The strange world of isolation in Peeping Tom’s first trilogy
My first encounter with the Belgian theatre company Peeping Tom was in January 2018, when I saw Mother (Moeder) at the Barbican Centre in London. The unique physicality and compelling imagery left me astonished. Little did I imagine that their work would become so relevant 2 years later, amidst a global pandemic that forces people to isolate physically. I was thrilled to find out that their first trilogy had been made available online for as long as the current crisis continues. As I have been reflecting on the importance of theatre recordings and archives, I felt excited to revisit and explore further the admirable body of work of this company, which was founded 20 years ago by Gabriela Carrizo and Franck Chartier, and has achieved international success. In their first trilogy — Le Jardin (2002), Le Salon (2004), and Le Sous Sol (2007) — they create unconventional worlds that make us reflect on the reality we live in.
The first piece Le Jardin, which premiered in 2002, is part film, part live performance. Finding that only the film was made available online came as a disappointment, and limits the analysis of the trilogy that follows. The intriguing, documentary-style film takes place in a cabaret club setting where we meet different, bizarre characters that resemble a Harmony Korine movie. There is not a clear narrative as such but more of a collection of moments, in a dream-like (or nightmarish) composition. Overall, watching this film was not a pleasant experience, with the claustrophobic atmosphere pushing us in, and disturbing moments unsettling us. However, the weirdness draws us in and the style may at times also remind us of David Lynch’s work, especially Mulholand Drive (2001). A lot goes on in this closed space. Even though not physically isolated, we feel the loneliness of each character as our own. The live performance presents its audience with a contrasting setting: a beautiful garden, where spectators reencounter three characters from the film, introducing the family we are going to follow in the next two pieces.
The bizarreness carries on to the next piece in the trilogy, Le Salon (2004), in which we witness the same family slowly descending to insanity. A remarkable set shows us a dimly lit living room that accompanies the family, with its patriarch struggling to keep afloat, into its decay. It is here that superb choreography takes place, at points recalling Pina Bausch, including the memorable picture of a couple moving in an endless kiss whilst holding their child (played by Gabriela Carrizo, Franck Chartier, and their real child). Behind closed doors, things leak and pour, be them bodily fluids, tears, or deep emotions expressed through the body. Taking inspiration from Satyajit Ray’s The Music Room (1958), this is a piece where the constant presence of music (sometimes just instrumental, other times through a voice on stage) acts as an extra character, inciting reactions and making the silences more impactful. The show feels at times too real, which causes some discomfort. Love and violence transpire in moments where dream world meets reality and bodies are manipulated in a unique way, occasionally with impeccable synchronicity. The show evokes moments when you are so drawn in, you cannot take your eyes off the screen.
The last piece of the trilogy is Le Sous Sol (2007), in which the family returns in a rather different setting, once again. A house burns to ashes and we enter the underworld, where we meet the same singular characters in a hole-like basement, covered in dirt. The set slightly resembles the living room in Le Salon, and the love-hate family relationships are still there. In the absence of the family father, an old woman, played by Maria Otal, acts as a ghostly presence witnessing the madness, frequently taking part in it. Music is once more deeply present, and the singer seems to govern this world of the dead. The use of practical lights brings about a darkness, out of which the characters emerge fighting and loving in ambiguous choreographies. Movement motifs from the previous pieces re-appear, as the characters reflect on their past lives. Disconcerting moments occur, particularly around the older woman, surrounding skeletons, burials and an interminable kiss, with the piece ending on an uncomfortable note. This under-the-ground world is inspired by Dostoevsky’s short story Bobok, in which Ivan Ivanovitch listens to the moans and whimpers of the buried and deceased. In Le Sous Sol, we become Ivan and observe the conclusion to this group of works. Such conclusion does not feel quite like a resolution but more of a question as to what happens next, leaving it up to our imagination to make up an ending to the family’s story.
This trinity of performances by the acclaimed company based in Brussels places reality and the absurd in conversation, highlighting the absurdism of reality. A family succumbs to insanity in hyper-realistic settings and, through the darkness, fears and dreams emerge. In Bobok, Ivan recalls:
I remember a witty Spaniard saying when, two hundred and fifty years ago, the French built their first madhouses: “They have shut up all their fools in a house apart, to make sure that they are wise men themselves.”¹
The fools in Peeping Tom’s madhouse seem to live in a world where everything is permitted and a certain humour arises in the uncomfortable, almost grotesque moments. The detailed sets enclose the characters, who seem to not truly see each other, living in their own worlds of isolation. It can be read on the theatre company’s website:
Isolation leads to an unconscious world of nightmares, fears and desires, which the creators deftly use to shed light on the dark side of a character or a community. The huis clos of family situations remains for Peeping Tom a major source of creativity.²
Indeed, what happens behind closed doors seems to be the base for the three pieces of this first trilogy, where isolation is brought about by loneliness, insanity, and confinement. Nonetheless, the moments of synchronicity allow for a feeling of connection amid chaos, as all the characters go through a similar sense of disconnection. Watching these pieces on screen rather than on stage can be a frustrating experience, especially as we cannot focus on what we want: rather, the camera makes those choices for us. The videos seem incomplete without a curtain call and the audience’s applause, which leaves a sense of lacking. Despite this void and the fact that part of Le Jardin is missing, watching this trilogy in the current situation, and from the comfort of our homes, can teach us a valuable lesson on the importance of connection in confinement and of not giving in to ennui and despair.
- Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Bobok (1983) Translated by Constance Garnett. www.online-literature.com/dostoevsky/3166
- www.peepingtom.be/en/info
