Masks and Strikes

Wednesday officially began the period of every Stanford trip abroad known as “Bing Appreciation Period.” In this period, Stanford students enjoy themselves off of the largesse of Helen and Peter Bing. The period officially kicked off with a trip to the Comédie Francaise to see a theatrical interpretation of the Fables of Fontaine.

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The prelude to the show was a lecture about Fontaine, for the purpose of informing us about the fables of Fontaine. This lecture was a failure. It was a failure of not knowing the audience. What we needed to be acquainted with was the actual content of the fables so that we weren’t adrift when the play began; what we were instead introduced to were meta-level discussions of what Fontaine means to French people, etc.

The lack of relevant information delivered in the lecture set us adrift in the actual performance. Add to that the archaic literary cast to Fontaine’s words and the somewhat lacking acoustics, the show was doomed from the perspective of the written word. All that was left was to appreciate the frame; the painting could only be seen through muddied eyes.

That frame was quite spectacular. The fables, like those of Aesop, featured animal incarnations of human flaws (I think. I would guess my comprehension of the words was around 10%). So the director decided to dress humans in animal masks and have them move in ways that approximated but did not inhabit the animal they acted as. Their masks were spectacular—they resembled the ones from The Lion King.

Similarly, the movements were efficient and minimal, giving the barest suggestions of what animals they were trying to be. Overall, from that perspective it was great. If I could understand the language, I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it. All that was left was to appreciate the technical aspects (which, after my Shakespeare seminar, I felt qualified to do):

First, the scene changes took a very long time. Much longer than in the US or England—the audience would’ve become uncomfortable. But the French audience seemed fine with it and appreciated the play.

Second, there were a number of confusing choices: why did the representation of Fontaine have such a confused, fearful relationship to her characters? She almost seemed regretful for having unleashed them into the world, like some sad Frankenstein’s Monster.

Moving away from the technical to the general, I haven’t felt as much a foreigner in France until I attended this play. Especially for jokes. There would be times in which the audience would give appreciative chuckles or full-out peals of laughter, and I would have no idea what was going on. There were no sight gags to pick up on, and sometimes even the words themselves were no help. The jokes were just something French, and I’m not French. I’m not a part of the club.

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Today was the strike.

A lot of anticipation for this. From the speculation over who would win, moreover what exactly Sarkozy wanted and what his grand design was, still more over exactly what the strike would entail (would it start at 20h00 and last until 8h00 Friday? Would there be limited service or no?), and, with a melodramatic, almost American twist, would Sarkozy’s impending divorce affect the strike at all?

Like an old-fashioned duel, there was a lot of time spent agreeing on the rules beforehand. Sarkozy started by declaring that there would be minimum service on the Metro, no matter what. The public service union said that it would not strike on Friday, so as not to interfere with the French rugby team’s game tomorrow. And so on, until the actual fight.

It was anticlimactic, at least by my eyes. I expected marches. Overturned cars. Absurd caricatures. Perhaps even a Molotov cocktail or two. And perhaps this happened. But it did not happen in my neck of the woods. Instead the Metro was shuttered, looking like a movie set for a Western. The electronic signs, that typically advise one of the times the trains came, said merely “Pas de Service” or “Traffic très derangé.” (Literally: Traffic very deranged). Occasionally the intercom would speak, its soulless monotone echoing and penetrating the entire empty vessel.

There were no marchers. No picketers. The only protestors defied my expectations of active, loud protestation. They were emergency vehicles. I saw them two separate times and places. They had their lights on, forcing cars to the side. But they traveled at the speed of cop cars on the beat. Behind them trailed frustrated drivers. I’m not sure this was the best ploy for public relations.

The street life of my district seemed unaffected, but was just slightly off. There were fewer walkers and more bikers. Almost no one was in the Parc Montsouris. The taxis were out in force, and were doing good business. This cliché works well: there was something in the air. It was as if everyone collectively came down with a cold and decided to take it easy.

I had work. This was not encouraging. I walked. I walked an hour. This is nothing, really. I walked every day all the day in London. But it’s one thing to walk for fun and enjoyment, quite another to walk out of necessity. Furthermore I didn’t exactly know where I was going. Let me put it this way: Cité Universitaire is a bit out of the way; where work is, is out of out of the way. Work is located in a suburb with the distinctly non-French name of “Malakoff.” The buildings are modern. So it was a long walk.

Coming back from work—I’ll get to the actual experience in a moment—I saw the Tour Montparnasse, that black spire that I’ve ragged on previously. But it makes more sense seen from the south, where it is a part of the newer southern development. Doesn’t mean I like it, but it makes sense.

I had an umambitious dinner. All this because of the strike.

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By contrast, work was invigorating.

I helped do some research for photos for a documentary, and I’ve become attached (I guess you could say) to a project that the production company is doing on the 2008 elections. Apparently reading blogs does come in handy.

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We have a French newspaper class every Wednesday. There was an article about stepped-up security in Paris, of a scary variety. The Minister of the Interior want to deploy drones over the banlieus (the poor suburbs) and adopt a London-style system of CCTV and cameras.

This scares me, as always. It’s a maneuver that can justified innocuously—they’re just taking publicly available knowledge that could have been obtained by any cop on the beat, except cheaper and omnipresent.

But it’s that last word that is always a hang-up for me. The omnipresence of cameras in London was always off-putting to me. And there’s always a feeling of unease for me, the same feeling you get when you put your best face on for people you must impress. It’s uncomfortable to be self-conscious in this way. It’s not natural.

Add to that political concerns—this is not some impartial program. Note prominently above the additional commitment of resources to the banlieus. These programs are never impartial because the people enforcing them are not impartial; they have their biases like the rest of us. But as you tilt the scales of power towards one group of people, you will finding that the prejudices of that group to have more gravity, often to the detriment of groups on the outs. I’m not in favor of a program that promises to increase instances of Driving While Black and its equivalents in prejudice.

Perhaps these objections sound like a very minor trade-offs for some, for the possibility of security. I have to admit that it is in some ways comforting to know that someone is always watching. Ultimately, though, the promise of security is to lead to our functioning unaffectedly, not the other way around.

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We’re going to Provence in the South of France for the weekend. Don’t expect posts until Sunday at the earliest. That’s Bing Appreciation Period for you, and I’m taking advantage.