James Thierrée – the son of French circus performers and the grandson of Charlie Chaplin – plays a grotesque ageing monarch in Tabac Rouge. He is a king trapped by his own power, ego and disturbed psyche.
The deeply dark piece of physical theatre marks Thierrée’s fifth time as director; his previous shows, including Au Revoir Parapluie, which came to Sydney in 2008, were daring and critically acclaimed. But Tabac Rouge never quite gets off the ground, bogged down as it is in self-referential knowingness and abstract whimsy.
On stage, a King Lear type character (cue madness and wild storms) lives among the cluttered paraphernalia of his rule: he sits, puffing on cigarettes, in a giant armchair or behind a vast imposing desk. For all the faded grandeur, things are not quite right. Language has become undecipherable babble and bodies twist and turn into torturous shapes.
Serving the king is an obsequious and oily male minion and a Greek chorus of female dancers who seem to move at his, or a mysterious other’s, orders. With primitive skateboards attached to their backs, they scuttle, legs akimbo, like crabs or slither on their bellies like snakes. Meanwhile, a contortionist ingratiates herself around the king’s body, giggling and prattling nonsense.
At the centre of everything is a hall of mirrors – or some scaffolding filled with grubby mirrored sheeting – reflecting the king’s world of self-love and self-loathing. He is entranced by his own image – he dances with the mirror itself. Photographed resplendent in a gold sparkly gown, he is giddily happy, but he quickly turns angry when the Polaroid fails to develop.
Tabac Rouge, too, seems to care overly about the outsider’s gaze. Thierrée invites us into a netherworld of fantasy and fear, but he undoes the spell by addressing his onlookers directly, highlighting the show’s own absurdity. At one point the lights are “accidentally” turned on above the audience by his minion; at another a female dancer descends from the stage into the seats below. With her feet shoved uncomfortably into the audience’s faces the gimmick looks just plain silly.
There’s no doubt the dancers, acrobats, actors and circus performers (including Thierrée) are technically world-class. But the endless repetition of clowning humour and horror renders Tabac Rouge tedious.
There is no plot to speak of and little substance. Thierrée seems to be asking us if all this is real – the corrupting result of power run amok - or a feverish nightmare of the king’s own making. Ultimately, it’s hard to care. Brilliant physical theatre, but emotionally this left me cold.
• Tabac Rouge is at Sydney’s Wharf theatre until 23 January
Sydney festival 2015 runs from 8 to 26 January at venues citywide. Find all Guardian Australia’s coverage here
