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June 1951
Croquis sans retouche
Louis Jouvet
By Jean Vietti
Jouvet is no longer human. The actor has transformed his body, his brain, his soul, his heart, into an extraordinarily expressive machinery that is set in motion by each word or gesture.
His voice, his eyes, his hands, play innumerable sketches.
And he only speaks now in anecdotes.
If he's talking about someone important, he straightens up, he becomes bombastic, he becomes solemn.
If he's talking about someone stupid, his face fills with joy, his mouth becomes round, his speech is caustic.
He no longer knows how to breathe, or eat, or live outside of the theatre, of one theatre.
Even his sleep is now dependant on the short breaks during the day.
That's the reason why, when one sees Jouvet elsewhere than on the stage, one is in the presence of a man with swollen and dead eyes, who doesn't know, or has forgotten, how to say hello naturally, speak of the springtime, smile to a child, or dream when he sees young lips smiling at him...
He's there, very tall, though slumped, dressed in black or dark blue suits, white shirts, and dark red ties. He looks like a man in uniform. The uniform of an official of some government or other. With his 'rosette' on his lapel.
With his face thickened, his eyes more out of their orbits than ever, he still retains the old-fashioned charm of museum pieces. Of course, he tries to maintain his legendary personal charm. His gray hair is still extraordinarily black and slicked back on his oval skull.
And we think of "Mister Flow".
And we see the monk from "Carnival in Flanders", and the baron from "Les Bas-Fonds" and the vicar from "Bizarre bizarre", and the teacher from "Entr�e des Artistes", and the gangster from "Carnet de Bal", and the pimp from "H�tel du Nord", and the old Don Juan from "La Fin du Jour"...
Then, we feel a big surge of admiration.
We forget that for the last ten years, Jouvet has only been a carbon copy of himself in the movies.
Only Clouzot managed to make him step out of himself in "Quai des Orf�vres" and in "Retour � la Vie".
As for the rest, he seems to have made his last six or seven films in a hurry.
And, whenever he's concerned, we have only our memories...
Or the theatre!
He's one of the great men of the theatre of our time. He's from the old school. That of Copeau.
Turn on the footlights, send him a manuscript, and he immediately sets out once again on his crusade.
His shield is the theatre.
And cinema, to some extent, the spear he sometimes uses.
One has to live!
A magician and an innovator, he stages his shows in the style to which he has remained faithful. Some protest, criticize, disapprove.
He doesn't care.
Eighteen hours a day, he's stamping his feet on the stage, exhausting himself in rehearsals.
And his task is great.
Born in Crozon, in Finist�re, on December 24 1897 [1887], he studied in Brive, R�thel, Toulouse, Aurillac, Lyon and Paris. A student of pharmacy, he soon forgot the pharmacopoeia preferring the boards. A failure at the Conservatoire, he went on regional tours, then, at last, joined Jacques Copeau as a stage director at the Vieux-Colombier, with Charles Dullin.
In 1922, he took on the direction of the Com�die des Champs-Elys�es; among his "boarders" were Valentine Tessier and Pierre Renoir; among his "authors" Jules Romains and Jean Giraudoux.
Then came the Ath�n�e, where he still is today.
Faithful to his company, he's been surrounded by the same actors for many years.
Pierre Renoir is still there.
But Dominique Blanchar has replaced Madeleine Ozeray.
Only as an actress. It's Monique M�linand who's taken on the part of the girlfriend.
Then there's the friend, the secretary, the confidant, the '�minence grise', it's L�o Lapara.
Louis Jouvet has never kept secret the relative contempt he feels for the cinema. He holds it responsible for the decadence of the theatre.
-Undeniable, he says in his staccato style... Undeniable... It's the reign of improvisation... nowadays... in the theatre! Influenced by the cinematographic practices...
It took him some time to make his place on the screen.
His first movie was "Knock", which he has just remade twenty years later.
In the meantime, the wit of Henri Jeanson, the talent of Carn�, Duvivier and Clouzot have succeeded in making him a star.
But today, the public of the movie houses never sees Jouvet.
Only Jouvet doing Jouvet.
The overly perfect actor is never immune from the danger of being just a perfect actor.
Whereas new elements bring spontaneity, initiative, and a dedication that is still pure.
The kind of spontaneity and dedication that had made the glory of Jouvet.
What does it matter... He's still number one.
Among actors and theatre directors.
People run to see him on stage.
They applaud his stagings.
They await the realization of his projects.
Virtuoso of the dramatic art, he remains faithful to his destiny, he has his platform, his disciples...
And in his closed circle, he is still the Master.
So he goes on, staccato style:
-The important thing, it's not the theme of the artistic work... but its style...
So he makes up sayings:
-A novel is a confessionnal. The theatre a pulpit.
We listen to him. He listens to himself.
When there's a reaction, he shakes his chin three times, as if he had a twitch, ponctuated with three ascending: "Eh? eh? eh?"!
-It's difficult to advise a student, he adds... Difficult... For each there is the question of temperament... of a predominance of temperament... Eh? Each human being has two oppositions within himself... His real "self", secret, private. And the "self" he shows to others... Eh? eh? eh? That's why someone who looks like a young romantic lead can have the soul of a traitor, and a dowager, the heart of an ingenue...
Despite the paradox, Jouvet still remains himself.
With the unbearable way he has of looking at you.
And the disconcerting vulgarity when he allows himself to simply be alive.
There's a big halo surrounding him, and it's not only the smoke from the cigarettes he smokes all day long, between two gulps of liquor.
He's also a monster of genius.
Like a big spider weaving an endless web, hard-working, secreting tirelessly so that its work is always more perfect.
Even if it's to end up emprisoned in it and die there...
But Jouvet, indefatigable, still hasn't completed his web.
And with him the curtain is never coming down.
His art is one of the lively forces of Art itself.
We can moan the fact that for some years now he has only limited himself to the exploration of known territory. We'd like Jouvet to take once again the initiative and call on new authors. That is his true mission and we would like to see him continue his crusade for true, pure theatre.
But here is what he says:
-There is a decadence in the theatre that is undeniable. Probably because people think that it's the domain of facility. Influence of cinematographic practices... again!
This excuse is unworthy of him.
This innovator, this indefatigable working man of the theatre, for whom 'acting' is a monomania, can and must look further than Moli�re and further than Giraudoux.
There is nothing else to say of him or about him.
There are no private little anecdotes to relate.
There are only theatre anecdotes tied to his name, to his image, to his memory.
We know of no private life for him apart from some anonymous marriage long ago that gave him a son.
As for the rest, still alive he is already a part of the Great History of the French Theatre.
