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Noël revient tous les ans
Marie Nimier
Noël revient tous les ans
photo: karelle Prugnaud & Bob X
Actes du théâtre n° 79.[ imprimer ]
The son wears his best shirt. The girlfriends look alike from year to year, high-arched brows and droopy lips - Cat, Pat, Nat or whatever, the mother never recognizes them. They eat a millefeuille because we don’t do yule logs. They open the presents. Before, it was a tie for the father, eau de Cologne for the mother. Now they give each other binoculars. To see more clearly? Eight years and eight Christmas Eve suppers later, they’re still wondering where the father is, dead or alive. And where the long gone sister is.

‘‘Marie Nimier’s dialogue is precise and lively. She plays around with family secrets throughout the play. Prix Médicis 2004 for La Reine du silence, songwriter for Eddy Mitchell, Jean Guidoni and Juliette Gréco, she presented La Confusion in 2012, staged by Karelle Prugnaud. Here she pursues her exploration into the ills of absence and voids to be filled. Between the lines, in a snowy pine forest. Awkward memories come out of the closet, words ring out, the laughter is ironic. Yule log, or pitfall? Celebration or defeat? Joy or ordeal? Raw.’’

Opens at the Théâtre du Rond-Point, December 16, 2014 - January 10, 2015.
Director: Karelle Prugnaud. Cast: Marie-Christine Orry, Félicité Chaton and Pierre Grammont. With the participation of Philippe Duquesne.

Characters : 2 women - 1 men -
Editions Actes Sud-Papiers

MOTHER (to her son) No one said you were coming with someone.
SON No one said I was coming alone, no one said I was coming without, no one said. Are we suddenly saying things nowadays? Is that the new fashion?
MOTHER Did you notice his rectangular smile? He’s very good at rectangular smiles.
SON And I didn’t come with someone, mom, I came with my girlfriend.
MOTHER I wonder where he got that. Not from me at any rate.
SON What are you talking about?
MOTHER That smile, I was wondering where you got it.
GIRLFRIEND (waving an empty roll of toilet paper in the air) There’s no more…
SON Honey, please.
MOTHER Forget it, you can tell right off the bat: that girl doesn’t have the same values we have…
SON That girl has a name, mom.
MOTHER As if I could remember the names of all the ones that have come through here! What was her name again, the one from last year? Come on, you remember, a soft mouth pretty face heels intelligent an excellent job doing something of no interest whatsoever?
SON Stop it, mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about. (To his girlfriend.) She doesn’t know what she’s talking.
MOTHER That mouth, the droopy lips, a bit like… What was her name again?
SON (holding the cardboard roll like a spyglass) End of the year, end of my tether! New year, new resolutions! I’ve just gone through a horrible year. Right, honey? She can’t argue with that. Awful.
MOTHER He always picks the same type, it’s weird: high-arched brows and droopy lips. That boy was always a mystery to me. When he was little he was in love with the florist. (To her son.) Do you remember the florist’s lips? That same way of drooping, flop! Like a peony on the verge of a stroke. That’s what I can’t seem to put together, that rectangular side of yours, and the droopy side! Your girlfriends’ lips. It must be tricky trying to kiss! No? I dare you to say otherwise? Well miss, admit it, in order to kiss him…