La Bete

David Hirson

Iambic pentameter in the late eighties on the stage? Yes! And well-done iambic pentameter, at that. La Bete is something special. I'm not sure if the stage had ever seen anything like it before. When you open with a twenty-page monologue, you're most likely breaking new ground.

It's France, 1654. Prince Conti, disappointed at the lack of initiative shown by the players he keeps on retainer, has found a street performer named Valere that he wants to introduce to the company, and has arranged an introductory dinner. The action begins just after the sinner, when Valere, Elomire (the head of the company), and Bejart (Elomire's right hand man) have decamped to another room. Valere seems to hold Elomire in great regard; the feeling is not in the least mutual. After some well-spiced wordplay, Valere launches into his infamous, and quite humorous, monologue, during which Elomire comes up with an idea to make Valere look like the moron he is in front of the prince-- with thoroughly unexpected results.

It's probable that those who have never read an entire play in verse will shy away from this. Don't-- as with all formal poetry worth the name, Hirson writes in such a way that, while you're aware of the rhythm and rhyme, the usual cadences one finds in speech are to the fore most of the time. (When they're not, it's carefully calculated for some effect or other-- in most cases, ludicrous humor.) There is great amusement to be found here, as well as some rather scathing subtext; it's fun stuff that will likely make you feel a bit uncomfortable in places, as well it should. Read it; it's worth your time.