The Theater of Jean Cocteau

Here’s my theater. Sophocles is being played in a lion cage. Œdipus, with a lion’s head and a lion-tamer’s outfit, declaims: Salvator! Salvator! perched on a heap of packing cases containing statues and mirrors full of mortal secrets. It’s noon. To the right, below, a small emergency exit opens, giving onto a street in Nice at seven o’clock. You see men passing by, women, dogs, cyclists.

ATHENA: I, goddess with square-set nose, I Grecian bust, I rush on.

The scene changes. The Argonauts set up their cargo. They screw in place at the tiller a woman’s head of wax. This hairdresser’s head speaks and wears a golden fleece.

ATHENA: I am the key of dreams, the sad column, the bust with iron pince-nez.

A messenger enters.

THE MESSENGER: Citizens: the divine head of Jocasta is dead. Jocasta was reading in the lounge stretched out on a red couch. Suddenly her limbs came loose and fell on the ground. She cried: I am my uncle’s sister! Her plaster head is there, lone, atrocious, hanged from the chandelier and joined to the carpet by a column of blood.

THE CHORUS: What to say?

ATHENA: It’s your fault, Peloponnesus. Other dangers menace you, for at night statues put on black leotards and assassinate travelers. I myself am no bust. I have gloves and black stockings. This pedestal is painted on my body. Tremble! I have enough sea foam in my veins to understand the language of waves. While kneeling to lather and beat linen, they insult you, they laugh, they mock you.

JASON: This bust lies and I’ll prove it. (He passes a white hoop around the bust. Athena closes her eyes and recites numbers.)

ATHENA: (in a distant voice): 7.6.7.8—7.9.6.8 —6.9.7.7—7.9.7.8—5.5.7.2—6.9.7.3.

JASON: Helmsman, take down those numbers and plot our position.

Jean Cocteau