01279 832756. This is the telephone number of the home I grew up in. I haven't lived there for more than 20 years and yet these digits remain indelibly etched in my long-term memory. Lodged in our subconscious is a wealth of useless knowledge: random trivia, old defunct passwords, the lyrics to the theme tune from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Yet the information important to our present is often the trickiest to summon. Memory is a strange and illogical thing.
It's this conceit that launches Robert Lepage's herculean two-hour monologue, 887. Part biopic, part history lecture, part poetry reading, it is a virtuosic thesis on the function and significance of memory, both collective and personal, and the extraordinary enhancements expert stagecraft can contribute to the power of storytelling.
Through the lens of his personal history, 887 offers a series of shrewd observations about the existential oddities of recollection, sparked by Lepage's difficulty memorising one of the most important literary artefacts of the contemporary French Canadian psyche, Michele Lalonde's Speak White. From this pragmatic conundrum, we are artfully led through several layers of investigation. From the distant past, exploring the colonial history of Quebec and its influence on the city's cultural identity, through the political and social complexities of French Canada in the 20th century, Lepage is a nimble guide, hopscotching between objective observation and wistful, subjective nostalgia.
The title of the show refers to the address of Lepage's humble childhood home, in a small apartment block of a working-class neighbourhood. In scale model form, this abstract "memory palace" is physically conjured before our eyes. Lepage is an intensely charming performer who can easily hold an audience in his own right, but the use of digital animation, carefully judged projections and real-time video infuses a wondrous dynamism into this staging that almost seems to be an extension of Lepage's megawatt-charisma. His sentimental anecdotes or meditative stanzas magically manifest before us and yet this technical chutzpah is elegantly balanced with Lepage's delivery so as not to steal focus. It's a synergy between performer and stage that this reviewer has rarely seen done better.
The thoroughness of this interrogation of memory is impressive, but perhaps the most accomplished aspect of 887 is the deftness with which this production grabs hold of an audience. Many of the important cultural waypoints anchoring this narrative are explicitly French Canadian and yet the touching emotional authenticity of its articulation prevents the show from becoming impenetrably dense, either too culturally specific or too intellectually dry to remain compelling for its full two-hour running time.
While Lepage is the sole performer on stage, to call this a one-man show would be a disservice. The creative collaboration with theatre wizards Ex Machina that underpins this production deserves equal praise for 887's comprehensive success. However, for my money at least, the most extraordinary moment, in a show of extraordinary moments, is all Lepage's. His delivery of Speak White, a poem that will no doubt be obscure to most Australians, is nothing short of miraculous. It's the kind of exquisitely crafted account that leaves you primed by the static-electricity of adrenaline; your emotions balled-up behind your eyes. The kind of performance that collects and swells within you, that reveals something you hadn't known before, that takes root in the memory like a childhood phone number.
Robert Lepage and Ex Machina present 887, part of the Melbourne Festival.
