Alain Buffard restored my faith in singing and dancing on stage. With (Not) a love song, he serves us the fancy cocktail we secretly desire (pure, shameless spectacle) mixed with its antidote (wry, off-beat humor). In doing so, he avoids all the labels one normally tags on the musical comedy: cheesy, cheeky, corny, cliché… and instead manages to create an entertaining mix of song and dance that tickles even the most cynical audience member.
Instead of me giving you a blow-by-blow description of the piece, read Buffard’s self-description here.
This piece would absolutely not have worked without the three charismatic performers Vera Mantero, Claudia Triozzi and Miguel Gutierrez, who were, for lack of a better word, fabulous. I fell in love with Claudia Triozzi, whose off-kilter diva personality and clownish eyeshadow were hilarious. Vera Mantero was just as pleasurable to watch, deftly performing her sinewy movement on black and white Chanel pumps. Miguel Gutierrez was in his element, though he isn’t allowed to shine as much as the other divas, as his role was secondary. (due to a lack of rehearsal time perhaps?) I spoke with him after the performance and apparently he was feeling under the weather, the performance being the last of five in a row.
And, in the first performance since seeing Meredith Monk in 2002, the dancers who are solicited to use their voice on stage are actually vocally trained. Thank you! Mantero performs regularly with the voice and Triozzi even develops her own “bruitiste” (noise-based) vocabulary for her voice work. They don’t sing to sing pretty (though it’s obvious they can), they sing with cunning, expressive affect. Also, it is not like listening to the timid, atrocious voices of Nicole Kidman and Ewan MacGregor in Moulin Rouge, whose box-office status allowed them to trump actually talented actor-singers; Mantero and Triozzi, trained dancers, belt out the love songs with a Broadway-trained prowess. As a trained singer myself, I was impressed. Miguel isn’t classically trained, but he performs regularly with musical groups and exhibits his own charismatic brand of expressiveness.
It didn’t hurt either that the three performers were cloaked in fabulous (I had to say it) couture clothing lent by Chanel, Christian Lacroix and Yohji Yamamoto. Buffard milks the queeny desire for cinematic costume changes, but has the performers do them onstage and purposefully too often. The costumes follow the constant flux of cinematic and musical quotations, so before you can fully enjoy Triozzi’s puffy black and white tiered Lacroix dress, she removes it and slips on her next chic get-up. What was beautiful, actually, were the clothes’ evident fine construction, and it was fun to see the garments move on actual dancers rather than on toothpick runway models. If only we all had the funding for this level of costume production…
Also embellishing Buffard’s production is the clever and tasteful musical adaptaion by Vincent Ségal. He interacts with the others onstage, playing his electric cello, electric guitar or mini Casio keyboard with a quiet, casual (and quintessentially Parisian “bobo”) hipness. Not only were the arrangements fresh and innovative, every transition, every note and lyric were well rehearsed and well executed. There was not a sloppy moment to be seen by the performers.
What was refreshing for me was the casual way in which Buffard was inclusive of non-straight relationships. Throughout the work, different straight/gay relationships were implied, even between Gutierrez and musician Ségal, but it was treated in a way that didn’t emphasize any one couple or character, since the progression followed no singular storyline. Perhaps I feel this way because I am deprived of seeing images of gay relationships in everyday society, but I know I am also appreciative of the inclusion’s non-solicitous nature.
The performance drags a bit towards the end, though perhaps this is on purpose. The last song, sung and played by all performers, is “Je ne t’aime pas” (”I don’t love you” by Maurice Magre and Kurt Weill). For an upbeat, quirky performance, the evening ends rather somber. Even though the set and costumes starkly differentiate black and white, the performance is really just grey. Much like your average Parisian sky.
For the final applause, Buffard stood onstage with the performers wearing a t-shirt reading “I love nothing: I’m a Parisian.” (”I (heart) Rien” in the style of “I (heart) NY”) Even though this may be mostly true, at least he still has his love for great performers. (Not) a love song is a clever, stylish anti-love cocktail. If you get a chance, check it out.
Leave a Reply