prompting me to check the listing more than once, but then I notice that the running time of O'Neill's three-hour play is to be a mere hour and forty minutes without a break.As I enter the theater, the audience is younger and more hip than the opera crowd from the other night, and the house is buzzing with good energy. The red velvet seats and plush interior surprise me, as I am expecting something less posh in this artsy neighborhood. My seat is a weird foldout kind in the center aisle, which suits me just fine, as it gives me a close view of the proscenium stage. The curtain looks as if it is made of distressed steel or copper, with three panels of rusted metal pierced by large bolts. It glistens in the lights. Designed by Gilles Taschet, this abstract segment of a ship (or is it a barge?) establishes the waterfront setting for O'Neill's play while the audience takes their seats.When the curtain rises, or rather creaks up, Marthy (played by Charlotte Maury-Sentier) is sitting center stage all alone. She is drunk, passed out, and has spilled her glass with the last dregs of beer, which drips on the stage. It takes me a few seconds to recognize that much of the first scene as originally written by O'Neill—which features sailors in the bar and the heavy-handed exposition about Chris's estrangement from his daughter—has been cut and adapted by award-winning writer (and honorary Oscar recipient) Jean-Claude Carrière. Although it is a radical rewriting of O'Neill's script, it works, feeling less historically anchored to 1910, the time period in which O'Neill sets his play. I am especially pleased to see Marthy—one of O'Neill's most intriguing, if not overlooked, female characters—literally take center stage. The 1930s black-and-white film version also amplifies Marthy's role by giving the great vaudeville actress Marie Dressler an entire additional scene. Here in Paris, the all-male space scripted by O'Neill has been decentered by the seasoned prostitute, who, in the original script, arrives after the sailors set the scene and then only via the Family Entrance from the side room where women were allowed. Not in this production. Here, Marthy opens the play.Seconds later old Chris (played superbly by Féodor Atkine) stumbles into the space with one of the best drunk portrayals I've seen on stage. He can barely pour his whiskey. With his navy peacoat, Chris looks every bit the authentic sailor, his raspy voice and ruddy complexion showing the strain of the sea. Atkine's interpretation of Chris is stronger (and likely younger) than previous actors in the role, such as George F. Marion, who originated the role on stage in 1921 and on film in 1930, in both cases as a grizzled old man. The exchange between Marthy and Chris is one between seasoned partners, who are familiar and indifferent, on just another drunken day. Chris staggers off to sober himself, and the wait is not long for the title character.When Anna appears, it takes me by surprise. She is dressed entirely in red: red dress, red coat, and red shoes. This pronounced use of color is historically inaccurate, but costume designer Camille Janbon uses scarlet as a symbol rather than historical marker. It is a breathtaking entrance for actress Mélanie Thierry. Though Thierry is extraordinarily beautiful, her Anna looks like she has been through a rough time. Her black fishnet nylons are torn in at least three places. She is nervous and cautious, as if she has been up all night and is running on fumes. Thierry's performance is utterly convincing: when she settles down for a drink and a smoke with Marthy, her knee bounces nervously. She holds her cigarette by her fourth finger, adding a touch of roughness. I am struck by her vulnerability, her youthfulness, her sense of being disappointed. And under it all, she conveys a cautious desire to bond with the father who abandoned her. This subtle acting, I later realize once I read more about Thierry, is likely a product of her impressive film career, which transfers well to the stage. I also notice that the famous quotation marks around the title, “Anna Christie,”—which refer to Anna Christopherson's persona in the whorehouse—are missing in this French production. She is not a citation of herself here; what you see is what you get.When Chris appears, there is pain in their encounter, yet the production resists sentimentality. Directed with restraint by Jean-Louis Martinelli, this staging is almost filmic, with little physical action. As with fashion and design, so with theater: the French know that less is more. Given that this is a four-person show, there will be no sailors, no extras, not even when Burke appears from the shipwreck.The second act offers another scenic revelation. The scenery lifts up and we are immersed in fog. The dense haze billows out, with light pouring softly from the side, so that we can barely see Anna at sea. She wears a striped shirt and sailor pants, tied with a huge rope around her waist (indeed rope is another visual trope found in virtually every scene). The contrast with her previous scarlet-hooker outfit could not be more pronounced. Thierry conveys Anna's sense of peace and purification at sea. Chris joins her on deck, and together they sway slightly side to side to suggest the surge of the waves. Sound Factory adds a haunting soundscape with its mix of moaning ship horns, water, wind, and the pulse of a human heart.When Burke arrives, he arises from a trap door below, clinging to a huge rope that is hoisted to the very top of the proscenium—a literal lifeline. With both feet finally on the barge, Burke (played by Stanley Weber) towers over the diminutive Anna, but she can hold her own against him. As portrayed by Weber, Burke is big and burly, but not the Irish rough O'Neill calls for. Moreover, this Burke doesn't appear to have endured a devastating shipwreck. He and Anna banter with each other, but the physical sensuality that has characterized this duo in the past (for example, as played by Natasha Richardson/Liam Neeson or Ruth Wilson/Jude Law) is missing in this cerebral production.The moments of brilliance belong to Thierry's Anna. When Anna says she is not a piece of furniture, for instance, she throws a chair. Describing her violation on the farm or her stint in the prison hospital, she shows the raw pain under the sneer. Chris and Burke go at each other with a passion, but it is never as convincing as Anna's deep and truthful pain. It is her story, at least until the end.The final scene—the one that O'Neill said must be seen as a comma, not a period, in the sentence—offers ambiguity, but not the kind O'Neill intended. Anna returns wearing a nice black dress, high heels, and a trenchcoat—she has given up her previous life and will assume, at least for now, respectability. The men, on the other hand, are soon to sail on the Londonderry, leaving her once again alone. Upon this revelation, the Manhattan skyline in the background folds down, and we are left with an almost blank scrim, a vast emptiness. This adaptation resists the sentimentality of the 1930 film version: rather than toasting together before the men leave for their jobs at sea, Anna is left alone in the foreground, drinking her whiskey. Chris and Burke turn upstage and are backlit, revealing only their silhouettes together. It has the choreographed feeling of a Robert Wilson production and seems a perfect way to end this play. But then, inexplicably, a male voice-over recites added text in English (with a French accent). They are not O'Neill's words, but rather a new ending by Carrière. “Forget, forget,” the voice whispers, “dead to the world, forget. And your face, grinning always in front of my eyes.” What is happening, I wonder. Why the sudden change in languages? Who is this voice supposed to be? I glance around, and no one else in the audience seems to have the same puzzlement or even recognize that we have left O'Neill's play. This bizarre epilogue disrupts the haunting final tableau and the superb acting of the company. That, sadly, I will never forget.