In James Thierrée’s beguiling stage shows, the furniture has a life of its own: brasserie chairs duet with their sitters and velvet sofas gobble people up. So it is a little disconcerting to share a corner table in a Parisian cafe with this ringleader of the unexpected who is swivelling around in his seat. But Thierrée is just on the lookout for his morning coffee, he explains, swinging back with a raspy laugh.
Thierrée has the air of an inventor with his white jacket, round specs and floppy fringe of salt and pepper curls. His latest concoction is Room, which is on a European tour winding its way to the Edinburgh international festival (EIF) in August. By then, Thierrée explains, his Room will have been somewhat rearranged. “I never want them to be bored,” he says of the musicians and dancers who perform its loose-limbed melee of skits and tricks in a huge salon that is constructed before us on stage then promptly blown apart. “Every afternoon we switch a piece of music. I warned everyone it’s going to be moving all the time.” He assumes the roles of architect and director in the story, attempting to marshal his surroundings but constantly upended by them.
