omniocular challenge entry, Hélas, j’ai Transfiguré mes Pieds!
A review of Hélas, j’ai Transfiguré mes Pieds!
By Chrétien de Sens
I managed to sit through one whole scene of Malécrit’s abominable farce Hélas before I was ready to transfigure my own feet into as a means of escape. This Occitanian nightmare is fraught with low comedy and bawdy humor, no doubt the writer’s own attempt to disguise its failings. Unfortunately for him, any well-bred, intelligent man of court will easily see through this drivel to the stinking cow pie that lies beneath.
Hélas, j’ai Transfiguré mes Pieds! is the story of a peasant from Bayonne by the name of Crapaud. On his way to sell a cow at market he discovers that the other farmhand, a rather dubious fellow by the name of Grenouille, has elected to shirk his duties in favor of a rousing game of Quidditch. The game itself is never seen and is therefore most likely mentioned in an effort to make the play seem relevant to the common folk among whom the game is quite popular.
The play continues on to have Crapaud trying to figure out how to take the stubborn bovine to market. One idea he has is to transfigure its feet into a set of wheels for faster mobility. This naturally backfires and thus the audience is left to spend the rest of the play watching a peasant on wheels flail about through various scenarios. One such scenario crudely involves Crapaud getting an inadvertent glimpse of a young woman’s knees from which he suffers no consequences. Prithee, dear Malécrit, I beg you. Give your audience more credit than that! In another instance he is chased about by a series of people whom he has upset in the market, led by a man whose cart he upturned.
The whole mess eventually winds down as Grenouille returns home to set things right by restoring his companion’s feet. The overly sentimental nature of this reunion makes my boils ooze with agitation. Grenouille has only been gone for part of one day and yet his return to Crapaud is played as though months have gone by. My wife is not that tearful if I have been gone for two days!
So, dear reader, I fear I must again recommend that you skip this, the latest lump of farcical muck from the incomparable Malécrit. Your boils will thank you for it.
A response to the review of Hélas! by Chrétien de Sens
By Malécrit
It is with much restraint that I write this today, so incensed am I at the words of M. de Sens. Truly the man would not know comedy if it tossed a raspberry tarte in his face. So encased is he within his own world of scholarly pursuits that he no longer bears a logical understanding of entertainment. He does not seem to grasp the intentions of the piece. Of course the players are all peasants, M. de Sens, for that is the intended audience of the production!
This comedy of mine, though the monsieur’s boils may not agree with me, is a giddy jaunt through the travails of an everyman. Whereas a nobleman may be upset if a cart of his were overturned it is likely he would not chase the source of the upset lest he muss his pretty robes. A peasant, on the other hand, depends on his cart for his livelihood and would quite understandably chase another man down for such an offense. ‘Tis a far greater thing that I do here in portraying laymen rather than genuflecting before my so-called betters. Mine ear is with the people, my dear M. de Sens, and I shall not speak above them.
Another point of contention that I might argue, M. de Sens, is that you did not actually pay attention to my play. If you had then you would be aware that Grenouille did not simply ignore is duties and leave poor Crapaud to fend for himself out of spite. Had you been listening you would have realized that Grenouille was a member of the local Quidditch club and that it was his turn, nay his duty to take part in the games. Crapaud had merely forgot, as he is a simpler man, and could blame no one but himself for offering to take the cow to market.
You argue, M. de Sens, that my play is merely bawdy tripe and not worth the pages it is written on. I will not deny that parchment is quite expensive however I will also not sit idly by and let you turn your nose up at what truly is a work of genius! What is life, I ask you, without a little humor? Without a little lust? What is love, blood, and rhetoric without a seedy underbelly, I ask you? So a man playing as a woman flashes you a bit of knee. You would not be so alarmed by the sight had you spent a single night with your wife. But then your wife’s lack of tears seems to indicate that she would have none of you.
My play is simple fare for simple folk, my dear critique, not intended for the likes of you. (Yea, you may very well be too simple for this lot). Next time you chortle at the plight of others, next time you guffaw when a page boy trips or a servant girl flashes a bit more than intended I beg you remember who you are. Neither you nor I am above even the low comedy for that is the comedy that makes up life. They may call me “Mal écrit” but at least they do not call me cold of heart.
AN: Wow, I'm surprised I managed to fit this into my schedule! It sounds much different than I originally thought it would.
By Chrétien de Sens
I managed to sit through one whole scene of Malécrit’s abominable farce Hélas before I was ready to transfigure my own feet into as a means of escape. This Occitanian nightmare is fraught with low comedy and bawdy humor, no doubt the writer’s own attempt to disguise its failings. Unfortunately for him, any well-bred, intelligent man of court will easily see through this drivel to the stinking cow pie that lies beneath.
Hélas, j’ai Transfiguré mes Pieds! is the story of a peasant from Bayonne by the name of Crapaud. On his way to sell a cow at market he discovers that the other farmhand, a rather dubious fellow by the name of Grenouille, has elected to shirk his duties in favor of a rousing game of Quidditch. The game itself is never seen and is therefore most likely mentioned in an effort to make the play seem relevant to the common folk among whom the game is quite popular.
The play continues on to have Crapaud trying to figure out how to take the stubborn bovine to market. One idea he has is to transfigure its feet into a set of wheels for faster mobility. This naturally backfires and thus the audience is left to spend the rest of the play watching a peasant on wheels flail about through various scenarios. One such scenario crudely involves Crapaud getting an inadvertent glimpse of a young woman’s knees from which he suffers no consequences. Prithee, dear Malécrit, I beg you. Give your audience more credit than that! In another instance he is chased about by a series of people whom he has upset in the market, led by a man whose cart he upturned.
The whole mess eventually winds down as Grenouille returns home to set things right by restoring his companion’s feet. The overly sentimental nature of this reunion makes my boils ooze with agitation. Grenouille has only been gone for part of one day and yet his return to Crapaud is played as though months have gone by. My wife is not that tearful if I have been gone for two days!
So, dear reader, I fear I must again recommend that you skip this, the latest lump of farcical muck from the incomparable Malécrit. Your boils will thank you for it.
A response to the review of Hélas! by Chrétien de Sens
By Malécrit
It is with much restraint that I write this today, so incensed am I at the words of M. de Sens. Truly the man would not know comedy if it tossed a raspberry tarte in his face. So encased is he within his own world of scholarly pursuits that he no longer bears a logical understanding of entertainment. He does not seem to grasp the intentions of the piece. Of course the players are all peasants, M. de Sens, for that is the intended audience of the production!
This comedy of mine, though the monsieur’s boils may not agree with me, is a giddy jaunt through the travails of an everyman. Whereas a nobleman may be upset if a cart of his were overturned it is likely he would not chase the source of the upset lest he muss his pretty robes. A peasant, on the other hand, depends on his cart for his livelihood and would quite understandably chase another man down for such an offense. ‘Tis a far greater thing that I do here in portraying laymen rather than genuflecting before my so-called betters. Mine ear is with the people, my dear M. de Sens, and I shall not speak above them.
Another point of contention that I might argue, M. de Sens, is that you did not actually pay attention to my play. If you had then you would be aware that Grenouille did not simply ignore is duties and leave poor Crapaud to fend for himself out of spite. Had you been listening you would have realized that Grenouille was a member of the local Quidditch club and that it was his turn, nay his duty to take part in the games. Crapaud had merely forgot, as he is a simpler man, and could blame no one but himself for offering to take the cow to market.
You argue, M. de Sens, that my play is merely bawdy tripe and not worth the pages it is written on. I will not deny that parchment is quite expensive however I will also not sit idly by and let you turn your nose up at what truly is a work of genius! What is life, I ask you, without a little humor? Without a little lust? What is love, blood, and rhetoric without a seedy underbelly, I ask you? So a man playing as a woman flashes you a bit of knee. You would not be so alarmed by the sight had you spent a single night with your wife. But then your wife’s lack of tears seems to indicate that she would have none of you.
My play is simple fare for simple folk, my dear critique, not intended for the likes of you. (Yea, you may very well be too simple for this lot). Next time you chortle at the plight of others, next time you guffaw when a page boy trips or a servant girl flashes a bit more than intended I beg you remember who you are. Neither you nor I am above even the low comedy for that is the comedy that makes up life. They may call me “Mal écrit” but at least they do not call me cold of heart.
AN: Wow, I'm surprised I managed to fit this into my schedule! It sounds much different than I originally thought it would.