The hallowed halls of a grandiose theatre in pre-revolution Haiti (known then as the French colony of Saint-Domingue) are the setting for Catherine Bisset’s soul-reaching exploration of race and class on the island. Creole opera singer Minette has found herself relegated to the stands, but only briefly, as even though she is a free woman she is simply holding her seat for a white person to fill. Placeholder is a unique, rich, and fabulously performed historical deep-dive, with Bisset’s solo performance filling in the gaps of throes of academic research.
A white woman keeps staring at Minette – and Minette’s response to the unusual situation she finds herself in summons the ghost of her Mother, a runaway slave. What ensues is a thorough but smartly understated interrogation of the French colonial class system (which mirrored many across the Caribbean and Latin America). It’s a story of how one’s skin colour, place of birth, accent or dialect, and ethnic origin fixed them in amongst immovable, racialised, and violent social strata.
Yet, the focus is wholly ephemeral and explored through reflections on the lives of these two women – Minette and her Mother – and how a review posted in the Colonial Times sharply ended Minette’s career and confidence, by othering her entirely on the basis of her Creole heritage. Bisset flits between both characters with poise and position, never unduly breaking tone without reason, allowing pauses to swallow up the intergenerational nuance, trauma, and desperate cries to be recognised for one’s talents, persuasions, and culture rather than their social positioning.
The piece eventually hones in on uncovering what makes a meaningful revolutionary gesture; how twinned acts of defiance are the only way for Minette and her Mother to leave a trace of their identities on the World. This is delivered with poignant, eloquent pathos by Bisset, as Minette finds the courage and strength in her ancestors and colleagues-in-the-struggle’s words and actions to take a stand. A subplot exploring the work of composer Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges, and his racialised moniker of ‘the Black Mozart’ powerfully intertwines back with Minette’s own story in the show’s closing acts – devastating, but inherently inconclusive catharsis.
Bisset wrote the piece in collaboration with the Colonial-Era Caribbean Theatre and Opera Network (CECTON), established by Professor Julia Prest of the University of St. Andrews. The piece’s collaborative efforts across discipline, art, academia, and historiography led by Director Flavia D’Avila and in conjunction with Dramaturg Jaïrus Obayomi, shine. This is a piece with deft purpose, utilising an applied history adeptly – newspaper cuttings, and similar – but always keeping the focus highly on the lived experiences of those without a historicised voice. You can’t help but walk away feeling how much passion, effort, and care has gone into crafting this story.
D’Avila’s tight, fluid, and impactful direction creates an atmosphere that hums and sings. Moments of dance interject contested histories and identities, asking us not just to look at Minette, her Mother, and Bologne’s stories as a lens for history, but to consider them as three-dimensional humans with boundless stories to tell and with so much taken away from them. These are stories of oppression and rebellion at their core – but stories of humanity too. The characterisations are neat, refined, and as Bisset switches between a Creole accent and the saccharine tone of Minette’s urbane voice, we find ourselves exploring every facet of this vivid, raw, and deeply traumatising society.
In equal parts, we are asked to sympathise with Minette and her Mother and asked to remember their sacrifices as essential to the nature of this nation’s history. The World’s first slave rebellion did not just begin with acts of violent revolt – but with moments of powerful, fleeting, belligerent resistance.
Recommended Drink: Pair this with Clairin – Haiti’s national spirit.
Performances of Placeholder have now concluded at Dundee Fringe 2024.