Seriously, who could tell, as Hainaux’s metronomic accompaniment kept the performance ship afloat, the sound blasts emanating from his vocal cords by dint of his mouth, lips and tongue, a minor revelation. (This writer would not, however, recommend such vibrational sorcery to an opera singer, although the resonance factor would seem to be a shared decibel.) 

With most of the onlookers seated around the performers, it seemed inevitable, then, that Chaignaud would—literally—get in someone’s face. And so it happened that there was a posture whereby he stood on his head, his legs spread-eagled and near-skybound, a quasi-gambit this writer recalled seeing at the Montpellier Dance Festival some years ago, when, paired with dancer Cecilia Bengolea, that duo performed “Paquerette.” (Described as a dance for four—two performers and two dildos—“with Bengolea’s legs perpendicular to the floor and her derriere upside down and the dildo, pointing north, she resembled a mini-Eiffel Tower.”)

Ah! With some memories remaining long after a performance ends, “Mirlitons,” too, contained many such instances: Whether it was Chaignaud as court jester in Harpo Marx mode, or assaying a jump and landing on his toes, or together with Hainaux, singing—in falsetto, of course—and marking a sweet moment before rendering a fortissimo coda with hints of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” this duet had staying power. The performance was also enhanced by Marinette Buchy’s “light conception,” with the boys occasionally spotlighted or, as in the finale, bathed in purple. 

Unlike the Wizard of Oz, who is unmasked and revealed to be a fraud, this pair managed to retain their secrets, while letting the audience in via small flashes at a time. Existential? Naturally. Inscrutable? Of course. But it was also an impressive display of originality, a palpable playground of ideas made carnal. And, in this day and age, that is, as the French would say, “Quelque chose.”