Raoul is not a one man show. If it seems that way it is because its cast of hundreds happen to share a single body. James Thiérée is legion. There are times when each of his limbs seem controlled by a different consciousness: his arm slapping his astonished face whilst the other tears at it like a protective bystander. Elsewhere he genuinely seems to multiply – as if by mitosis – and shapeshift; his body morphs into all manner of animals, objects and even elemental states. To watch him is to be astounded by a fluid being unbounded by its own human limitations.
And yet, as a show, Raoul gains its weight precisely from its humanity. It wrangles with an overwhelming existential crisis, full of fear, loathing and furious exasperation. To belittle is as spectacle alone is to ignore the fact that it is a circus of the self.
On entering we are faced with a jaunty cubist landscape of white sheets that seems a shipwreck of twisted sails or a theatre torn down, its curtain railings come unhinged. Beneath them is a shack of scaffolding poles, itself filled with musky knick-knacks. This is the isolated Raoul’s castle. It protects him from both the world and another figure: a hostile self that lays it siege, charging at the walls and forever gaining entry. The two Raouls are inextricable. No matter how the first tries to escape – hiding in oil drums, cocooning himself in bed, pondering himself in the mirror – the other always catches him unguarded. Raoul’s is an existence stalked by his own self, confronted by an ugly, unwanted doppelganger at every turn as he attempts to fend of crisis with self-definition.
There is a certain tragedy about this first Raoul. He is a man always at odds with himself; a hapless figure forever tying himself in knots. He tries to cross his legs only for them to slip off one another. He tries to play music, but gets only the grainy crackle of scratched vinyl or the final combative blasts of an elusive symphony. His reflexes are unexpectedly reversed and his even his clothes prove evasive. Thiérée’s dazzling skill as physical comedian, his deftness with repetition, never absolves this tragedy. We laugh just as much as we associate with this man, caught as he is in a cycle of unattainable objectives. Ever tried and all that.
Alongside this is Raoul’s crippling self-consciousness, not only in the form of his stalking self, but also in our presence. At several points the house lights bath us in light and he stands at the edge of the stage on show, vulnerable, judged and paralysed.
Yet, Raoul must duel not only with himself, but also his environment. As his house diminishes and decays, the world becomes ever more watery. Oversized creatures, airy elephants and metallic fish – junkyard creations, all very much manmade – approach, sometimes inquisitively, sometimes threatening. His clowning follows a steady pattern. He discovers, shares with us, loses control and moves on, such that the universe seems wondrous but beyond dominion.
I suppose the show hinges on the credit it is given by its audience, whether will look beyond a clown and see a philosopher. For me, the leap was unavoidable, but I can understand how others will see only a man engaged in human origami. Perhaps this is true of all circus or visual theatre. Either way, there can be no doubting the skill of Thiérée’s performance. What does undermine it slightly is the ‘how did they do that factor’ – our need to understand the mechanics of an illusion, such that when the timing is the slightest fraction out, we spot the trapdoors that makes his duplication possible.
But then there is also an honesty to Raoul. At its end, with the white box become black void, he takes flight unexpectedly. Perched at the stage’s edge, he rises slowly, inexplicably, faster and faster, spinning up a cyclone onstage. Then the lighting shifts from illusion to revelation. Our eyes become accustomed to the dark and we make out two stage hands frantically operating a crane. Order is restored. It is as if Thiérée throws us a wink. We know that our eyes have often been tricked, but here is his confession. Even as he flies above our heads, Thiérée admits that the theatre cannot make a man fly, but also – wonderfully – it can.
The stage makes possible and Raoul revels in its own fluid liminality. It is filled with mirth and melancholy, humanity and beauty, small triumphs and inevitable failure. Afterwards, coursing the city and boarding the tube, Raoul’s world of fluctuation lingers. It may take a while to readjust to the tedious solidity of ours.
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