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Laura Tirandaz
photo © Patrick Singh, Institut français du Burkina Faso, 2011
Actes du thť‚tre nį 77.[ imprimer ]
A contemporary tragedy in Guyana. Social tensions arise from the different origins of the characters: white, black, mixed-race and Asian. They all have gray areas: trafficking, jealousy or a desire for vengeance, with the suffocating forest as a backdrop and partying as an outlet for frustration. Guyana, the playís focus, is a land that evokes heat and violence.

ĎĎIn Choco Bť, man is caught between the power of nature and the hot, highly charged city. This is not sociology working from a human-interest story. This is theater, where something happens in front of you that grips you. Guyana is not a stage set here. You are plunged into it, bound to it, its proximity to the ocean, its tropical climate and mugginess, its all-pervasive forests: by turns a no manís land, voracious beast, refuge or oracle.íí
Excerpt from a text by Benjamin Moreau ę Heureusement, on ťcrit encore des tragťdies Ľ for the 2012 Regards Croisťs program

Opened March 26 - April 11, 2015 at the Tricycle, a coproduction with MC2.
Director: Benjamin Moreau. Cast: Mťlanie Bourgeois, Jean-Christophe Folly, Bernard Garnier, Martine Maximin, Nina NKundwa (casting in progress)

Characters : 3 women - 4 men -
Tapuscrits Thť‚tre Ouvert

CHOCO Go home, Moa. Go. Iíll stay here with the dog. Ewa wonít be long. It doesnít matter. Iím panting because this hot night is suffocating. You know, Iíve never liked the weather before a storm. Iím bone tired tonight, Moa, you never warned me that being a man was about this, taking the chance of making a mistake every time and always having to go fast because youíre needed. Why didnít you tell me? You only talked about women, Moa, but you didnít say anything about the pharmacists, the roads at night or the animals crying out before they die. You thought Iíd figure it out on my own, is that it? But Iím lost, Moa, I canít read and, you know, Iím not good at business. People know me and like me because I stay in my place. I donít fight with anyone but my women. What did you expect me to become? I couldnít do anything but run after missed bullets and angry women. Iíve got to face my biggest fear, Moa, Iíve got to overcome the fear that makes me stay in the garage and breathe the exhaust from engines that have been tampered with and taste smuggled gasoline to see if itís any good. Moa? Arenít you going to answer? Youíre not crying I hope. I didnít know you knew how to cry. Iím sorry Moa, itís my blood boiling that makes me mean. Itís the bullet waiting for it to rain. Every year at this time thereís this shooting pain, I think the bulletís rusted, it always itches before the rainy season. And as soon as it rains, then it calms down. Whenís it ever going to fall here in this country? Whenís it ever going to rain so we can get on with it? Why arenít you answering? Iím speaking softly, Iím not shouting. Iíve never hurt you. Iím sorry. Sing, Moa.