You say Jean-Paul Sartre. You add, its theatre. You specify the dirty hands. And your interlocutor seems to look at you wondering what fly has stung you, as if back to one the most emblematic parts of the french theatre of the years fifty was driving you inevitably in a cul-de-sac, an old-fashioned theatre and a past time which would today neither teaching nor pleasure to give us.
And your interlocutor to criticize the room, saying that it smells good classicism, it's also more than a demonstration at the service of a thesis as a piece, to assert that the characters that make it up are that patterns or ideas, and that they have no singular identity, and to add that it was created by actors from the Boulevard and that the author was satisfied(that is to say...)
You answer nothing, let say, convinced that he is wrong, and yet uncertain, you re-read the piece.
And you say rightly that it derogates from classicism, that she escapes to a specific genre, that both the Brechtian Lehrstück, of tragedy, comedy, and even sometimes the vaudeville and historical drama, that the combination of genres offers to our gaze from today a material with a great richness and a great challenge for the staging; that Marguerite Duras said fair enough when she pourfendait the piece as a "courtelino - Shakespearean"; that, if it is necessary, for theatre come, "a disaster, a crime, a broken promise, thwarted passion, conflict, an offense, a denial of justice, a misunderstanding, an abuse of power, a disappointed expectation, violation of a banned, a through, an accident, a deficit, a betrayal, a denial, exclusion, a deception, a conspiracy, an impediment" (1), no doubt, Dirty hands, that is the theatre.
You say that Hugo, the assassin who was in her suitcase gun and childhood photos, and share with Lorenzo de Musset taste for self-destruction, is a singular entity, a being of flesh and blood, a non-collapsible 'character' to an idea; as Jessica, the woman-child who is hogging the painful candour of the Camille of the film Godard, that Olga, the activist icon which rises to the rank of quenching cornelienne both love and obedience the ravage, and that Hoederer, "homo politicus", the emblem of the father between death and desire and death wish, are in the same vein, theatrical figures strong and contradictory that escape the only mind.
You will discover that the piece of Sartre failed to wear the title Crime of passion, that is the sentence of Saint Just, «no one does govern innocently», and the assassination of Trotsky who were writing triggers. You say that it portrays a world where dirt is home honesty, idealism murderous madness, and humanism compromise, that Sophocles is alongside the boulevard and the polar, that action has beautiful happen in Illyria, you will yours words of Jarry about Ubu and the Poland. And this 'all' composite described during three paragraphs speak you, you burn, you queries, you anime, and you are concerned about.
Tell you finally that it is this word, this light, this question, this excitement, this concern that you want to share with stakeholders that will meet the audience to whom you send.