Published on October 14, 2024 at 7:30 p.m. / Modified on October 14, 2024 at 9:14 p.m.
On the edge of everything, that is to say, of oneself. How would it be otherwise with Alain Françon and his masterful actors at the Théâtre de Carouge, before the Equilibre in Fribourg? How not to be upset by these False Confidences, this play that Marivaux wrote in 1736 and then, when he was 48 years old, a science of the variations of the heart which is matched only by his pleasure in conceiving intrigues which put him to the test? This show is bathed in the chiaroscuro of our desires, where wandering is a godsend, it is its beauty.
The course of Alain Françon, this precious reader who has weighed each response for decades so that it can be taken without blinders? He is entirely in this confession: “I no longer know where I am”, blurts, at the end of the play, the heroine, Araminte, this young widow whom her mother, the rogue Madame Argante, would like to see married to the rich count Dorimont.
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