Tartuffe
Whether it’s Tom Cruise and Scientology, or The Beatles and
the Maharishi, the chink of coin and the chant of prayer have
long had an association. You might even say they go back to
a time when Adam was a boy. (Or, at least to when Jesus was
throwing money lenders out of temples.) Regardless of when
you start counting, money and religion have history.
So it’s no surprise to learn that Molière’s Tartuffe,
written way back in 1664 has, at its heart, these two seemingly
dichotomous themes of dollars and divinity. What is a surprise
is that this 350-year old play – a play written for King Louis
XIV and composed entirely in French rhyme – sits so perfectly
within a contemporary Sydney setting. Add Justin Fleming’s
irreverent Australian translation, and you’ve got the perfect fit.
Fleming’s script is ballsy and crafty, in equal measure.
Ballsy, because he gleefully lampoons every figure of authority
in sight (parents, aristocracy, elders, religious leaders – nobody
is spared); and crafty, because he constantly plays cat and
mouse with the audience. He lulls us into a regular rhyming
pattern, before pouncing with a lyrical jab here, or a sharp
rejoinder there.
And there’s more to this approach than just chasing
laughs. Fleming’s script shapes and bends rhyme to emphasise
all sorts of moods and messages. For instance, rhyming
couplets signal scenes about truth versus hypocrisy. But when
the subject is true love, the rhymes fall on alternate lines. And
if the thought of writing in rhyming couplets – whatever the
pattern – sounds audacious for the twenty first century, that’s
because it is.
It’s also tremendous fun. The effect of the script on
everybody – actors and audience alike – is electrifying. And the
lyrical shenanigans extend to the villain of the piece, too. When
Tartuffe steals a scene (as he often does) the rhymes jump
about again (falling on the first and fourth lines, and the second
and third lines). This signals to the audience that Tartuffe is
not your run of the mill, garden-variety con artist; he’s a slimy
hypocrite of the highest order. Your wallet, your wife, hell, even
your daughter: nothing and no one is safe from the prying eyes
and wandering hands of this scammer. Imagine a character so
heinous yet so captivating that his very name has become part
of our vernacular. That’s right; the titular character of Molière’s
comedy so deeply offended our collective, theatre-going
conscience that ‘a tartuffe’ has become permanent shorthand
for ‘an annoying religious hypocrite’. To ‘tartuffe’ is to display
hypocritical godliness. Look up ‘tartuffe’ in the Macquarie
Dictionary and it will reference Molière’s pious protagonist.
So what is it about Tartuffe that makes audiences revile
him so very much? (And, at the same time, relish the reviling?)
Firstly, there’s the pure, unadulterated depths of his adultery.
That, and his hypocrisy and his duplicity and his greed. No
stoop is too low, no sin too great for Tartuffe not to give it a go.
Tartuffe covets his host’s wealth and then tries to get off with
his daughter; he lies and he cheats and, in one unforgettable
scene, he nearly rapes Orgon’s wife. As Orgon eventually
discovers, with Tartuffe under your roof the seven deadly sins
are left for, well, dead.
All of which caused quite a stir in King Louis XIV’s court,
where Tartuffe’s posing as a man of God evoked the wrath
of the Archbishop of Paris and the French Roman Catholic
Church, as well as most of the French upper class and also the
underground Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement (French Catholic
Secret Society). The play’s run was cut short and anyone who
attempted to revive it was threatened with excommunication.
And while we’re not suggesting that the Bell
Shakespeare players be cast out of the kingdom, Peter Evans’
2014 production of Tartuffe is sure to ruffle a few feathers.
Especially, in an environ where the Government’s Special
Commission into Catholic Church sex abuse is seeing religious
leaders take the stand (rather than the pulpit) and where
a cynical public has little tolerance for religious hypocrisy.
Tartuffe, it seems, is as relevant now as ever.
Then, of course, there are the other universal themes of
Molière’s play. Without casting aspersions, audience members
are sure to identify with one or more of the following: family,
love, forgiveness, truth, fidelity, and the male midlife crisis. (The
latter is embodied by Orgon – wildly successful, disgustingly
wealthy, trophy-wife-toting Orgon – who approaches his middle
years by welcoming a religious guru into his home and then
hanging off his every (false) word.) And, sure, this won’t apply
to everyone, but it does bring us nicely to the final big theme
of Molière’s masterpiece: deceit. Self-deceit, deceit of others
and deceit with good (or bad) intentions. Through his comedy,
Molière poses a kicker of a question, namely: when is it okay to
lie? Because, just as Orgon’s family massaged the truth in order
to expose Tartuffe; so too do we justify our own everyday white
lies when they’re told with good intentions. Is this forgivable? Do
the ends justify the means? Or are we simply being a tartuffe?
Andy McLean