Chapter Text
Théâtre des Vampires, Ground-Breaking or Confusing?
Daniel grinned, reading the title of his own page in the Herald Tribune. It was no front page headline, but he was proud enough to get his own section on the third page of the paper. After Paris was freed from occupation, the American-born journalist had wondered what exactly he should write about. Of course, the obvious was to detail the horror stories endured in the city for the past few years, about the rise and fall of the German occupation, but that wasn’t captivating enough for Daniel. Enough people were already writing about that, he thought. He wanted something new, something Parisians would actually look forward to reading about.
The papers were bleak. Headlines about hospitals lacking supplies, about homes and families destroyed, about businesses struggling to recover. So Daniel turned his head to something else. With Paris’ liberation came a rise in the arts. A new era of creativity was starting to bloom, even though others hadn’t noticed it yet. Daniel Molloy had.
After Daniel’s first interview with a local painter, who told stories of his own life and how he channelled them through colours on a canvas, he became convinced that he had found his calling. He began to talk to artists around the city, conducting interviews in studios, in cafés, on benches in a park.
With the rise of art came the rise of theatre, too. Many were open to inviting the young journalist backstage after shows, willing to talk about their inspirations and creative processes, and answering the questions Daniel always had about the real meanings behind their performances.
4th September, 1945. He had sat through a performance of what he had previously thought to be a ground-breaking show, based on the positive reception the theatre had been receiving. Instead, Daniel left the show feeling unnerved, confused, and yet all the more eager to meet the director, dozens of questions already running through his head, that he hurried to jot down on his notepad before they flew away. However, he was met with resistance. The lead actor, a tall British man with shockingly blond hair, turned him away with a firm “Only members are allowed backstage,” shutting the door in his face.
That didn’t stop Daniel from writing and publishing his review, of course.
Projections in theatre are starting to kick off. Replacing plain and still wooden backdrops, Théâtre des Vampires uses projectors to create moving and interactive scenes, bringing their plays to life in ways rarely seen before.
Daniel had wanted to ask more about the complexities when it came to using the new technology, but he supposed he’d have to find out another day.
As innovative their use of moving light was, the same could not be said about the shows themselves. The performance featured three short stories, each more confusing than the last. Le Jardin de Satan told of a man-eating plant, littered with attempts at humour that I found fell flat. Une Deuxieme Mari had no message or meaning, barely motivated by anything other than cruelty and violence for shock value.
Daniel strived for honesty and bluntness in his writing, and very rarely felt the need to hold back his criticisms when it came to writing his various reviews. Perhaps if he had been granted an interview with the cast, he may have been more forgiving in his article. In an era of new art that came with so much depth and meaning and personality, the shows he witnessed that night felt like a slap in the face, a ridicule of the art form itself. The stories felt forgettable, but there was a moment in the third and final show that stuck with Daniel.
Le Malheureux Bucheron was the only of the three shows I felt stood out, though not for the reason expected. It had barely started when a woman, half-dressed, ran out onto stage, screaming and crying. She begged for help, and this made me sit up slightly in my seat. I wasn’t sure if this was part of the show or not, until the Grim Reaper launched into a monologue. He rattled on about violence and death, before the ensemble descended on her like vampires, living up to the name. It was an abrupt and nonsensical end to the show, a show I did not get.
Sure, his writing was harsh. Daniel knew that. But that’s what drew attention to his writing, and what artists looked for. Real, honest criticism. Daniel Molloy didn’t believe in embellishments or sugarcoating. He wrote what he saw and felt as he saw and felt them, plain and simple.
He wished he could have had an in-depth discussion with the crew about the meanings of their performance, and what message they were supposed to deliver. He figured if they were so stingy as to reject him, then they wouldn’t mind the bad review.
He didn’t think much about the short article after tucking the paper under his arm and searching for a breakfast spot. He went about the rest of his day as usual, and the next. He read, he wrote, he walked, he scouted.
Two mornings later, he was heading out of the door to meet with a new artist, a piece of bread nestled between his teeth, jacket haphazardly pulled on. Though his breakfast immediately fell and hit the floor upon opening the door, as he nearly ran into someone standing right in the hall.
“Oh shit- sorry, I-”
“As innovative their use of moving light was, the same could not be said about the shows themselves.”
Daniel furrowed his brows. He had thought it was a neighbour he had nearly walked straight into, but this man he did not recognise. He wore a long coat, dark-skinned face framed by the dark curls peeking out from beneath his hat. He was holding a copy of the Herald Tribune, published two days earlier, and with heat rushing to his face, Daniel realised the man was reading from his column.
“Une Deuxieme Mari had no message or meaning, barely motivated by anything other than cruelty and violence for shock value,” the man continued.
“Excuse me, but how-”
“He rattled on about violence and death, before the ensemble descended on her like vampires, living up to the name. It was an abrupt and nonsensical end to the show, a show I did not get.”
Daniel groaned, picking up his now dirtied breakfast off the floor. He tossed it into the bin by the door in defeat, standing awkwardly with a frown as he waited for the other to finish. Once he did, the man crumpled up the paper in his hand rather dramatically. He met his eyes. Daniel didn’t expect to feel a strange rush when he did, but his unnaturally amber eyes stared into him in a way Daniel hadn’t expected. He had never seen eyes like his before, so captivating and piercing. After a few seconds of silence, Daniel realised the Frenchman was waiting for him to speak.
“Yeah, I recognise my own writing. Now, how did you-”
“Why did you write this?”
“Look, man, I-”
“What didn’t you get?”
Daniel groaned again, rolling his eyes. He clenched his jaw in annoyance. He had an artist to meet down at Montparnasse, and he didn’t want to be any later than he already was. He tried to shoulder past the man, but he stepped to the side, blocking the doorway. With a huff, Daniel took a step back and studied the man.
He wasn’t one of the actors - Daniel would recognise him if he were. Perhaps the playwright? Or the director? Definitely wasn’t the projectionist, or one of the musicians. His hat was tilted at a slight angle, his long trench coat reaching his knees. There was a scarf tied neatly around his neck. There was a sort of crazed manner in which he stood, his back straight, eyes unblinking as he awaited Daniel’s response.
“You’re the director, right?”
The other tilted his head.
“You probably aren’t the playwright. They wouldn’t be insane enough to find where I live and show up, all over a bad review.”
“We always receive nothing but praise from those who attend our theatre.” Daniel noted the way he pronounced the word, the last syllable clipped with his heavy French accent. “What makes you so different?”
“What, not used to not everyone liking your stuff?”
“No.”
Daniel laughed, but it came out more like a cough. Oh, he’s serious, he thought. The man’s stare was unwavering. The two stood awkwardly for a few seconds, Daniel shutting his mouth and swallowing nervously. How exactly did this guy even find where he lived?
Without breaking eye contact, the man reached one hand into the inside pocket of his coat. Daniel watched him procure a small, rectangular piece of card. As he held it out to him, Daniel realised it was a business card. He took it, with only a moment of hesitation.
Armand
Directeur Artistique
“No last name?” He mused aloud. He wondered if it was a stage name.
Armand didn’t chuckle. “Come. Tonight.”
Daniel flipped the card over. On the bottom, the address was printed, along with their name, Théâtre des Vampires.
“Maybe it’ll change your mind.”
He walked away before Daniel could speak another word, disappearing down the hall while Daniel stood in a daze. He looked down at the business card, tracing his thumb over the ink. He did have the time tonight to see the show again, despite his previous disinterest. What would even be the point in going back? He doubted they had changed their repertoire in the short time since his short review was posted. How had the director even tracked him down to begin with? His stomach churned with unease, but he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t still a little curious about the man.
He blinked hard, with a clench of his jaw. He took a second to collect his thoughts, his head suddenly feeling cloudy after the strange interaction. Daniel shouldered his bag, making his way down to the street with hurried steps. When he looked up and down the street, there was no sign of Armand in sight.
As he walked the distance to the artist’s studio, he still couldn’t help but check over his shoulder every few minutes. He couldn’t shake the unease, as if he were being followed.
He made it to Montparnasse on time, thankfully, greeting the woman with a handshake before pulling out his notepad of pre-prepared questions.
Daniel conducted the interview with a hazy mind, unable to get Armand’s face, his eyes, out of his head.