Ce cher Victor

Directed by Robin Davis  1975

This review by Fernando Figueroa

The vain and bitter Victor and the devious and phlegmatic Anselme living in the same apartment—how could this cat and dog ever get along? All we can say is, “Alas, poor Victor!” after his collapse in the cemetery caused by the anonymous letter that will have a progressively devastating effect on our madman, forcing him to imagine his late wife’s infidelity. Anselme has endured everything. Screams, humiliation, neglect—take your pick. Victor even snatched his toupee or wig in front of his small group of gamblers. But one more insult against Ana was enough for his Spartan roommate to plot his velvety revenge. It is no exaggeration to say that, like Iago, he slowly corrodes Othello’s mind and dignity until he destroys him psychologically with subterfuge. 

This play is a delight for those of us who love theater, more crafted here from stage tricks than narrative sequences. But alas, poor Victor Lasalle! Don’t expect grandiloquent phrases, just the aforementioned libel plus a dead canary and the domino effect that almost leads to a coma the neurasthenic, to which is added the humiliation of being seen by his repudiated daughter and grandchildren, who are deliberately informed to add drama and vilification to the afflicted man in bed. When he was beginning to go mad with jealousy and anger at not finding any information about his wife Louise’s infidelity, in church the calculating and even-tempered Anselme simply said to him: “Envieillis, mon pauvre Victor” (“Grow old, my poor Victor”). 

If Yago’s motive was envy, Anselme’s years of humiliation were no less decisive in his actions at the height of a self-destructive life instead of companionship between the two. “You idiot, I warned you that Louise would come back. You don’t have much time left. Here I come.” The height of Victor Lasalle’s neurasthenia came on Sunday, when the trio was rehearsing Aida until, from the start, he dismissed Anne with insults, calling her old and saying she couldn’t sing. On Sunday, Anne and Anselme had no choice but to play another piece alone, but Victor, maddened and somewhat drunk, began to blame the guests for Louise’s adultery. He immediately interrupted Anne and Anselme’s performance, shouting obscenities. But Anne, furious in front of the guests, exposed the lie spread by Anselme’s anonymous friends and became the laughing stock of the party. From that blow, old Victor could no longer get out of bed. Anne went to the apartment, perhaps out of pity, perhaps to continue mocking him, but he pulled her toward him and strangled her, putting an end to this tragedy. Anselme just looked at what he had repressed, translated into a new loneliness.