The Human Voice (La voix humaine)

TW: Sui­cide

Jean Cocteau wrote La Voix Humaine in 1928 as a one-act play.  Fran­cis Poulenc set it to music 30 years lat­er, despite hav­ing already known Cocteau well for years, and gave the rea­son for the delay as hav­ing need­ed more life expe­ri­ence to do it jus­tice.  Dur­ing those years he strug­gled with depres­sion and self-med­icat­ed.  When final­ly his musi­cal adap­ta­tion, a solo mini-opera, of La Voix Humaine was com­plete, Cocteau loved it, believ­ing that Poulenc had tru­ly under­stood and expressed its intent.

Suite Gallery is a neu­tral white space, to show­case the art exhib­it­ed there.  For the dura­tion of this show, paint­ings by Megan Archer were cho­sen.  They’re vis­cer­al, sharply ren­dered but fleshy and creep­i­ly sen­su­al, and seem out of place in such a clean space.  Scat­tered around the piano in the cor­ner are lad­ders of var­i­ous sizes, drop cloths, a box of let­ters.  It seems as if some­one is halfway through pack­ing, or dec­o­rat­ing,  and every­thing has just been stopped.

Every­thing has been stopped.  Elle, she, the woman we’re here to wit­ness, wan­ders into the room.  In a shift and a jack­et, bare­foot, she’s wan and bedrag­gled, mas­cara smudged under her eyes.  She sniffs, she’s been cry­ing.

The opera fol­lows Elle through the last sav­age moments of a break-up.  As the lies she’d told her­self and her lover crum­ble, she tries des­per­ate­ly to hold them togeth­er, even when it’s bru­tal­ly clear that he’s lying too.  Five years togeth­er and she’s wear­ing his shirt, reread­ing old love let­ters, try­ing to leave the house and fail­ing, and sleep­ing with the phone.  The sound of his voice on the phone is the only thing she can cling to.

To per­form a 40 minute solo opera is no mean feat.  Mono­logue the­atre is gru­elling, and I can’t even begin to imag­ine the for­ti­tude need­ed to main­tain not only emo­tion­al ener­gy but also the immense phys­i­cal­i­ty of singing through­out.  Bar­bara Pater­son is a mas­ter­ful sopra­no, and Poulenc’s com­po­si­tion demands all that mas­tery.  She per­formed Elle, a woman in anguish on a last call to her lover, with extra­or­di­nary focus.

This role is both an emo­tion­al­ly demand­ing char­ac­ter, and a tremen­dous­ly chal­leng­ing singing part, and at no point did Pater­son lose her grip on either.  Her Elle was painful­ly affect­ing, one moment frag­ile and pathet­i­cal­ly needy, and the next dream­i­ly rem­i­nisc­ing about hap­pi­er times, earth­i­ly sway­ing as she wrapped the phone cord around her neck.  Pater­son­’s ver­sa­tile phys­i­cal­i­ty is impres­sive, and she eas­i­ly moved from frail and brit­tle to some­thing stronger, more resilient and then back again.  Despite the grue­some con­fes­sion of a sui­cide attempt, and the clear poten­tial for anoth­er, suc­cess­ful one, those glimpses of strength offer a more hope­ful pos­si­bil­i­ty.  Maybe, now it’s real­ly over, maybe Elle can heal.  To be hon­est, I got a strong Piaf vibe; the help­less­ly trag­ic in love with love but with the impos­si­ble strength to weath­er it. Bear in mind I love Piaf.

Pater­son­’s voice was as flex­i­ble and emo­tion­al­ly raw as her char­ac­ter­i­sa­tion, and com­plete­ly inter­twined in it.  Not afraid to make it ugly, she slid from sweet and pure to mel­liflu­ous, and then screechi­ly shrill, before sub­sid­ing again into monot­o­ne respons­es as the caller takes over the con­ver­sa­tion.  Moments of humour help to lift the ten­sion, and I was chuck­ling at Elle’s absurd indig­na­tion when a crossed wire had some ran­dom eager­ly lis­ten­ing in on the call.

Sup­port­ing Pater­son­’s intense deliv­ery was Gabriela Glap­ska’s com­pe­tent and sen­si­tive accom­pa­ni­ment.  The word does­n’t do it jus­tice — more than accom­pa­ni­ment, her play­ing superbly framed Pater­son­’s per­for­mance with­out ever dis­tract­ing from it.

Some­how, with the street noise occa­sion­al­ly heard out­side the gallery, and Pater­son­’s com­plete focus, it felt like we, the audi­ence, weren’t there.  Or per­haps we were flies on the wall, or neigh­bours over­hear­ing through the walls, or even peep­ing through the key­hole into her flat.  It was a strange feel­ing, but a tes­ta­ment to the com­mit­ment shown by Pater­son.

I regret that there’s only one more per­for­mance of this incred­i­ble show, but I exhort you all to go if you can.  7:30pm at Suite Gallery on Cuba.

There’s also a Welling­ton Fes­ti­val sea­son of this show; Feb­ru­ary 27–29 at the Acad­e­my Gal­leries.  Get amongst it, guys.