2024-02-28 20:36:12
Published on February 28, 2024 at 9:36 p.m. / Modified on February 28, 2024 at 10:03 p.m.
The reasoned madness of a possessed woman. Christine Vouilloz plays her skin, all her skins on stage, it’s her greatness. She assumes the destiny of the chameleon, this animal which never resembles itself, which runs following its colors between sky and burning bushes, which turns green once more at will, the lucky one. The child of Vernayaz – in Valais – is this medium: she brings all our humanities to the Théâtre de Carouge in Fréhel is me, based on a bewitching and loving text by author Violaine Schwartz, adapted and edited by Gian Manuel Rau.
She is Fréhel then, the kid Fréhel (1891-1951), as they said during the Belle Epoque, that era when the young Colette froufrouf at the cabaret, where Marcel Proust washed his eyes in the hotels reserved for men, where youth unbuttons blindly, indifferent to the Cassandras who predict the flames will soon overtake Europe. Born Marguerite Boulc’h on Friday July 13, 1891, Fréhel is one of all the bacchanals, thrown too early into the cauldron of lust, unloved by parents who were too young, a blue flower, but with an open grave, we bet.
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