Let Serge Thériault be left in exile

Let Serge Th & eacute; riault & agrave; his exile

MISE & Agrave; DAY

You have to be built solid when you're an actor and when you play mostly compositional roles.

For those of you who don't know, when an actor portrays a very characteristic character behind whom his personality must be erased, he is said to be playing a “compositional role.” Of all the actors with whom I have worked, Serge Thériault is the one who must have embodied the greatest number of characters having nothing to do with him.

In the first version of Never deux sans toi , broadcast on Radio-Canada in 1976, it is Serge Thériault (28) that the director Rolland Guay and I had chosen to play Bernie Lacasse. It had taken a lot of courage for Serge to agree to play a homosexual. Back in the day, homosexuals were laughed at without restraint. Bernie was the first gay character to appear regularly in a soap opera.


Affable, polite, without effeminate manners and always ready to help, Bernie was far from doing scandal as we had feared. He quickly became the “cleaning lady” that all Quebec women dreamed of. As for homosexuals, they kept citing him as an example, using him to confuse homophobes.

But Bernie was not Serge Thériault. Neither would Serge then be Ding, Dong's foil, so much more turned on than his accomplice. One evening, a brilliant sketch was presented at Lundis des Ha! Ha! by Claude Meunier and Serge Thériault. It featured papa and môman, two absurd and surrealist characters. The little life was born.

This sitcom Revolutionary reserved for Serge Thériault an almost impossible character to assume, that of a “German” Quebec mother, worrying for her brat, but submissive to her man, who treats her like a servant. Little by little, the fragile actor Serge Thériault was melted into the extravagant môman skirts.

A few years later, it is a Thériault already almost withdrawn from the world who gave life to François Brochu , the Gaz Bar Blues garage owner, overwhelmed as much by his sons as by the transformation of his neighborhood.

Today, Serge Thériault no longer leaves his home. He remains prostrate there like a wounded animal. It’s not two amateur psychologists, armed with a camera and good intentions, who will pull him out of his crush. Their film will rather serve to cut back hordes of voyeurs in its wake. poisoned gifts. They are never light burdens. More than one actor or actress doesn't have the shoulders to carry them.

Poor Jean-Pierre Masson, for example, did not survive Séraphin Poudrier, whose tinsel he donned for 12 years. He ends up sinking into alcohol to die in a seedy motel in Pennsylvania.

I also think of Guy Sanche, whom we transformed into Bobino when I was the lead author of La Surprise Box . Guy could never extricate himself from his tight jacket, buttonhole flower and bowler hat. The end of Bobino was also his.

Leave Serge Thériault in his exile, as Sophie Durocher so rightly wished in her column on Monday, which denounced the sad film by Pierre-Luc Latulippe and Martin Fournier. The very title of the film, Dehors, Serge, hors! sounds like an insult, even like a door slammed in the face of Serge Thériault, an exquisite and so vulnerable being.

Let Serge Th & eacute; riault stay in exile

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