FIC: scenes from 'à bon chat'.

[surquelpied]

[ One of the many endless corridors at the Palais Garnier. Close-up of a pair of small, slipper-clad feet, they’re not running, but they’re definitely rushing. Turn right, turn right, turn left. The hallways are endless and all look alike to the uninitiated. ]

VOICEOVER, boy: “I got up at five this morning to clean the dormitory before inspection and then, morning barre at six. An hour and a half of that, and we went into class. Today, we did French, history and math.”

[ The feet finally arrive at their destination, stopping in front of an open door. The camera pans up over one shoulder, the top of a curly head of hair. Beyond the boy, there is a class of children being instructed in an intricate combination of steps. ]

VOICEOVER, boy: “A lot of people probably think, that’s no life for a kid, what about playtime and freedom? I never know what to say to that – to me, playtime and hard work is the same. There’s the same satisfaction in both things. Both things can cost tears.”

[ With a huff, the boy is waved inside by the instructor, a stern-looking woman with a stick, and he joins the small cluster of children of a similar age, 10-12. A girl whispers something to him but is shushed by the instructor. She explains to them about the upcoming performance of La Bayadère, that they will be covering the children’s roles, in the golden idol variation and the manu dance respectively, and that they should have learned the basic choreography by now.

Let’s begin.

They start milling out into formations. The girls on one side of the room, the boys on the other. ]

VOICEOVER, boy: “My name is Claude Bérubé. I’m a fifth-year student at the Opéra Ballet School. Originally, I’m from Marseille where my mom still lives with my sisters. I started dancing ballet when I was eight.”

[ The camera slowly zooms in on his face while he works his way through the choreography. On the way, it catches glimpses of the determined, concentrated focus in his eyes, the careful attention to his teacher, every motion of his upper body. Lastly, it catches the light playing in a trickle of sweat on his brow. ]

~

[ A six-person room with the door to the dormitory hallway thrown open, three boys running around inside, playing catch and trying not to bang into things as they do so. Much laughter and loud yells. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps drawing closer at a march. The boys quickly scatter, each ending up in front of his own bed, standing straight, rod down their spine. A man enters, headmaster of the Opéra Ballet School living quarters.

It's ten o’clock at night. Bedtime. ]

HEADMASTER: “Bérubé, I could hear you all the way down to the girls’ section. Diop, shoes off, we’re bidding goodnight. Martin, why are your books not in your backpack?”

[ A tall, lanky boy quickly packs away his school books, previously strewn out over the cover on his bed. A black boy toes out of his shoes and socks, pushing them sneakily under the bed when the headmaster isn’t looking. Claude ducks his head.

The headmaster waits for them all to crawl into bed and they do it in almost perfect unison, showing it’s habit, routine. Then, the older man hits the lights and everything goes dark.

There’s the sound of three times bated breath, the door that closes, keeping out all light. Then, the thud of something hard hitting flesh, a muffled exclamation, laughter. Three beds creak and all slowly grows quiet. ]

~

VOICEOVER, Claude: “I like jumping. I’m a good jumper with a lot of ballon. Ballon is when a dancer can extend the time they’re airborne, so it looks like they’re floating above stage.”

[ The boys are stretching after class, sitting in an empty studio with their legs extended in various possible and impossible angles from their bodies, leaning in over their feet and keeping themselves elongated from the waist up. Claude is frowning while wriggling one foot, touching it gingerly. ]

CLAUDE: “Ballon requires a control and strength and I’ve got a lot of that, especially for a short dancer.”

[ One of the others pulls off his dirty ballet slipper and balls it between his hands before throwing it at Claude’s head. Claude ducks and manages to avoid it, if by the splits of his big hair. ]

BOY: “We call him ‘Bitty’, because he’s still a good couple of centimetres behind the rest of us.”

OTHER BOY: “He always gets praised in class, but everybody knows it isn’t going anywhere as long as he doesn’t grow. The Opéra has a history of mostly promoting tall danseurs.”

[ Hunched in over himself, Claude toes out of his ballet slippers and slips them inside his bag quietly, looking down at his beaten, bruised, naked feet. His expression is a mix of frustration and resignation.

Placement and posture can change with practice. You can’t practice yourself taller.

That’s just common knowledge. ]

~

[ Weekend. Most students at the School are home for the rest of the week, leaving only a few national and a handful of international students behind in the dormitories at campus. Claude is sitting opposite a South Korean girl whose farther from home than he is from the South of France, a chessboard between them on the table. She mutters something in her native tongue while thinking, then repeats in English, I’ve got you cornered, Claude, lips slightly parted in excitement. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “Back in Marseille, I danced ballroom first. From I was six till I turned eight, then a local ballet teacher managed to talk my mother into letting me try out ballet instead. She wasn’t keen on it, my mom. She had a lot of bias about the culture and the prospects of dance. Besides, people think you can only dance ballet if you’re rich. But in reality, there are a lot of funds and scholarships once you enter the School and they’re happy to help, if they think you’ve got talent. Until then, my ballet teacher helped us out. In ballet, we’re like family. For some of us, it’s the most family we really have in our daily lives.”

[ Finally, the girl moves a piece, checkmating Claude’s King in one move. Claude curses, then laughs and they start realigning the pieces for another game. Around them, a couple of boys sit, scattered across sofas and armchairs, munching on nutrient bars and apples.

The atmosphere is amiable. Amiable and relaxed, this isn’t training or rehearsal. They’re not at each other’s throats. There is no competition. In chess, the only thing you lose is a piece, not a part. A role. A chance. ]

~

VOICEOVER, Claude: “I like the work, the routine, so I’m probably always waiting a little bit for the weekdays.”

[ In front of a large blackboard, three rows of tables are lined up, Opéra School students sitting at each their own, nicely spaced and backs straight. Someone puts up a hand, answers the question written in chalk. Claude is sitting at one of the front desks, due to his small stature. He turns in his seat and snaps out a quick reply to the boy behind him, making the teacher clap his hands and call the boy’s attention back to the desk. ]

TEACHER: “Can someone compare the movement seen in ballet at this time with the general movements observed in society? Yes, Dubois?”

GIRL: [ Standing up. ] “In the wake of World War I, the Années Folles brought a jubilant, careless attitude with it, which also had its impact on ballet. Productions had to be spectacular and colourful. Many art forms took inspiration from one another, as also seen with the Ballets Russes in its late years.”

BOY, behind Claude: [ In a feigned whisper. ] “She’s such a know-it-all, Hélène. Hey, see, she’s looking at you again, Claude, she likes you.”

[ Claude ducks his head quickly, glancing behind himself, though he makes it look like he’s just stretching. The girl sits down and catches his eyes. They both look away. ]

TEACHER: “List some famous artists and musicians who worked with the Ballets Russes, please.”

STUDENTS: [ All together. ] Matisse, Picasso, Debussy…

[ Slowly, the camera pans out, showing the classroom from above, the students unmoving dots in the landscape, the teacher pacing in front of the blackboard. ]

~

[ Early afternoon, Thursday. The students have changed out of their classroom uniforms and into training clothes, colour-coordinated by year or seniority. They all have their given spot at the barre, proceeded by the student a step ahead of them and followed by the one that’s at their heels.

Everyone knows their place. Their placement, the perfect positioning of their limbs. In the corner, the grand piano takes up space, the pianist playing to the ballet mistress’ specifications.

Improvisation is not an option, but individuality is, subtly so. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “I remember the first time I did barre back in Marseille. It was a former coryphée with the company who was my teacher and she had beautiful port de bras. I couldn’t make my arms as elegant as hers. I still can’t.”

[ The ballet mistress calls out a change of sequence and everyone whips around on their heels, changing direction. Claude gets corrected for his hands, not so rigid, Bérubé, soft, soft.

The same series of movements, in reverse. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “I’m a strong dancer, powerful, not subtle or elegant. I’m working a lot on my acting and my lyricality. After coming here, I began playing the piano and understanding the components of the music has helped, but it’s still a struggle.”

[ Walking between the rows of dancers, the ballet mistress straightens a spine, raises a chin, shoulders, arms. No one is perfect in this crowd, but they are all striving for perfection, the impossible, the unattainable.

Even the ones who reach star status will never truly capture it. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “They call me the least French dancer of the French dancers. They say that I look like I’m not from around here. Well, I’m not, I guess.”

~

[ The hallway is milling with students in costume. Dress rehearsals are taking place these days and adult dancers and children exist within the same sphere, the grown-ups no longer as removed as they usually are. Though, no less divine. Claude is leading a small group of young boys in brown bodysuits towards the stage entrance, when a short, stout male dancer turns the corner and comes towards them. They all stop and make room for him to pass, eyes furtively following his every step. ]

BOY: “Joshua Carpentier got opening night as Solor.”

OTHER BOY: “Doesn’t mean anything. He’s not tall enough to be promoted to étoile. Always the premier danseur, never the star.”

[ The other boys laugh, but Claude stays behind for a second too long to look over his shoulder at the disappearing figure of the older man. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “Carpentier is only 185 centimetres tall. He’s my favourite dancer, not because he’s a good jumper, since that isn’t even his strongest suit. His turns are amazing. Plus, he’s really graceful. He’s the proof that you don’t have to have long limbs to show elegance and control.”

[ Following the other boys around the same corner from which Joshua Carpentier came, Claude disappears out of sight, the hallway still resounding with footsteps, muted and fast. ]

~

[ A full shot of the Palais Garnier stage as seen from the spectator’s seat. We’re in the middle of the second act of La Bayadère, stage rehearsal, the onlookers – the Artistic Director, the Opèra Director and others – quiet and focused on every step. The Golden Idol enters from stage right, the young slave children running across the stage to frame him in. In one, long, uncut sequence, we watch the children run through their parts, while the adult dancer flies through the air and balances on high arches when landing. At some point throughout the choreography, one of the slave children takes a stumble, only barely keeping from sitting down on his bum. He quickly recovers, but it was a noticeable mistake.

The boy was Claude. ]

~

[ Right after the stage rehearsal, while the other children are getting dressed and chatting excitedly, Claude makes his way back to the dormitories alone, a hard, tense expression on his face. He has tears in his eyes. He keeps wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Looking over his shoulder, the camera catches sight of the postcard on his bed first, then Claude notices it, too. He runs to his bed and picks it up, the camera zooming in on the text and the signature on the card slowly. ]

Claude: [ Reading aloud. ] “Dear Claude. I hear good things about you from the teachers at the School. We all have great hopes for you, but probably me especially. You still have time to grow, but even if you don’t and always stay a little rat, don’t lose hope. We short dancers have to stick together. If we walk at each other’s heels, we’ll eventually go further. Keep up the hard work and toi toi for opening night Friday. Best wishes, Joshua Carpentier.”

[ Moving around the bed, the camera catches the happy, almost exalted expression on Claude’s face, his tears drying quickly and his spirits seemingly lifted. ]

~

[ Later that afternoon, Claude returns to the dormitories, finding the bedroom a mess and looking slightly irritated as he steps over dropped training trousers, gym equipment, a football on the floor… As such, he doesn’t notice the postcard on the bed, this time in fifty pieces, every little part torn twice over, so its message is unreadable.

He stops, stares.

This time, there are no tears in his eyes as he starts picking up every little piece, crouching down next to the bed to pull out a shoebox in which he carefully puts the small pile of paper. He stands up, straightens his back and exits the same way he came.

Wordlessly. ]

~

[ It’s the interlude between first and second act, opening night. The ballet school students are getting dressed for their various parts in the wedding scene. Claude is shrugging into his dark body suit, his dance belt visible above the hem of the loin cloth he’s wearing on top. The other boys, likewise, are getting ready with a focused, determined air among themselves. Everyone is in full make-up. Everyone is nervous, most are excited.

And everyone proceeds in complete and utter silence, like nothing is happening, like nothing has happened. Claude’s postcard lying discarded under his bed in the dormitories.

Not forgotten, but for the time being, unimportant. They have to go on stage now.

He rights the alignment of dance belt and loin cloth until he looks immaculate. Then, he’s ready. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: ”In ballet, we’re like a family. It’s just that not all families are happy, and most – at least – aren’t happy always.”

~

[ Only on performance nights are they allowed to stay up past ten. They’re standing in the wings, looking in on the curtain call, watching the professionals as they take their bows, listening to the cheering, the applause. Shoulder by shoulder, the little rats stand, looking in on what might one day be their own future. Claude is allowed to stand up front with the girls, because most of the boys are taller than him. He stares at the spectacle with wide eyes, smiling small and pleased.

On stage, the Opéra director steps forward along with the Artistic Director, calling for silence. Microphone humming, he promotes Joshua Carpentier to étoile.

The small miracle, he calls him.

The children erupt in shouting and surprised, excited exclamations. What a night! Such an honour to witness! No one claps more or louder than Claude. The camera returns to a full shot of the stage, Carpentier taking his bows and accepting flowers. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “They said he’d never be promoted to étoile, because he’s too short, but he made it. If he can make it, maybe I can too, some day.”

~

[ One of the many endless corridors at the Palais Garnier. Close-up of a pair of small, slipper-clad feet, they’re not running, but they’re definitely rushing. Turn right, turn right, turn left. The hallways are endless and all look alike to the uninitiated. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “The reason they call us the little rats is historical. The ballet school was originally located beneath the Opéra Garnier. So, the ballet children who lived there would have lived with mice and rats and they themselves would scurry around like those critters, sometimes probably more a menace to the grown-ups than anything else. Besides, children weren’t worth that much back then…”

[ The feet finally arrive at their destination, stopping in front of an open door. The camera pans up over one shoulder, the top of a curly head of hair. Beyond the boy, there is a class of children being instructed in an intricate combination of steps. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “I think of it more along the lines of that proverb we have in French. For every good cat, a good rat – that means, for every person with skill there is a challenge that matches. We live by that here. Perfection doesn’t exist, although it might look that way. It’s not the sweat or tears or the callouses and toenails… It’s that we’re only ever as good as the challenges we face.”

[ The camera slowly zooms in on his face while he hoists his bag over his shoulder and enters the classroom, the door closing behind him. ]

VOICEOVER, Claude: “It’s about making sure most of the time, the challenges don’t get the better of us.”