In this text, there is the essence of the theatre, of the difficulty of doing theatre, of making it your vocation, in spite of the multiple frustrations which, very quickly, obstruct the magic path, of the love you must have, for and against everything, and of the love given back in return.
And also, without wanting to use too many big words, through their real human adventure, with its laughter, bursting out or forced, the grimaces and the loneliness, the dreams, possible or improbable, the force of habit, and the distress of facing a new beginning, there is
the terrible question of existence.
A simple story for three characters: a girl and two boys retell a music-hall routine, theirs. Or rather, they explain to us from the depths of their memories worn out by years of touring, in every possible and imaginable place, what their life was, their stories as actors in this life of travel. How nothing was ever given to them, how they had to drag the very least of their requirements from the people in the places where they played, the "mockers", as they nicknamed them, and how they so frequently had to put up with refusals.
How their pathetic routine became more and more pathetic. And yet she says how magnificent it was, right at the beginning, such a long time ago.
But they are still touring and always, always the same routine, even if the two boys are no longer the same ones, and in any case, they don't know what has become of the ones before and the ones before that, etc.
But she is still here, with all her presence, she'll always be here, even when there's no longer an audience sitting in front, didn't come this time, not a solitary individual in the hall, she will be here, all by herself,
the image of the theatre.
From behind, or rather from somewhere else, we hear the two boys, the umpteenth boys, hum the words of a song by Joséphine Baker : " ne me dis pas que tu m'adores
mais pense à moi de temps en temps…"
(" don't tell me that you love me
just think of me from time to time…")

The first thing that impresses about the writing of Jean-Luc Lagarce is how it seems made for the mouth of the actor, the freedom it offers its performer, and the disconcertingly natural generosity it grants.
Above all, it's about telling, quickly - for it is urgent - before we give in to ourselves. As if it was a rush of words, that have just tumbled out of the brain, but in a highly stylised form.
To not remain frozen before the beauty of the text,
To take it over for ourselves,
To make it flesh, respecting the writing, close to the words,
For the actors to take charge of the text in the most personal way, and to show us, between the lines, the destiny of the story - "we can't pretend, there is indeed one, and which one is it?" - and the characters.
And also, this thing of continually attempting the exact word, only to fail in the end (the task is too tough) and to get out of it with a set phrase, a "way of saying", or a repetitive one, or else with a quickly dismissed question: "Is that how you say it?"
To pick up the course of the narrative.
To never forget how funny the text is, make it ring out, always, at every possible occasion.