La Pastorale

Jesus, contrary to popular belief, was born in Bethlehem in Provence. Or at least according to the writer Yvan Audouard and actors of St-Rémy de Provence. In fact, much of the story of the Baby Jee you think you might know is completely wrong. Mel Gibson might have liked to know that the angels and the inhabitants of Bethlehem didn't speak Aramaic, but French with a Provençal accent.

The spectacle recounting the birth of Jesus was orignially scheduled to be played out in the ancient Roman ruins of Glanum nearby. Safety regulations, however (they do have safety regulations here!) stated that the stage erected in the ruins was not strong enough and might collapse under the wait of the good Christian audience. The thought of the miracle of Jesus' birth accompanied by a disasterous and possibly deadly catastrophy is deliciously sacreligious, but unfortunately, the scene was moved from Glanum to a square inside of town. The decidedly less dangerous Place Favier stood in for the ancient ruins and you might have even said that the Frenchy quaintness of it all was a bit charming. After a plump rendition of the angel Gabriel had ascended her way up a tree, the stage was set. Suddenly, the entire scene was plunged into a hellish fiery red by exploding flash powder set about the square. Surely the fireworks were meant to convey to us the audience a sense of divinity to the scene but to me red flames are less sent from above than below. I actually caught myself, good English major that I am, looking for significance in the director's choice to start out the story of the good shepherd in flames of an inferno. Apparently I was alone in my dark interpretation of the scene, the rest of the audience found it beautiful, I still hold that it was a sinister mise en scene.

After the fires of hell abated, the actors began their dumb-show as a CD recounted the story of the birth of l'enfant Jésus. As Saint Joseph chatted with the bull and the ass, Mary played midwife for herself on a bale of hay and suddenly a doll was born. Bulls and Assess make dangerous bedmates who despite their best intentions to warm the newborn, knocked the messiah from his humble cradle onto the more humble floor of the manger. Soon after, the happy family in the manger, the fires of hell keeping us all warm and the Virgin tending to the new wounds of the baby from his first fall, a veritable soap opera of miracles took place that blessed night. The lazy miller whose wife ran off with a dastardly Spaniard is suddenly taken with the urge to work hard. The fish lady, having nightmares of only having bad fish to sell the next day, finds some miraculous fish in her basket that smell practically alive! and her husband the hunter with a limp who never gets a good shot ends up with a plump stuffed rabbit, yum! The fun doesn't stop there for the police officer finally catches the serial poultry thief and all the little angels dance in joy around the happy, productive, and thankful people.

Suddenly, to the a melody of Bizet's Carmen, the three wise men arrive, draped in robes that any tasteful drag queen would covet and followed by a troop of children in minstrel show blackface. Everyone deposits their gifts, Mary obviously content to stay with the bulls and asses turns down some better lodgement and they all celebrate with a Madonna-worthy round of vogueing in the flashing disco lights of (thank God) white flash powder going gangbusters.

And that my friends, is the true story of the birth of Jesus Christ.

Merry Christmas!