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WP's Anny Place, Anny Where, Anny Time

(according to Nena's and Kim Wilde's song - but there »any« just with one single »n« ;-)

Prologue

Ease it is to notice that there are others having been struck as well. Thus I can very well feel with M. Carrington Adolph for his really absolutely worth reading and inspiring short story A Thousand Ships (http://home1.gte.net/thespian/Tales/helen.html). How similar the events are! Because in 1982 I saw her in the same role, not live but in the mentioned TV production only. It's clear, I have preserved her photo shown in the TV magazine through the years, too.

(Well, I'm just considering: Shouldn't we invite her to a cup of ice cream or coffee in a cafe at all? Perhaps a Coke would be the better choice - one will be able to drink it with a straw, if one's hands are trembling too much... ;-)

Anny Place

Eleven o'clock and fifteen minutes, Paris, 9th Arrondissement, Place Édouard VII/Rue Louis Jouvet. The theatergoers have disappeared into the night. A few isolated small groups lose themselves in the square in front of the theater. The cool night air feels well after more than two hours in the oppressive warm theater. Five minutes ago the curtain fell to Sarah. With her in the title part. And with me in the third row.

Why I'm standing here? The first time I ever saw her is almost ages ago. As Helen of Troy in a French screen staging of Tiger at the Gates on German TV. Too beautiful to be real. When she strolls closer, alarmed one would stumble some steps backward, if one didn't sit in an armchair. Upsetting likeable, with a clear look out of blue eyes and a certain ironic-knowing sometimes even dreaming smile. After a few days I found a complete simple explanation: tall, slim, long legs, long hair, some kind of dangerous beauty, and then this yellow toga dress - silky flowing, one shoulder, semi-transparent on bare skin. No wonder - the Y shaped chromosomes just danced - I probably had a crush on her. Nothing unusual at this age. »It's just a pity that obviously I'll never see her again. Let's forget it.«

About two years later I stumbled into a television review of the German release of Les Comperes. With an actress, whose movie son was of about my age, but »the one woman who would be better for me not to meet ever... But she is really sparkling with charm. She even eclipses that marvelous French theater actress. This one has also these clear, bright blue eyes, for which she would really need a gun license... And - just believe it or not, no doubt, it's her again! So she looks in reality!«
Half-hearted searches didn't lead further. What, however, should they have led to? Nevertheless I saw her a few times on television then. Better than nothing.

Ten years later, a last midnight zapping brought me to From Hell to Victory. »Who is this?« I felt as if I had grasped with my wet fingers into the wall socket. No foam at the mouth, but I was trembling. »Nevertheless that's her indeed. Do I freak out yet? Something is definitely wrong here!«
One and a half year later, after a day on a trade fair, stranded at the Palais de Chaillot. The eyes curved over nocturnal Paris: Sacré Cœur, Eiffel Tower, the sky-rise building in Montparnasse. »Well, there she lives...«. Goose-flesh! »That will do now! I want to know what's going on. I want to turn that off. By all means!«

In the succeeding period I get through everything step by step. »In numbers there counts perhaps 25% appearance, 50% liking and 25% fascination. It must be, however, something concrete. Regularly something to touch.« Fascinating in Tiger at the Gates, alarming in The Demon of the Island, but the break-through came not before La Seconde. The subconscious started to report after one year during I thought about it from time to time. »It's as if the instinct of self-preservation is activated. It comes from the outside: Something with this woman is wrong, something horrible has happened to her. Concrete, it concerns death.« Just a monstrous suspicion, but in subconscious it has been present all the time.

Anyway a decision had to be found, therefore I tried to take up contact with her agency. I received an answer. Not of the agency, but of her directly - just like an invitation! After some rapture and relief (»I even could ask her at least...«, and it wouldn't have taken much for and I would have tried to ask her to dinner) almost by chance I found her autobiography Le voile noir as German edition. It is alarming, all the time I've been under the impression as if there is somebody transmitting on my frequency anyhow.

Anny Where

Elicited from the Internet since January I know where, when and what she plays. Half a week ago I've made up my mind. If not now, when ever? Two days ago I reserved the theater ticket and the hotel room.
Today is the day. This morning shortly after four o'clock I've risen in order to fly to Paris. Since the late morning I'm strolling through the city. First of all I was at the theater to pick up the ticket and a poster. Nobody was bothered that I do not know French. Today I already visited seven Arrondissements, maybe eight or nine. It was pure chance that I could throw a short glance at her flat - the blindly selected sightseeing tour in the travel guide just passed her residence - nothing more. I am not a stalker, really I'm not.

Sarah, Théâtre Édouard VII, 2003

Now I'm sitting in a promising position here in the theater...

Slowly the curtain rises. Tense silence in the theater. Tall, slim, elegant, motionless, with the impression of a shop window puppet Sarah dozes on a chair. Perfect in each manner. Praxiteles would deeply enjoyed her sight. Under the veil of her hat one divines her face only. Nothing but her pretty hands are to discover. Pitou (Robert Hirsch) comes closer and carefully raises her veil, reveals her - visage. The whole theater holds its breath - ghostly silence for at least a minute. Really breathtaking despite her closed eyes and her black eyelid shade. After a while she opens her eyes... This shining blue, this look...! Whisper in the audience. Repeatedly one hears a low »... bleu ...«. Although the French audience should really know what she is worth.

It is a mixture between tragedy and comedy. Both actors do not spare anything themselves and the audience: very fast, interlaced dialogues; she is impulsive almost a pain in the neck, with strong mood fluctuations. When she starts to shout, to rave, the audience will jerk. He is brilliant with comedy, parody almost slapstick interludes, which remind of Louis de Funès, bringing the audience to roars of laughter. And both complement each other fantastic, open up continuously. Enthusiasm in the audience. Nevertheless Sarah is charming. She becomes somehow pleasant more and more. One develops sympathy for her.

Curtain to the second act. She has exchanged her strict 1920-style costume with a long white night-dress and a red dressing gown, her hair (wig), up to now high-put, open, down to her shoulders. A respectful, long lasting whisper sweeps through the theater. She is just marvelous! Supported by the liking of the audience, she rules the stage. Now she gets really cracking. Until Sarah breaks down overstrained ... dead?! A sigh, almost a quiet groan, in the theater. No, only exhaustion, pooh... Thus, nevertheless, there is a happy-end, and Sarah and Pitou cheerfully dance.

The audience is carried away. Several curtains. He receives the applause and the bravo shouts professionally. Her intensive look moves through row by row as if she would like to thank everyone individually. Not bad.

Anny Time

Engrossed, washed outside with the audience flood, I'm standing in front of the theater.
Originally I have thought just to mingle with the autograph hunters inconspicuously in order to see her from near. Her book and a pen are more camouflage. Because, to tell the truth, as autograph hunter I haven't the smallest experience. And I really haven't any hope, too. But I should feel angry for ever, if I didn't try it at least. If only some would be present. It seems I'm wrong here. Well, it doesn't matter. The play and the memories out of a time just even twenty-one years, two month and one day ago want to be digested...

KTO TV Magazine June 29th 2003

Quarter to twelve perhaps. Again a door swings open at the theater front like it happened several times before. Hidden behind columns, again fragments of a conversation, and then - her voice. I approach slowly. Suddenly, a couple of steps in front of me a tall slim silhouette over all about 6 feet - her. She turns her back to me, however, I immediately recognize her by her silhouette and her kind of motion. Her interlocutor draws her attention to a group in the square. Supposedly theater folks. She turns towards them, and because I do not want to be importunate and impolite, I let her walk unmolested and go ahead to the edge of the square. Just unthinkable to tap on her shoulder or to block her way.

The group is involved in an intensive conversation. She avoids to be the focus of attention, but listens carefully. I take the opportunity to watch her from a proper distance of some meters: tall, slim, magenta colored, tight, calf-long skirt, sweater of the same color and the almost compulsory thin yellow scarf around her shoulders. Suddenly I catch her eye. I nod my head to greet her, she looks at me astonished, hesitates, and then nods back and begins to smile. Oops! Doesn't she even blink to me? Extra show for me! That's the sugar in my coffee for today!

A few minutes later she says good-bye to the group - and crossing the square she directly strolls to me! I gasp for breath convincing me not to stumble some steps backward and then - »Bonsoir, Monsieur!« - »Bonsoir, Madame! Excusez-moi, would you be so kind?« I present her autobiography to her. Of course, she is so kind - and even naturally continues to speak English. What a shining smile! I thought of remarks in interviews like »the room lit up in her gloss...«, etc. just as usual exaggerations. But she seems so uncomplicated, thus surprisingly friendly, full of almost youthful charm. Really charming and bewitching. And even from the proximity (and with removed make-up) she looks extraordinary attractive. Even without the rose-colored fan eyeglasses, really marvelous, a dream woman.

She views surprised at the book, leafs with interest through it and looks at me asking. Of course, she knows the images, but the complete layout is obviously strange to her. I explain that it is the German edition. She hasn't seen it up to now and doesn't know of being published in Germany. She starts to look for a pen and I offer a felt-tip pen to her and just manage to get off the cap. Thanking she takes it. She searches for a free place to put the dedication and asks for my name.
I do not want to make her more trouble further on, because it is close up to midnight and she has just finished more than two hours of heavy work. In addition it would be almost ridiculous to stammer something like »You were fantastic!« or even »I am a great admirer of your art...«, although I am obviously not able to speak and understand French. She will imagine her part anyway.
I try to assist her getting rid of the felt-tip pen and thanks to the perfect timing - in the same moment she tries to grasp after the cap - our hands collide. She chuckles and watches me amused when I need two attempts with my trembling fingers to put the cap onto the darned felt-tip pen. Yes, she imagines her part. An intensive look says more than thousand words.
During parting her smile shines on me and when she walks away she turns around for short and blinks to me again. »Au revoir!«

Epilogue

Extended tours through Paris - of course, due to sightseeing I didn't use the Metro often - provided much time for thinking.
On the following day when my wounded feet were cared (by the way sticking plaster is sparadrap), but refused extended walks, I bought a second cheap theater ticket at the Kiosque Théâtre in the Place de la Madeleine. »When I'm just here yet...«

Already her strolling up and her smile during the encounter reminded me somehow of Helen of Troy, but now definitely it was Charlotte from Pardon Mon Affaire, when after the performance she glided by in a similar bright red dress. (Heading to the underground garage!) I followed her with my eyes just spellbound even when she wasn't to see any longer and her steps were fading away in the distance. Well, everyone needs his personal fairy.

And was it worth the trouble? Oh yes, it was. I suppose I already know what I'll do in the next season... (I just own one more book ;-)

Théâtre Montparnasse, 2007

To be continued

Evening with the lady pretty in pink: On October 20th 2007 Oscar et la dame rose at Théâtre Montparnasse. Already the night before I was there and joined the autograph hunters. With Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, the author of the play, and other folks she left the theater. They intended to have a dinner. But for each of the waiting fans she found time to talk with (even in English ;-) and obviously in no way she considered it as troublesomeness. With a laugh she recognized Das Glück von einer Katze gefunden zu werden and with a shiny smile she placed her dedication in the book.

The following day then the climax: More than two hours she alone on the stage. Not dressed up, playing several roles with full effort, in a marvelous play. Magical. (Well, just even Exceptionnelles stands on the poster ;-)
No chance for an encounter this time - I presumed the end of the theater season should be celebrated subsequently. Nevertheless a handful of die-hards gathered in front of the theater and after a while they started a discussion with some theater officials. Something was going on... Suddenly the group moved to the stage entry. Bravely I followed. In the artist wardrobe we were already expected! As very pretty lady in black, tulle skirt and pull-over with V neck-line, with a lot of silver accessories apologizing she grasped at a chair and started small talk with us. A dream! In real.

(For all cases I'm supplied with the third book. You never know... And anyhow I have to think about a French lesson at evening school. Well, she is prepared, she already knows this page ;-)