STAGE REVIEW : ‘Spirit’ of Cocteau Proves Elusive

“I don’t know whether to say thank you or I’m sorry” is the way Deborah Slater’s tribute to Jean Cocteau began at the Gallery Theatre in Barnsdall Park last weekend.

That pretty much sums up the reaction of this writer to the strange triple-header in three short acts by different performers under the suspect title “In the Spirit of Jean Cocteau.”

Cocteau would have had grave difficulty finding his spirit in these pieces by Slater, Blue Palm (Jacqueline Planeix and Thomas Crocker) and Kedric Robin Wolfe.

“Died Suddenly,” written by Julie Hebert, was Slater’s tribute: part voice-over, part movement, part acrobatics, traveling between a swing and a divisible couch.

It made pronouncements and struck poses notable chiefly for the fact that they had no recognizable connection to Cocteau.

Crocker and Planeix secured a personal safety net by invoking Cocteau’s whimsy, throwing some French into their act (titled “Cocteau en Californie”) and leaving it at that. Their bushy-tailed kidding around was Crocker and Planeix, with their miniature Eiffel Towers and inflatable blue palm, doing what they usually do: a sort of postmodern George Burns and Gracie Allen routine with dance.

This time it was subdivided into still briefer routines that paid lip service to Cocteau, such as “Watching Cocteau” (“Watching Cocteau is like watching oneself watching Cocteau . . .” Hmmmm?), “Kiddie Korner Kokteau” (or what kids think of Cocteau, which is not much) and “Cocteau Eyewitness News at Ten” (don’t ask).

If Cocteau was playful, he was not silly or haphazard. The whimsy sprang from a fermenting intellect, the art had composition and style, the writing was emotionally anchored and intense. Such foolishness as “Cocteau was a typical Frenchman; he smelled bad and said smart things that were wicked” (from Kiddie Kokteau) is self-serving drivel that means nothing and demeans everyone.

Sandwiched between the other two acts, Kedric Robin Wolfe’s “You Want to Know About Cocteau” came closer to the mark. He, at least, borrowed some of the poet-artist-playwright-film-maker’s own words to tell us about the transports of love, Cocteau’s despair at the death of Raymond Radiguet (the author of “Devil in the Flesh,” dead at 20, over whom he fairly lost his head) and the uncharted mysteries of opium--a particularly searing and beautiful account of one man’s submersion and recantation.

But why was it necessary to bend and twist the body while expressing all this? What did it lend beyond the possibility of a pulled muscle? And why the fright wig? Or the line down forehead, nose and chin, in a vain (both senses of the word apply) imitation of Cocteau’s stylized drawings? Were there no mirrors in the dressing rooms? No directors to advise?

None were listed. The show is come and gone and these questions are now largely rhetorical. But beginning Friday at the Gallery Theatre, this Cocteau Centenary Festival continues with “Jean Cocteau--Mirror Image,” a one-man interpretation by Ian Abercrombie of a text by Crispin Thomas. That show has a director (Robert Robinson)--an encouraging sign.