FRANCE: The Grand March

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FRANCE The Grand March Like the high drama that it is, the Fifth Republic of France has its commanding star, but it also has a supporting cast around Charles de Gaulle that is determined to maintain the mystical sense of grandeur. "We will try to accomplish the dream of France," declared Novelist Andre (Man's Fate) Malraux, after taking over as Minister of State in Charge of Cultural Affairs, "to give back life to its past genius, to give life to its present genius, and to welcome the genius of the world." Last week as Malraux rose to explain his unprecedented cultural budget to the National Assembly, the nation got its chance to see how well the dream was faring.

There had been times when Culture-master Malraux came dangerously close to satire in describing the accomplishments of France—"the most powerful lighthouse in the world, the largest hangar for airplanes, the most modern goods station, the highest road over a dam . . ." And sometimes it was hard to talk about grandeur in the most skeptical and free-thinking nation in the world. The moment he became official, Malraux lost some caste among all those passionate or cynical Left Bank defenders of the right—and the duty—of Art to be anti-official.

The Battler v. the Kid. Having no power outside the authority to allot certain star subsidies, Malraux set out to rehabilitate the French theater. At the Comédie Française, he complained, standards had fallen so low that there were only six performances of Racine to 113 of a couple of frothy farces by a 19th century playwright, Eugene Labiche. "Let us have Labiche," said Malraux tolerantly, "but not at the expense of Racine." From then on, as Paris-Presse put it, the lines were drawn between " 'Kid' Labiche v. 'Battling' Racine." Malraux snatched the Odeon theater out of the clutches of the weary Comédie Française, put it into the hands of talented Actor Jean-Louis Barrault. Nobel Prizewinner Albert Camus got his own theater too. But although De Gaulle and his wife are people of austere and devout feelings, even Malraux's critics concede that Malraux has not tried to censor sex or demand uplift.*

Malraux also decreed: let there be circuses—and staged the most dazzling Bastille Day celebration France had ever seen. In fact, never since Napoleon had government and culture so complemented each other. When Giraudoux's Electre opened, Paris critics were officially reminded that a French head of state has the privilege of seeing all new performances first; so, in "deference to General de Gaulle," the critics should hold up their first-night reviews until he could get to the theater on the second night. The grand opening of the opera fortnight ago, where Maria Callas had once complained, "I am not going to sing in those dusty decors," was the most glittering in history. Outside, the Republican Guard stood with sabers drawn while onstage Carmen was performed with the aid of 40 horses and a monkey. "In one swoop," said Malraux last week, "the opera recaptured its place among the great lyric theaters."