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      Emily Is Still in Paris. Why Are We Still Watching?

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      The Netflix hit has been widely mocked from the beginning. But despite its flaws — or perhaps because of them — it’s a pop-culture phenomenon.Here is one inviolable rule that I have learned governs American screens: If ever I see a young woman standing before a mirror holding a pair of scissors, it is almost always a harbinger of some unspeakable doom. Whether in comedy or in horror, this image is cinematic shorthand for when the writers want us to know that whatever this woman’s inner torment may have been in that moment, it won, obliterating her sanity and driving her to this act of assured self-destruction.That is how we find the titular heroine of “Emily in Paris,” in the third season’s premiere: still in Paris, standing before a mirror in the middle of the night, muttering to herself before snipping off a jagged, uneven chunk of hair across her forehead. She has been jolted awake from a nightmare in which she saw herself forced to confront her deepest fear: having to make a decision on her own.This is an existential crisis for Emily Cooper, who, before her French sojourn, was happily shilling tag lines for I.B.S. drugs in Chicago. As laid out in the series’s first season, by way of a mystifying fluke, Emily finds herself at a luxury marketing firm in Paris, going in place of her pregnant boss. (In this universe, we are to assume that this enormous company has only two employees and that corporations simply love to give unasked-for promotions to junior underlings.) She is there in Paris to provide an “American point of view,” despite not possessing much of one, beyond lovingly declaring that “the entire city looks like ‘Ratatouille.’” By the end of the first two seasons, she has conducted sanitized love affairs with a rotating cast of forgettable men and embodied a portrait of American middle-managerial insufferability specifically calculated to drive her Parisian co-workers and watchers of the show equally apoplectic.The show’s second season ends on a low-stakes cliffhanger that kept unwilling “Emily in Paris” hostages like me (I cannot in all honesty call us “fans”) on begrudging tenterhooks for a year: Will Emily choose the safety of a big corporation and stick with Madeline, her mentor from Chicago, an ur-girlboss of corporate marketing who is obnoxiously secure in her American basicness and a cartoonish portrait of who Emily might become two decades from now? Or will she defect and join the marketing coup being staged by Sylvie, the abrasive yet terrifyingly magnetic Frenchwoman whose approval Emily has spent the past two seasons trying to win with an almost-feral desperation?Beneath the Bambi-like visage and the sweet ebullience lies a stark void of nothingness.For the pugnaciously good-humored Emily, whose sole defining characteristic so far has been her geniality (even being called an “illiterate sociopath” by her former friend barely made a dent in her sunniness), this outer turbulence has forced her to exhibit signs of an inner life for the first time in the show’s run. For once, Emily is visibly shaken. And in the time-honored tradition of one-dimensional screen heroines who came before her, Emily has commenced yet another season-long course of causing unintentional catastrophes with the only act of intention seen from her so far: the guillotining of her own bangs.When the first season of “Emily in Paris” debuted on Netflix in October 2020, it was widely mocked and near-universally reviled in both nations for an abundance of reasons. There was the literalism of its construct. (There is truly nothing more to it than here is Emily, who is in Paris.) There was the egregiously loud costuming. (What sort of corporate culture in France allows for bucket hats to be worn at an office, and why is Emily in possession of so many of them?) Then there were the characters, a buffoonish assemblage of dated stereotypes that managed to offend both the Americans and the French.But despite its utter frictionlessness or perhaps because of it, the compulsively hate-​watchable show became a phenomenon.I began watching this show out of the crudest form of identitarian loyalty, because I harbor an unshakable sympathy for any youngish woman (even fictional; even if she wears bucket hats) whose profession (like mine) requires using the word “social” as a noun with a straight face. Far be it from me to demand interiority from rom-com ingénues experiencing character development for the first time, but watching Emily utter marketing argot like “corporate commandments” and breezily brush off every cruel joke about her dimwittedness left me wondering: Does this show want me to laugh at Emily for the particular brand of sincere, millennial smarm she represents? Or am I meant to cheer at her (very American) refusal to change, no matter what her travails in Paris put her through?To say Emily is chasing anything would be ascribing too much agency, with which even her creators have not dignified her.In both literature and cinema, Paris has long been the milieu in which to place a certain class of mordantly restless, cosmopolitan and upwardly mobile white American woman, who finds herself in the city (often fruitlessly) chasing things her homeland has denied her: a renewed sense of self after heartbreak; liberation (both sexual and intellectual); sometimes adventure; occasionally adultery. Paris harbored Edith Wharton’s Countess Olenska when the insipid society gentleman she fell in love with hadn’t the spine or the stomach to claim their life together. In her memoir, “My Life in France,” Julia Child recalls arriving in Paris still a “rather loud and unserious Californian,” and how it was the city, along with her beloved husband, Paul, that molded her into the woman the world got to know. Paris was where Carrie Bradshaw, perpetually in love with the idea of love, finally realized that maybe all it did was make her more miserable. Emily Cooper, however, is not one of these women. To say she is chasing anything (except perhaps a steady stream of head pats of approval from her bosses) would be ascribing too much agency, with which even her creators have not dignified her.In 1919, when Wharton, herself an expatriate in Paris, wrote that “compared with the women of France, the average American woman is still in the kindergarten,” she might as well have been talking about Emily, whose stock-in-trade is a unique brand of empty infantilism. Nowhere is this more evident than in the way the millennial Emily Cooper seems engineered from a boomer’s nightmare of what young people today are like: indolent, addicted to their phones and obsessed with being rewarded for doing the bare minimum. The show’s architects have endowed her with what has come to be known as her generation’s worst trait: a compulsive devotion to online oversharing and the cult of manufactured relatability. But what sets Emily apart is that beneath the Bambi-like visage and the sweet ebullience lies a stark void of nothingness.The Chekhov’s Bangs incident turns out to have only the most minor payoff later on, when for once, Emily makes a life-altering choice that of course fosters zero introspection. For a show that managed to make even the complexity and angst of infidelity as saccharine as the pain au chocolat that Emily posts on Instagram with the caption “butter+chocolate = 💓,” watching her give herself what her friend calls “trauma bangs” was about as abrupt an upping of the stakes in the Emilyverse as can be. But for those of us who’ve continued to watch, we do it despite our bewilderment — like Emily butchering her hair — even though we know it’s a mess.Iva Dixit is a staff editor for the magazine. She last wrote a Letter of Recommendation about raw onions.Source photographs: Stéphanie Branchu/Netflix More

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      ‘Emily in Paris’ Star Lily Collins On Her Own Trauma Haircut

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      The cast also talked about berets and big life choices at a screening and reception at the French Consulate General to celebrate Season 3.It was a gloomy, rainy 40-degree evening, but on a blue carpet inside the French Consulate General on the Upper East Side before a special screening of Season 3 of “Emily in Paris” last week, the cast was as colorful as the show.Lucien Laviscount, who plays Emily’s British boyfriend, Alfie, flashed a grin as he strolled along the line of reporters in a neon pink suit with matching sneakers. Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu, who plays Emily’s French boss, Sylvie, cocked an eyebrow coyly at the cameras as she tilted her head to show off a big silver arrow piercing her right ear above an asymmetrical black gown.Kate Walsh, who plays Emily’s American boss, Madeline, struck a pose in a long white gown, thrusting out her left leg to showcase a daring thigh-high slit above a sheer black mesh panel. She was accompanied by her fiancé, Andrew Nixon.The show’s star, Lily Collins, appeared in a sparkling white long-sleeved minidress covered with silver bows, black tights and sparkling silver platform heels, and the blunt bangs her character, Emily, cuts in the first episode of the new season. (“Trauma bangs,” as Emily’s roommate Mindy, played by Ashley Park, terms them.)Emily is under pressure at the beginning of the third season of the Netflix series, which returns Wednesday. She faces big choices at work and in love. Should she stick with her Chicago boss, Madeline, at Savoir or join her French boss, Sylvie, at her new marketing firm? And should she hold out hope for the unavailable Gabriel, played by Lucas Bravo, or embrace a long-distance relationship with her flame in London, Alfie?Ms. Collins and Ms. Park said they found it relatable that Emily would reach for the scissors amid paralyzing indecision.“I had a life change haircut when I was, I think, 26,” Ms. Collins said. “I cut all my hair off — it was a pixie haircut — and I went to the Vanity Fair Oscars party and people were like, ‘What happened?’”The actress and model Camille Razat and her partner, the photographer Etienne Baret.Dolly Faibyshev for The New York TimesLucien Laviscount and Lucas Bravo, who are “Emily in Paris” cast members.Dolly Faibyshev for The New York TimesMs. Park, who wore a purple-and-black zebra print gown and black latex boots, said that when she was in seventh grade, she wanted wavy hair. “But I got a perm, and it was way too much, so I had to wear my hair in this topknot that I called ‘the pineapple’ for a year!” said Ms. Park, her dark brown eyes set off by bold purple eye shadow.Jeremy O. Harris, the “Slave Play” playwright who plays the designer Gregory Dupree on the show, didn’t hesitate when asked if Emily should return to Chicago.“She just needs to get away from men,” he said, dressed in a white patterned jumpsuit and long-sleeved red shrug.“There’s too much romance in Paris,” he added. “I think she should stay in Europe, but I want to see ‘Emily in Berlin’ or ‘Emily in Italy.’”The playwright Jeremy O. Harris plays the designer Gregory Dupree in “Emily in Paris.”Dolly Faibyshev for The New York TimesDarren Star, who created the series, said the show will be sticking to its title, though — at least for this season.“Emily is in Paris for the moment,” said Mr. Star, who wearing a black suit. The series was renewed for a fourth season, and, he hopes, it will extend beyond that.“If they want us back, we’re coming back,” he said. “I think there’s more story to tell.”Paris has, of course, proven thus far an inexhaustible sense of amusement for viewers as Emily navigates cultural differences like a double cheek kiss greeting and an office that doesn’t open before 10:30 a.m.“Emily going into the office that early was definitely funny,” said Camille Razat, who plays Camille, a Parisian socialite and a rival for Gabriel’s affections. Ms. Razat wore a long-sleeved red dress with matching opera gloves. “We work to live, not live to work,” she said.The French actor William Abadie agreed. He plays Antoine, the owner of a perfume company that is a client of Savoir’s. “I live in America, and I came here because I wanted to be an actor, but also because I respect the professionalism,” he said.The actor William Abadie.Dolly Faibyshev for The New York TimesDarren Star, the creator of “Emily in Paris.”Dolly Faibyshev for The New York TimesThe show’s French and American cast members shared one thing, though: affection for the beret, the round, flattish felt cap that Emily wears at least half a dozen of in the show’s first two seasons.“I have lots of berets,” said Mr. Harris, his eyes lighting up.“I have a winter beret, a summer beret. …” Ms. Walsh said.The show’s French cast members had little personal experience wearing them, though they were not opposed to the idea.“Why not?” said Mr. Bravo, who was wearing a black velvet suit.“I never wear them,” Mr. Arnold said. “I think I would,” he added, “But I like my hair too much.”Quick Question is a collection of dispatches from red carpets, gala dinners and other events that coax celebrities out of hiding. 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      France Cheers For ‘Starmania,’ Its Favorite Musical

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      Songs from “Starmania” are frequently heard and covered in France, but until a new production opened in Paris, few had a chance to see the 1979 rock opera onstage.PARIS — Imagine a musical so beloved that on opening night, its lyricist receives a standing ovation before the show even starts. That’s what happened here Tuesday night. As the songwriter walked to his seat, the audience at La Seine Musicale couldn’t contain their excitement — starting with Brigitte Macron, the wife of President Emmanuel Macron of France.No, this musical wasn’t “Les Misérables.” (In fact, while it was originally created in French, few people in the country are aware of the existence of “Les Miz,” or the wild popularity of its English-language version.) The occasion was the long-awaited return of “Starmania,” a dystopian rock opera that has turned into a singular French phenomenon since it was first heard in the 1970s.Of the numbers co-written by Michel Berger, who died in 1992, and Luc Plamondon, whose appearance triggered the ovation on Tuesday, at least 15 — like “Need For Love” and “The World Is Stone” — are frequently heard and covered in the world of French popular music, with their eloquent lyrics that speak of loneliness, power struggles and rebellion. Yet “Starmania” itself has been elusive onstage.It’s not entirely surprising: Like many examples of the rock opera, a genre born in Britain in the 1960s, “Starmania” started life as a concept album, albeit one with a complex, multicharacter plot set in a futuristic global city, Monopolis. The first theatrical run, in 1979, lasted only a month, and the last full stage production in France — a country where musical theater isn’t especially popular — was back in the 1990s. An English version, “Tycoon,” written by Tim Rice, was released as an album starring Cyndi Lauper, Céline Dion and Tom Jones in 1992, but never took off in theaters.This poses unique challenges for any director looking to tackle “Starmania.” Even as the songs remained cultural touchstones, the narrative’s twists and turns have faded from memory. For instance, few know that “The Businessman’s Blues,” an idealistic number about an entrepreneur who yearns to be an artist, is actually sung by Zéro Janvier, a disingenuous real estate tycoon turned fascist political leader.It was time to rediscover Berger and Plamondon’s socially prescient work. In Monopolis, the capital of the newly unified West, Janvier is running for president on a law-and-order platform, against the environmentalist Gourou Marabout. Around them, would-be Monopolis influencers chase fame on TV, while a gang of punk rebels, the Black Stars, sow violence in the streets.The current, pandemic-delayed revival at La Seine Musicale, an impersonal venue in the Paris suburb of Boulogne, was entrusted to Thomas Jolly. This 40-year-old director is having a banner year: In September, he was announced as the artistic director of the opening and closing ceremonies for the 2024 Paris Olympics and Paralympics, a plum job that will put him in the international spotlight. While Jolly’s flamboyant style has long been divisive with French critics, his fondness for laser lights and over-the-top special effects may serve him well on the Olympic stage, and it is on full display in “Starmania.”Manet-Miriam Baghdassarian as Sadia in “Starmania.”Anthony DorfmannI can’t recall ever seeing so much lighting equipment. The lighting design — or rather, the laser choreography — was created by Thomas Dechandon, and several key numbers are sung without sets, under a canopy of lights flashing furiously to the beat. Right before the climax of “The Businessman’s Blues,” trap doors open onstage, and a small army of additional spotlights rear their mole-like heads.Eye-watering electricity bill aside, it is a staging choice that wows at first, yet offers diminishing returns over the course of the three-hour show. Perhaps because of the demands of touring, since “Starmania” will be performed around France, Belgium and Switzerland over the next year, Emmanuelle Favre’s sets are fairly minimal. A rotating, towerlike structure is the most distinctive element, and effective when representing Naziland, the nightclub where Janvier awaits the election results.Berger and Plamondon created an improbably rich world, and there was room to imagine just how Monopolis — a city of skyscrapers and underground tunnels — might feel. Yet even the Underground Café, whose waitress Marie-Jeanne acts as the story’s narrator, is a quasi-blank space.The real star of “Starmania,” though, is the music. Not only does each of the eight lead roles have at least one vocally acrobatic solo turn, but most audience members still have the exact texture and phrasing of past performers in mind. In a nod to the 1970s cast, the well-known French singer France Gall appears in a hologram in one scene.Gall’s silhouette drew applause, as did many of the songs — not when they ended, but as soon as the first words were heard. At least a dozen times over the course of the first night, the six-strong band and singers would start a number, only to be drowned out by cries of joy. Rather than a new production, “Starmania” often felt like a collective trip down memory lane, tapping into layers of emotion that have accumulated over decades.The weight of expectations must be daunting, but the large cast of singers from France and Canada were brilliantly fearless. (Unforgivably, their names weren’t listed anywhere in the theater or on the production’s website.) David Latulippe avoided egregious villain mannerisms as Janvier, and had a superb match in Magali Goblet (known as Maag), who brings weary depth to the role of Stella Spotlight, a broken actress Janvier seeks out as his consort.Stella gets some of the most virtuosic, heartbreaking numbers, starting with “The Farewell of a Sex Symbol,” which lays bare the mental health toll of being objectified as a young actress. The cult of celebrity, and its darker side, are the overarching theme of the plot. In the musical, “Starmania” is the name of a TV show that promises instant fame to a lucky few. Ziggy (Adrien Fruit), a record dealer, falls into that trap, abandoning his friend Marie-Jeanne to chase success with Janvier.As Marie-Jeanne, Jolly and his team cast a nonbinary performer who uses male pronouns, Alex Montembault. He is the heart and soul of the show, with an understated simplicity that contrasts with showier personalities, like Manet-Miriam Baghdassarian, who brings darkly intimidating energy to the gender-fluid character of Sadia, a Black star described as a transvestite.The word may be dated, but here again, “Starmania” makes space for questions around gender that are far more common today than they were in the 1970s. And it does so with a songbook so saturated with memories for many who have grown up in France that there is joy — and occasionally melancholy — in simply mouthing along to the lyrics.Jolly has crafted a production that may not be subtle, but it is generic and spectacular enough to make space for newcomers as well as audience members who grew up with “Starmania.” After over two decades without an opportunity to see it onstage, that’s enough of a gift.Starmania. Directed by Thomas Jolly. La Seine Musicale, through Jan. 29. More

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      In Paris Plays, What It Would Be Like if Shakespeare Was Female

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      Several Paris theaters geared up to open their seasons with the most famous English playwright. How would the plays be tackled if a woman’s name were attached to them?PARIS — When the hero of Shakespeare’s play “Coriolanus” likened himself to a “lonely dragon” in the early 1600s, the adjective “lonely” was still a new addition to the English language. Based on surviving records, “Coriolanus” was probably only the second time it appeared in print. The first? In “Antonius,” a 1592 translation of a French play by Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke.This tiny, almost insignificant detail is one of many listed in “Sweet Swan of Avon: Did a Woman Write Shakespeare?,” a 2006 book by the scholar Robin P. Williams — and now brought to the stage by the director Aurore Evain. In both, Williams and Evain argue that the little-known Sidney, an extraordinarily well-educated and high-achieving noblewoman, could have penned Shakespeare’s canon.It is a relatively new answer to the “authorship question,” as the long-running debate about the identity of the writer is known. While most Shakespeare scholars still believe that William Shakespeare, the man from Stratford-upon-Avon, was the main author of the works published under his name, suspicion that someone used him as a cover arose in the late 18th century.His humble origins and apparent lack of advanced education are factors, because the author of the plays appeared to be versed in a number of languages as well as in aristocratic habits. Additionally, no complete original manuscript by his hand is known to have been found.Bard worship is such in theater worldwide that it’s easy to put any doubts down to gaps in Shakespeare-era historical records. Going into Evain’s “Mary Sidney, Alias Shakespeare,” an absorbing staged conference presented at the Théâtre de l’Épée de Bois, in the suburbs of Paris, I expected little more than a pleasantly quirky intellectual exercise.Yet over the course of two hours, with just two lecterns and a few projections, Evain, who is also a theater historian, presented such a wide range of circumstantial evidence drawn from Williams’s “Sweet Swan of Avon” — as well as potential rebuttals, with vivid help from the actress Fanny Zeller — that I started questioning my own beliefs.Fanny Zeller in “Mary Sidney, Alias Shakespeare.”Charline FauveauHere are a few assertions they offer. “Lonely” is one of several dozen words Sidney introduced into the English language that Shakespeare later used. She provided patronage to Pembroke’s Men, one of the early companies to perform plays that were later attributed to Shakespeare. Sidney’s extensive library included many of Shakespeare’s sources, and she was familiar with pursuits as varied as falconry, alchemy and cooking, whose vocabulary Shakespeare drew on.Shakespeare’s First Folio, published about seven years after his death, is dedicated to Sidney’s sons, William Herbert and Philip Herbert.After the performance, other audience members flocked to Evain, expressing their shock at how reasonable Sidney’s authorship suddenly sounded to them. Over the years, speculation has centered mostly on a handful of men, namely Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, Christopher Marlowe and Francis Bacon.Yet, as Evain put it convincingly onstage, unlike many other contenders, Sidney had a very good reason to hide her identity: She was a woman. While Sidney ran an influential literary salon, the Wilton Circle, and published translations and original verse, it would have been considered improper at the turn of the 17th century for her to show plays of her own, let alone works with occasionally bawdy language and violent themes.And what if a woman had actually written Shakespeare’s works? Beyond the whodunit — and neither Williams nor Evain claims to have definitely solved it — the implications are fascinating, because very few women were afforded the opportunity to have careers as playwrights until far later.As several Paris theaters geared up to open their seasons with Shakespeare, I started wondering how differently the plays would be tackled if they had a woman’s name attached to them.Let’s say the Comédie-Française, France’s prestigious theater company, was presenting Sidney’s “King Lear,” in lieu of Shakespeare’s. That would certainly have turned the German director Thomas Ostermeier’s interpretation on its head: In a playbill essay, Ostermeier wrote that Shakespeare’s work was “part of a 1,000-year-old culture that ties the representation of power to the masculine,” and suggested that he had tried to go “against” Shakespeare to give the female characters greater “legitimacy.” (What this means remains to be seen: Press performances of “King Lear” were delayed because of Covid-19 protocols.)What of Sidney as the author of lonely “Coriolanus”? The idea felt comical at the Théâtre de la Bastille, which is playing host to a tacky, histrionic production by François Orsoni. This “Coriolanus” couldn’t have telegraphed more crudely its laddish credentials. As the Roman leader at the heart of the play, Alban Guyon, dressed in either leather pants or a tracksuit with a gold chain, swaggers and shouts to exhausting effect.From left, Alban Guyon, Estelle Meyer and Thomas Landbo in “Coriolanus,” directed by François Orsoni at the Théâtre de la Bastille.Vincent BérengerThe two main female characters, Volumnia and Virgilia, are combined and played by Estelle Meyer with over-the-top, vampy energy. Pascal Tagnati goes for Johnny Depp-adjacent levels of parody as a pirate version of the Volscian leader Aufidius, and the entire play takes place under “CorioLand” signs that read like advertisements for racing cars.Would this staging have seen the light of day if “Coriolanus” was known to be the work of Sidney? It’s doubtful, but then again, many would most likely also have trouble believing that this grim and bloody historical play was penned by a woman.One prolific 19th-century French writer knew the benefits of publishing under a male-sounding pseudonym: George Sand, born Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin. While she wrote multiple plays, they are rarely performed today. Instead, this season, the director Laurent Delvert opted to adapt one of her novels, “Gabriel,” for another of the Comédie-Française’s stages, the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier.While Delvert’s dark, pared-down production is workaday, with electronic sound effects that feel more like tics, it is a very welcome reintroduction to Sand. Gabriel de Bramante, her central character here, is a woman who was raised secretly as a man for reasons of inheritance; her grandfather can’t bear the idea of his title going to what he sees as a less deserving branch of the family.From left, Yoann Gasiorowski, Elisa Erka and Claire de La Rüe du Can in “Gabriel,” directed by Laurent Delvert at the Comédie-Française’s Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier.Vincent PontetClaire de La Rüe du Can brings delightful artlessness and honesty to the character of Gabriel, who learns of the deception when she comes of age. As she sets out to make things right with her relatives, she falls in love and starts living part-time as a woman, only to fall victim to a man’s irrational jealousy.Sand’s style is exactingly clear as she weighs the ways in which gender norms shape the experience of love and moral dilemmas — something Shakespeare wasn’t too bad at, either. We may never know what some women truly achieved when they couldn’t express their talents fully, but Sidney and Sand, no longer lonely in their pursuits, make for gratifying stage company.Mary Sidney, Alias Shakespeare. Directed by Aurore Evain. Théâtre de l’Épée de Bois.Coriolanus. Directed by François Orsoni. Théâtre de la Bastille, through Oct. 7.Gabriel. Directed by Laurent Delvert. Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier, through Oct. 30. More

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      A Last Taste of Summer Theater, as Paris Heads Back to Work

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      As offices and schools reopen, ParisOffFestival brings a carnival atmosphere to an area of low-income housing in the city.PARIS — “Dear neighbors!” an affable puppet called out from a third-floor window here last week. In the packed street below, a mix of theatergoers, local families and passers-by looked up. As more puppets appeared in the windows of an apartment building in the city’s south and addressed the crowd about loneliness and the “bitter pills” of daily life, the spectators murmured in approval.The strangely uplifting spectacle was part of ParisOffFestival, an annual event that began two years ago, but which already occupies a special niche in the Paris theater calendar. Run by the Théâtre 14 over three days in early September, it strives to keep the spirit of summer festivals going, even in the midst of “la rentrée,” the reopening of offices and schools that signals the end of the lengthy summer holidays in France.Seven theater productions, as well as readings, were performed during daytime hours in the courtyards of subsidized apartment buildings, in the Théâtre 14’s garden and at a local stadium, all a short walk apart. Also close by, the small pedestrian street where the puppets made their appearance acted as a welcome area for the public to hang out, with beer, cotton candy and loungers at the ready.All of the festival’s performances were free, a big investment from the small Théâtre 14, a city-run playhouse inaugurated in 1982, whose annual budget of around $800,000 is just a fraction of what the biggest stages in Paris receive.The Théâtre 14 used to keep a low profile, but since 2020, a new management team — the actor-director Mathieu Touzé and the arts administrator Édouard Chapot — has found creative ways to insert the institution into the national conversation, from partnerships with high-profile playwrights to yearly events like ParisOffFestival and Re.génération, a spring festival devoted to site-specific work.The first edition of ParisOffFestival, in the summer of 2020, was a quick-thinking response to the coronavirus pandemic. After the cancellation that year of the Avignon Festival, French theater’s biggest event, Touzé and Chapot offered their help to 15 companies that had been due to perform in the Avignon Fringe. The Fringe is known as “le Off” in French, hence the name of the festival, which has stayed, even as Avignon reopened for business.That first edition, Chapot said recently, allowed the new team to meet locals who had never set foot inside the Théâtre 14. While the red brick buildings in the area near the playhouse look, at first glance, like standard bourgeois Paris dwellings, the neighborhood is primarily composed of low-income housing developments. For many there, going to the theater is an unnecessary luxury, even when it’s just a few yards away.Florence Janas and Mathias Bentahar in “Florence & Moustafa.”Théâtre 14So ParisOffFestival takes theater to them instead, with additional funding coming this year from Paris Habitat, the city’s social housing authority. Last Saturday, two of the shows were staged in the courtyards of apartment complexes that Paris Habitat runs. As the mock wedding depicted in Guillaume Vincent’s “Florence & Moustafa” unfolded, a few people stepping out of their homes were stopped in their tracks and watched a scene or two, looking startled. (Others sped past, headphones firmly on.)For those paying attention, the selected shows proved engaging, with “Florence & Moustafa” an especially witty choice. It was designed as an offshoot of a much larger production, Vincent’s sprawling and extravagant “One Thousand and One Nights,” first seen at the Odéon playhouse in 2019. Like that show, “Florence & Moustafa” puts a contemporary spin on Arabic folk takes, but it requires only two actors, a table and a few props.The action started at the housing project’s gate. In full wedding attire, the performers, Florence Janas and Mathias Bentahar, welcomed audience members as the bride and groom might greet guests at a slightly unhinged reception. As they directed people to their seats, they traded thinly veiled barbs between declarations of love — and then asked someone in the first row to help them butter slices of toast.The audience didn’t get to share the food, but the interplay between Janas’s over-the-top unpredictability and Bentahar’s quiet confidence kept the proceedings lively. Like “One Thousand and One Nights,” “Florence & Moustafa” constantly slips between modern references and folk tales, which are interwoven as the characters’ back stories. Florence, we hear, tricked a former husband who had already married and disposed of seven wives; Moustafa found a magic lamp and squandered his three wishes, in a case of penis enlargement gone very wrong.That surreal energy carried over to some of ParisOffFestival’s other offerings. “Crust,” a one-man show starring the juggler Guillaume Martinet, made delightful use of the event’s backdrop. As the audience waited for him near the edge of a street, he peeked at us from behind parked cars, then sheepishly came closer wearing just white underwear and moon boots, like a curious alien, at once eager and scared.His supple juggling came as an extension of his loose-limbed stage character, catching props even as he spun, hung from window rails and crawled on the floor. When a photographer attempted to snap him up close, he played hide and seek, then climbed on top of a construction site container and continued his act there.Other productions felt more haphazard in their attempts to craft an overall narrative, including “The Windows,” the puppet show, which was designed by the company Les Anges au Plafond. Leaning out from the casements of a single building, the various characters — lonely inhabitants, a care services worker for the elderly and, inexplicably, some birds and a goat — never really made sense in relation to one another.“Divine Wind,” a one-man show directed by Cécile Bernot, brought a virtuosic performance from David Jonquières, a gifted mime who can also mimic cartoonish sound effects. While his imitation of a plane going down is uncanny, his attempt to retell a part of World War II history — the events of 1941 in the South Pacific — felt repetitive and came uncomfortably close to offensive caricature in its depiction of Japanese characters.Adrian Saint-Pol and Elsa Guedj in “Infinity Minus One.”Théâtre 14On the other hand, Luna Muratti’s “Infinity Minus One,” also staged in a housing project courtyard, never lost its sense of grace, despite being drowned out at times by gusts of wind and passing cars. The show was inspired by a young French poet, Alicia Gallienne, who died at the age of 20; her work was published posthumously in 2020 by her cousin Guillaume Gallienne, a star actor in France.Gallienne’s poetry is a lovely discovery, full of dreamlike visions and suspended non sequiturs addressed to an elusive other, and here it was ideally delivered by the actress Elsa Guedj, seen recently in the Netflix series “Standing Up,” with help from the flutist Adrian Saint-Pol. Guedj has that rare ability to convey emotions bubbling up without yet being fully formed.“I have eyes in the shape of departure,” she whispered early on, before addressing Saint-Pol, who doubles as the love interest in Gallienne’s poems. By the time she covered his eyes with her hands and closed hers, at the end of “Infinity Minus One,” the surrounding noise was forgotten. The summer festival season may be over, but this was a welcome encore. More

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      in Movies

      ‘Waiting for Bojangles’ Review: Endless Love

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      Set in Paris in the 1960s, the film tells the story of two irrepressible lovers, and their young son, whose tale turns tragic.Régis Roinsard’s “Waiting for Bojangles,” based on the novel by Olivier Bourdeaut, is a film so unabashedly romantic that it could only be French. It tells the story of two boundless, irrepressible lovers, Georges (Romain Duris) and Camile (Virginie Efira), and the life they share in Paris in the 1960s with their young son, Gary (Solan Machado-Graner).Their home, brimming with warmth, is crowded nightly with friends and family, like a madcap salon fueled by cocktails and lively conversation. Their tale eventually becomes tragic, however, as Georges and Camile’s relationship is strained by Camile’s battle with mental illness. But the film’s vision of a life of immeasurable joy and passion — one lived solely for love, without limits or qualifications — is beautiful and, for this critic and helpless romantic, powerfully intoxicating.The infectious brio at the heart of “Bojangles” is a testament to the performances of the ensemble cast, but especially Duris and Efira, whose chemistry is magnetic. Duris, as Georges, is introduced as a carefree mechanic posing as a worldly socialite at a party on the coast — a role he embodies with effortless charisma — when he meets Camille, downing glass after glass of Champagne and dancing wildly. One instantly roots for them.Now, the exuberant, sentimental esprit of “Bojangles,” from its impassioned sex scenes to its moments of tender longing, puts it in constant jeopardy of seeming maudlin or, worse, a little corny. But it’s an admirable problem. If you commit to romance, seeming corny is a risk you have to take.Waiting for BojanglesNot rated. In French, with subtitles. Running time: 2 hours and 4 minutes. More

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      in Theater

      In Paris, Comedy Clubs Draw Energy From Young, Diverse Crowds

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      American-style stand-up, a relatively young art form in France, is attracting a young, racially diverse crowd to a blossoming club scene.PARIS — It was supposed to be an international breakthrough for France’s young comedy scene. When “Standing Up,” an original series developed by Fanny Herrero, creator of the hit show “Call My Agent,” landed on Netflix in March, many critics fell for this love letter to Parisian stand-up.Yet less than two months later, Netflix canceled the partly written second season, citing low viewership. For Herrero and the talented, unknown cast she assembled, it must have felt like a hasty blow. On the ground, it also feels out of step with the exceptional rise of American-style comedy clubs in Paris — a type of venue that barely even existed in France before the 21st century.I visited a few of them in July, as the city’s traditional theater scene slowed down for the quiet summer months. While established French playhouses have complained in recent months that audiences haven’t returned in the same numbers as pandemic restrictions have eased, comedy seems impervious to this slump. At venues such as Madame Sarfati, Barbès Comedy Club and Le Fridge, all opened within the past three years, there wasn’t a free table in sight.And in most cases, the crowd was exactly the kind of “new audience” so many theaters desperately seek to attract. As a theater critic in France, I’m used to sitting in auditoriums full of all-white, older spectators. In the comedy world, the customers mirrored the young, racially diverse lineups onstage — to the point where, when an older comic at Barbès Comedy Club asked if anyone there was his age, and joked about realizing in his 40s that “women are people too,” he was met with deathly silence.The crowd at Barbès Comedy Club.Christine CoquilleauIf French stand-up skews fresh-faced, it’s in part because it’s a relatively new art form. While American comedy clubs have decades of history behind them, sketch and character-based comedy has long dominated in France, and comics typically performed solo shows in regular playhouses. That started to change in 2006, when the well-known comic Jamel Debbouze created a TV show called “Jamel Comedy Club.” Its success led Debbouze to open a venue in Paris that at first was advertised simply as Le Comedy Club, since there was no competition.The club became the crucible of French stand-up. Kader Aoun, a Debbouze collaborator, soon launched rival shows at Paname Art Café, a bustling venue where Herrero, the creator of “Standing Up,” first discovered the art form. Younger comics, many of whom cut their teeth as part of Jamel’s permanent troupe, also saw an opening. Of the newest clubs, Madame Sarfati is the brainchild of Fary, who has two Netflix specials behind him, while Barbès and Le Fridge were launched by Shirley Souagnon and Kev Adams, respectively.Yet even when the founders are household names, French comedy clubs almost uniformly bank on surprise lineups. Even for the more prestigious evening shows, there are no headliners; if you see someone famous, it’s a bonus. In addition to explaining how comedy clubs work (for the average French person, it’s still not a given), M.C.s take special care to note that performers are there to try out acts, and that some jokes will “die” right there in the room.Nordine Ganso performing at Paname Art Café.Jack Tribeca/BestimageThe results are bound to vary from night to night. But in my visits, the clubs offered a refreshing snapshot of French youth and culture, and one that was often at odds with the rest of the arts world here. Sneakers and athletic wear, a socioeconomic litmus test in Paris, were practically de rigueur. In all of the lineups I saw, over half the performers were Black or of Arab descent — a level of diversity that is the legacy of pioneering French comics like Debbouze and Gad Elmaleh.Perhaps unsurprisingly, everyday racism was a recurring topic. At Paname Art Café, the stand-up Ilyes Mela dexterously steered a complex story about a gender reveal party for a Black child to a thoughtful conclusion: “It’s not for the person who hits to say if it hurts.” Nordine Ganso, seen at both Paname and Madame Sarfati with slightly different sets, has honed a naïve persona that enhances both his tales of growing up in a part-Congolese, part-Algerian family, and his subtly homoerotic comparison between holding hands with women and with his “friend Karim.”While most performers, like Ganso, are regulars at multiple comedy clubs, there are now enough venues in Paris to offer a range of atmospheres. Le Fridge has a trendy cocktail bar, with drinks named after American comics like Amy Schumer and Dave Chappelle. Madame Sarfati, nestled in an upscale district by the Louvre, is clearly aiming for an exclusive feel, with a performance space designed by the street artist JR that patrons are not allowed to photograph. On the other end of the spectrum, the friendly, no-frills Barbès Comedy Club, where the cast of “Standing Up” honed their scripted sets incognito ahead of filming, brings stand-up to a far less privileged neighborhood, home to many Parisians of African descent. (Barbès also hosts a weekly English-language show, New York Comedy Night.)The bar at Madame Sarfati.Mathilde & GeoffreyThe clubs differ in their attitudes toward gender, too. While there are hugely successful female comics in France, from Florence Foresti to Blanche Gardin, women were outnumbered at most clubs. Some venues take a proactive approach to the issue: A Barbès spokeswoman said the club insists on parity, and its lineups were refreshing in that regard. At Madame Sarfati, on the other hand, not a single woman performed when I attended. When asked about it, a manager said the women who usually perform at the club were “on tour.” (The waitressing staff, on the other hand, was entirely female.)The effect of gender balance on the overall shows was real. Some experienced Madame Sarfati performers delivered outright sexist, as well as transphobic, material. As a woman, it was far more joyful to sit in audiences where I wasn’t merely the butt of the jokes, and to hear performers riff on having large breasts while exercising (Sofia Belabbes) or the appeal and cost of nose surgery (the effervescent Nash, an effective M.C. at Le Fridge).Compared to the larger Paris theater world, the stand-up scene seems a strongly heteronormative place, with opposite-sex dating by far the most popular topic. That has perhaps helped turn Paris’s clubs into date-night hot spots, judging by the comics’ interactions with the audience.Yet the Paris scene is so new that there is a heady sense on any given night that its artists are grappling with what stand-up can be, and achieve, within French culture. Netflix’s “Standing Up” may have been called off, but the comedy clubs that inspired it are only getting started. More