From start to finish, the show is (deliberately) catastrophic. So much so that we quickly come to feel a mixture of embarrassment and compassion for the poor derelict fellow (in the course of a confidence, we learn that even his director dropped him) who methodically screws up everything that he tries – what an idea, too, to want to bounce a rugby ball or, at the end of the line, to attack spectators who have paid for their place!
Forced voice that slips, jerky gestures, sentences that fray, jump from cock to donkey, sometimes evoking, with the greatest leniency, a kind of cracked Raymond Devos (“drive out the natural horse, it comes back at a gallop”) : dowdy like the ace of spades (face powdered with white, curly wig, clogs, frock coat, cap and… hanger), Fred Blin can imagine registering “in the great tradition of Shakespearian cross-dressing”, it looks like nothing.
Thus dismantled, the Way of the Cross lasts seventy-five minutes. In other words an eternity for the one who goes through it – and, among other gimmicks, worries at regular intervals about the time he has left to go. But much less for the conniving audience who, in principle, knows where she has set foot and laughs at this accumulation of situations which must have haunted the worst nightmares of actors the day before the premiere, or even long after.
In this single antiphrastic scene, Fred Blin knows of course where he is venturing when, having passed through the school of clowns at Le Samovar, he fails to play games or, actor on the verge of a nervous breakdown, if not alienation , swears that we will not take it back anytime soon. It is also a way of reminding the jaded or satiated public to what extent all the costumes, make-up, accessories and lights of the Earth do not prevent those who dare to go on stage from finding themselves naked in front of an audience. In business for twenty years, the comedian has already ticked a lot of boxes, mixing troupe life (with the Chiche Capon), TV (the series Domestic scenes et Parliament), or cinema (blood oranges by Jean-Christophe Meurisse). Born in 2018 and refined until September 2021, Are we always right? – decked out with another English title, Which Witch Are You ?, the relevance of which escapes us – is his first solo experience. So, to date, the worst and the best.
Are we always right? by Fred Blin at the Petit Saint-Martin theater (75010) until February 12.