DIRECTORS NOTE :
“Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau,
Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu’importe ?
Au fond de l’Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau !” (Le Voyage, Baudelaire)
In the whole word of greatest poet, Arthur Rimbaud distinguished himself by his audacity to keep his poetry all his promises.
He has harnessed his life in an unparalleled struggle and adventure. Prodigy, seer, prophet, from one poem to another, in a permanent movement of rupture, he ceaselessly leaves the old language for a new language, and finally gives up completely and definitively to writing. Runaway, traveler, adventurer, from Charleville to Paris, from Paris to London, from Europe to Africa, Rimbaud is eternally set out for unknown countries until death. There is a cathartic experience to be confronted with this exceptional and tragic destiny.
Recently, a meeting with Jean-Quentin Chatelain who saw perfectly incarnated the words of Blaise Cendrars in his monologue ‘Bourlinguer’, convinced me to engulf myself in the chimney of Erebus full of promises like a woman about give birth. This threshold of Hell took me to a creative mix of words modelled, sharpened, in order to portray the suffering revolt of a 19 year old Prophet who is like ‘a glimpse stolen from a door left ajar’ to borrow the words of Henry Miller.
This visionary aspect of a future built on the ruins of a past but not cut off from it, inspires me as a director.
To direct or ‘bring to the stage’ words that are a challenge and a certainty as it is for Jean-Quentin. He gives life to his poem of burning images of current life of interior turmoil; of love and hate consuming souls, of a future dreamt of but that rarely brings the hoped-for rewards.
After the Cantate of Trois Voix by Paul Claudel, that made us look towards the heavens, I thought it was logical to continue the journey with ‘Une Saison en Enfer’ in order to explore the human state of the loved one, marked by absence, painful and practically elevated to Sainthood.
To continue to fight, to defend, in defence of of Poesie in our trivial world, what better than the richness and force of the words of Rimbaud?