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I danced at the Moulin Rouge in Paris and wrote a bit about my time there. This is just a little bit about my first day at the theatre.
The Moulin Rouge is situated close to the end of Boulevarde de Clichy, slightly separated from the rest of the street’s erotica. As the most famous cabaret in the world, I imagined it’s façade to look like a grand theatre, perhaps with some columns and a few curlicues. At first sight, I was surprised and slightly disappointed by its small, rather unimpressive entrance and exterior. It looks more arresting at night however, when the lights come on and the red windmill on the roof announces clearly “Yes! You’ve come to the right place. This is the Moulin Rouge!”
On that first day, I’d come to the theatre to introduce myself to Janet, the directrice of the Moulin. I waited for her in the foyer where hanging on the walls were framed originals of flyers and posters for various shows throughout the theatre’s illustrious history. More special were the prints of Toulouse Lautrec’s paintings which made the Moulin immortal. I’d seen them on television, in films, as posters and post cards, but to see them on the walls of the place that inspired them was quite something else. I suddenly felt very proud to become part of it all.
Further inside, the main hall was dark making it difficult to gage how big the place was. Later when I came back to watch the show for the first time, I saw it was a relatively small dining salle with tables for about 400 people. The deep red of the carpet and velvet upholstery glowed in the soft light, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. Even though everything looked a little worn and in need of repair, that velvety light transformed it all into old world charm.
“You must be Joanna” said a voice with a broad northern English accent. I turned around and came face to face with Janet. She was a tall, slim woman in her late thirties, with a slight stoop and a cigarette dangling from her fingers (a permanent fixture I would later find out). Her light brown hair was short and wavy, and parted on the side in a style that belonged on someone much older than herself. She smiled and introduced herself revealing large front teeth, which instantly put me in mind of English country gentlewomen with horsy faces and braying voices. “Well you weren’t lying about your height” she said laughing. Deeply nasal and penetrating, Janet’s laugh will remain burned on my brain forever. Like the firing of a rather slow machine gun, it could cut across the noise and chatter made by 30 dancers preparing themselves for the show.
“This is all amazing” I said gesturing at the paintings and posters. “Yes” she said vaguely, glancing at them as if noticing them for the first time. “Well come on, I’ll show you around” I followed her through the theatre to the stage. Traces of cooking smells and stale smoke hung in the air, and although it was too dark to see anything clearly, I got a sense of the ‘redness’ all around.
We passed behind the stage curtain and went up a flight of metal stairs which brought us to a costume storage area. Above each rack of costumes was written the name of the girl to whom they belonged. The musty odour up there is one of the most powerful memories I have of the Moulin. ‘Formidable’, the show I would soon begin rehearsing had already been running for over eleven years. The costumes, while well maintained, had been sweated in for years by literally hundreds of girls. It was something we all preferred not to think about too much. De-sensitization sets in very quickly however, but the memory of the smell on that first day will stay with me always.
Next, we went through the dressing rooms, which looked exactly how I imagined they would, like a set from a movie about the theatre. The mirrors were bordered with bright lights and fallen feathers and Rhine stones littered the floor. For months I collected them like a Jackdaw and when there were finally enough stones, I encrusted them on the edges of a large, rectangular mirror I found abandoned in the street.
Glittering costume pieces and head dresses hung from hooks on the walls from which the paint was peeling. Satin dressing gowns lay draped over the backs of chairs. Make up and facial creams covered the dressing tables, and underneath were shelves stuffed with high heeled chorus shoes. To find that such a glamorous cliché really existed was a little dream come true.
We went up another flight of stairs to look at the practice studio where I’d be rehearsing for the next few weeks and back down to the atelier where the costumes were cared for by a team of seamstresses. Janet talked a bit about the everyday workings of the show and about my timetable for the rehearsal period. Lastly, we went to her office where I signed my contract. I’d come to Paris on a promise, so it came as quite a relief to finally sign on the dotted line.
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Originally Posted by Thoth
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