A giant, gold-sequin-covered creature, a bunch of mannequins with clattering metal bases strung together by ropes, an opera singer, a drummer, a French strong man, and a constantly rearranging set of walls walk into a theatre. Why? Because. (Pourquoi? Parce que!)
Multi-hyphenate artist James Thierrée (grandson of Charlie Chaplin, and a circus performer since age four) directs, berates, and choreographs his Compagnie du Hanneton cast of musicians, actors, clowns and dancers into impossible situations in this absurdist, avant-garde, surreal romp through his imagination. Thierrée plays a crazed version of himself (complete with unruly grey curls like that of a mad scientist) who is attempting to tame the walls of his “room” and his performers into some kind of “performance” that makes sense. At one point he tells us, “we all want an explanation, you want to be able to go home and say ‘it’s all about’…”
It isn’t just weird, it’s meticulously orchestrated nonsense...
The real joy of Room is that the answer is never given. Instead, the mess and fuss of living are represented in a series of performance feats that’ll have you slack-jawed and feeling like a bit of a dummy yourself. It isn’t just weird, it’s meticulously orchestrated nonsense in the tradition of Beckett, Brecht and Jarry that seems “accidentally” profound – but I promise, it’s no accident.
In one scene, Thierrée and Madamoiselle Binard (Anne-Lise Binard) conduct a “job interview” where they both mime a constantly “ticking”, impossibly heavy violin. Binard screeches on her violin as she talks, constantly trying to say something but covering her own dialogue with noise. In another, Thierrée soars high above the stage while he sings, carried by nothing other than a rope and his hand. In yet another, Hélène Escriva plays the euphonium like an angry, panting dog. People throw themselves across the stage, walk like wind-up toys, grow extra hands, and play a ridiculous amount of instruments – all in an attempt to communicate with each other.
These feats are interspersed with little conversations between Thierrée and contemporary clown Alessio Negro in English, French, Italian and gibberish, and a constant German refrain from musical director and instrumentalist Mathias Durand. (Trouble is, as Thierrée says, no one understands German.)
The costumes, designed by Thierrée, are brilliantly detailed, matching the faded, decrepit walls of the room, sparkling with multi-coloured sequins, adorned with bells, or swallowing instrumentalist Hélène Escriva in swathes of fabric as she struggles to make her way across the stage. They never distract from the stage magic that takes place, and only work to enhance the heightened silliness of Room. The music, unbelievably also composed by Thierrée, ranges from sweet violin refrains and sombre piano melodies to boisterous crashing drums accompanied by bowed electric guitars and desperately loud voices.
Room is outrageous, orchestrated by a “creature of the theatre” who has his finger in as many pies as he possibly can. It could be self-indulgent if it weren’t for the pure joy radiating from every person on the stage as they create this tremendous feat of entertainment together, right in front of your eyes. What’s it about? I can’t tell you, but I can tell you it’s a hell of a delight-filled, brain-teasing night at the theatre.
Room is playing at Roslyn Packer Theatre, Walsh Bay, as part of Sydney Festival from January 11-25, 2023. Tickets are $79-$129+bf and you can get yours here.
