"We wanted to create a show that would be like an immersive experience, so that the audience is part of the stories rather than just watching them."

Why did you call this show *Soleil*?

There is, of course, a gentle irony in naming the play Soleil, as Carver’s world is rather twilight-like. But I wanted this title to be an invitation, perhaps even an exhortation, to us, the audience, and the characters too, to leave room for light and warmth, even when life’s situations seem hopeless. We have given each short story an open ending that allows for the possibility of a happy tomorrow.

What is it about Carver’s writing that moves or speaks to you personally?

The flaw, humanity, the fantastical, transcendence. Carver manages, with a language that is at once precise, concrete and literary—falsely minimalist, verbose and refined—to create stories where small events become major turning points, delving deep into the human soul. It is a style of writing that captures something of life and renders it, illuminating it, through a prism that is both harsh and humorous without ever being dogmatic. What might be anecdotal becomes extraordinary, sometimes even verging on the fantastical, and the mundane often becomes tragicomedy. Soleil is a deeply emotional, highly sensitive work, yet it is also very Pyrrhonian, and I recognise myself in that. The stories are often prosaic, yet they all contain a quest for transcendence that moves me deeply.

Where did the idea to revisit Raymond Carver’s world come from? What do you think this author can teach us today?

I discovered Carver in 1993 when I saw Robert Altman’s film Short Cuts, which immediately made me want to read everything by Carver. In fact, it’s a great joy when I hear that many audience members in Paris or Lille, where we performed previously, have continued the experience of the show by reading Carver’s short stories, and we’ve received lots of emails thanking us for it. I think what’s so moving about Carver is that you’re reading short stories whose impact comes from the way you project your own experiences onto what’s written. In a way, everyone can bring their own story, their own perspective, their own ‘tone’ to it. In fact, I myself haven’t always read the short stories in the same way each time I’ve re-read them. Strangely, there is something both very precise and yet completely open about it; it’s quite a sensual experience. And in fact, I think that this richness, this inner movement, allows us to discover things about ourselves through stories that aren’t necessarily our own. I’m not very keen on shows that try to “teach” something. I prefer it when shows are physical or intellectual experiences that leave room for confusion and where I can find my own way through them. My deep-seated scepticism usually puts me at odds with “theatre with a message” or when I feel that the people on stage are the “knowers” and the audience is the “learner”. What I love about theatre and about Carver is when we touch upon a form of mystery which, by its very nature, contains no definitive truth. The themes in Carver’s short stories are timeless; they touch upon the human soul, and these feelings do not belong to any particular era.

How did you choose the short stories?

Together with six actors, we read through the entire collection and asked ourselves what made sense (in every sense of the word) to us. It wasn’t an easy choice and, in itself, I could easily continue to create new ones: it’s a very rich universe, with a wide variety of tones. We focused on the stories whose theatricality we found inspiring and which also offered a range of approaches to romantic relationships, the relationship to desire, death, dependency and the difficulty of living one’s own life, as well as questioning the notion of choice and determinism, whether biological, psychological, social or environmental. We have chosen short stories which, through the characters’ experiences, also allow the audience to project themselves into a place that is unique and personal to them. Everyone can, through their own story, construct their own interpretation of what they are witnessing. Moreover, not everyone is affected in the same way by each of the short stories. The idea was to offer a journey in several stages, allowing the audience to choose what they wish to experience within the performance.

Carver often explores boredom, loss, loneliness… How did you transpose these themes into a contemporary context?

The adaptation process involved more of a ‘theatricalisation’ of writing that was not originally intended for the stage than a strict updating of the material. We have, however, stripped away the 1970s–80s context of the white American suburbs to bring out the heart of the stories more clearly, allowing them to exist in the here and now whilst ensuring they retain their timeless quality. Some stories more clearly echo very contemporary anxieties, such as ‘Where’s Everyone?’, performed by the Estonian actor Jarmo Reha, which reveals a fear that war might engulf his country. But overall, the show is designed in such a way that one does not specifically sense the era, or at least does not ask oneself that question. Loneliness, boredom, and longing, but also desire, joy, amusement, and the fear of death lie at the heart of the stories, not because the era creates them, but because they stem from the unfathomable depths of the human condition, whatever the era. The social milieus depicted in Carver’s world are diverse: they range from what is termed ‘the working class’ to what is termed ‘the upper class’, with many stories set in the ‘middle class’. But the anxieties embodied in life, death and love are ultimately quite similar, regardless of the social circles depicted. Soleil is more a show about what connects us than about what divides us. This holds true even when we contrast Carver’s American context with other cultures, as in the film Plumes, which we shot in India in the Marathi language. I believe the audience may experience Soleil as a grand, tangible dream, as if the experience were part of a paradoxical reality.
On the other hand, I didn’t hesitate to de-gender certain roles, to bring diversity—in the broadest sense—and gender mix to the portrayal of the characters, whereas Carver’s characters are almost entirely white and exist within heteronormative settings. This stems less from a form of activism on my part than from a natural need to represent the world as I experience and live it. I don’t, in fact, make what is termed “diversity” a central theme: I’m simply trying to portray a slice of the world that is as diverse as the reality in which I live, and I see this multiplicity of identities as an immense source of richness.

Soleil offers a true sensory journey, where the audience wanders from one space to another. How does this closeness change the relationship between spectator and performer?

We wanted to create a show that feels like an immersion, so that the audience is “within” the stories rather than “in front of” them. The audience is thus invited, in small groups of 20, to inhabit the performance spaces, in close proximity to the performers. Some stories also make use of headphones, which creates a strange reality, as you hear through the headphones what the actor or actress is saying whilst they are standing just a metre away from you. The aim was to create a great sense of intimacy in the co-presence of audience and performer, whilst strangely maintaining a form of distance. There is certainly interaction – mainly through eye contact – but the audience is not asked to participate. They are there as a guest privy to a secret, or a witness; we tried to ensure they were not a voyeur.
I would say that what this changes is, above all, the relationship of perception, where nothing is anonymised anymore, but at the same time, strangely enough, I have never played with the fourth wall quite so much. I’m used to staging shows on large stages where I try to break down the barrier between stage and auditorium to find a way of embracing the audience. Here, the proximity creates that human warmth all by itself, and we actually had to reintroduce some distance to ensure comfort—for both the audience and the performers—the idea being not to confront the audience, but to welcome them into the stories.

What does bingo, which features in both plays, represent for you? A game, a metaphor, a breather?

Bingo is inspired by a short story by Raymond Carver, titled ‘If You’d Like’ in its full version and ‘Bingo’ in its abridged version. Bingo serves several purposes in the production of Soleil. Of course, there is the purely playful aspect, but this game of chance also brings the audience ‘together’, whereas they will be moving around the theatres in small groups for the rest of the time. Furthermore, bingo creates a collective atmosphere that is of particular importance: the bingo callers (Coline Wauters at Varia – Théâtre & Studio, Adeola Hawna Slayers at Théâtre les Tanneurs) use an extremely calm, mischievous and low voice to envelop the audience. The music used is also gentle. This sets a very soft volume level and the audience falls into step, which is a first step for the rest of the performance, where they are asked to remain largely silent.
Playing bingo offers a breather from the intensity of the stories being told, but it is an inner respite, a continuation of the silence, in a way. It is also a lively, hushed, simple, generous space, which helps to greatly reduce chatter between the sections of Soleil, and thus maintains a sense of unity throughout the performance.

You direct twenty-two actors here, each performing several times a night: how is this marathon organised?

The actors perform in a loop five or six times, depending on the configuration. They are not exactly in the same state during the first performance as they are during the last. The audience itself also goes on a journey, and the random order in which they experience the events creates unique paths. In a way, no one sees exactly the same thing.
Furthermore, we’ve worked to create short stories of similar lengths, as they all range between 21 and 24 minutes. It’s a very precise and rather demanding task, but it allows for fluidity in the performance, as the audience moves around and there’s very little waiting time between two short plays—just enough for a quick breather. The marathon is essentially for the actors and stage managers, who generally have two minutes’ break between each ‘round’. It was also a challenge for the technical team, as we had to manage the interplay between the short plays, particularly in terms of sound, and the production comprises ten to twelve original set designs to be installed in as many spaces as we reinvent in each new theatre where we perform.
I see Soleil more as a long-distance journey than a marathon, as the show demands more imaginative openness than physical endurance.