Michel Gyarmathy Interview

Built as a music-hall, the locale was home to various operas, concerts, gymnastics, magic and comedy shows. Its boards were trodden by such famous beginners as Charlie Chaplin and Colette (before she turned novelist). The theater shifted emphasis during World War I, when "the exhibition of feminine pulchritude in the nude became the most sensational aspect of a Folies show." Nothing to do with shepherdesses, the Folies's name was intended to be Trévise, but some dispute developed and Bergère was taken from the name of a nearby street. In the sparkling era that followed, stars included Maurice Chevalier and Mistinguette, Raimu, Fernandel, Yvonne Printemps, and Josephine Baker.

This most prosperous period was the creation of one man: Michel Gyamathy, a pre-war Hungarian refugee who became artistic director of the most famous entertainment in Paris. "Monsieur Michel," as he was known to his staff, devised every new production, which usually required about 40 sets, more than 1,000 individual costumes, and the most complex mechanical and electrical effects. He recruited les girls (the English word is used, as filles has overtones of "tart"), and hired the acrobats, magicians, singers, tightrope walkers, performing animals, and other variety acts that diversify the nudity.

Following the centenary of the Folies in 1970, Penthouse’s Paul Tabori visited Monsieur Michel for an exclusive interview in his paneled office at the theater—picking away back stage through a memorable perfumed haze of plumes, sequins, and near-naked lovelies limbering up.

Penthouse: How do you select the girls for the Folies Bergère?

Michel Gyarmathy: That depends. In any case, the candidates simply come into my office and undress.

How far?

Completely, of course. If they have beautiful breasts—and I am, I must say, a perfectionist—and a well-proportioned body and if they are willing, they are engaged for the group that appears nude, or practically nude, on the stage. If the girl is tall but hasn't a perfect—well, near perfect—body but she walks well, has a certain queenliness, what I might call a majestic grace about her, then I hire her as a mannequin habillee, a “dressed or clothed model." And if she can even dance and is not too tall, then she is engaged for the dancers group.

Which are the highest paid?

The nudes—they are the hardest to find. But I must confess that there is a little trouble with nudity these days, the law of diminishing returns has started to operate. On stage, on the screen, naked bodies are shown in such profusion and in such motion and actions that we would have never dared to think up for revue productions. I went to see Hair in the States, and as you know, women and men appear in it completely nude. True, only for a very short time and in comparatively dim light—not in the blaze of the Folies Bergère stage. But we have never shown a naked boy on our stage and we never intend to do so. Hair, naturally, became a succès de scandale both in New York and London—mainly because of this nudity, for otherwise I think it's a terrible bore. But we don't want a scandalous success, and a short or long run based on something that people go to look at once and never again—by the way, Hair is now running in Paris, too. So we have to think of something else, something that goes beyond nudity without losing its charm and attractiveness. Something that can be repeated many times and—this is an important consideration—won't get us into trouble with the police!

Besides the law of diminishing returns, there's also Gresham's Law about bad money driving out the good. Is it possible that artistic nudity may be driven out by performances like the American play Che, in which not only is there total nudity but the actors and actresses have simulated or actual intercourse on the stage?

I haven't seen the play you mention—but I would dearly love to. Maybe I could steal from it a few tricks for the next Folies Bergère revue. If one can be naked in a straight, non-musical show, then why shouldn't they perform the sex act as well—to give nudity some meaning. Of course, I would prefer the simulated version—I wouldn't like to have to put into a contract, for instance, that my stars have to produce the proper tumescence every evening, not to mention matinees. What if they are not in the mood—in spite of the lovely girls I am able to produce as partners? In any case, there are very few people for whom nudity does not become immediately or very shortly associated with the idea of intercourse—so perhaps there is no real need to act it out.

The Folies has just celebrated its centenary. During your own 30 years with the revue, what have been the most striking changes?

The post-war years have certainly changed the approach to life and art of whole generations. An essential aspect for us has been the immense development of tourism. I would say that ten or 20 times as many people are going abroad today as between the wars, despite currency and other restrictions. About two-thirds of the seats of the Folies Bergère are filled with tourists, and not only have their numbers risen, but their social composition has unavoidably altered. Despite the financial crises, the earning capacity and the living standard of whole nations have improved. And because of the composition of our audiences, we naturally have to cater to some extent to the taste of the tourist, and not of the connoisseur or the discriminating few. Our shows run unchanged for two or three years, because we have enough first visitors to Paris to come and see them. This is a decisive element because it enables us to spend substantial sums on each show, as we have often three or four years in which to recoup our investment. But despite all the changes, there are traditions that are unassailable. The revue theaters have very old traditions, and among them the Folies Bergère is the oldest. So we must always keep something, and we cannot do things that are totally new, or our customers would feel cheated. The boy from Texas who comes to us has, more likely than not, already heard from his father what the Folies Bergère is like. He knows there are staircases, sequined costumes, feathers, and furbelows—and if he does not see all this, he is bound to think that something has gone wrong. So I am forced to stick to these long-established traditions—though I always keep the changes of fashion in mind. I could just as little change the character of the Folies Bergère as a new edition of Grimm's Fairy Tales could make the prince marry one of the Ugly Sisters.

What was the Folies Bergère like after the liberation, when Paris was crowded with the Allies?

The enthusiasm, the jubilation was quite fantastic. The Americans crowded into our theater—by then I had been appointed artistic director—and they have always been our most enthusiastic audience. This type of revue exists only in Paris. Spectacular musicals are, of course, native to New York and London—but the Folies Bergère has always been unique in its field. The arrival of the Americans in those wonderful days of 1944 was a spectacular event. I remember the jeep that rolled down the Avenue de l'Opera and the American soldiers jumping out and rushing up the great staircase. They probably wanted to be the first to "liberate" the Opera. This is a sight I shall always remember—just as the first night when we played for them—and no longer for the "potato-bugs," as we called the Germans.

You said that this type of spectacular revue does not exist elsewhere?

A little correction here. There is a Folies Bergère revue in Las Vegas—which have been producing myself for the last seven years. The Casino de Paris and the Lido also have productions in Las Vegas, and they are all successful. The Americans are wizards at producing their own type of entertainment—but the reason they invite us to work in the States is that only we French can turn out truly Parisian revues. I should say we foreigners—as most of the great Paris spectaculars are produced by what the French call les sales étrangers, the bloody foreigners.

How many people work at the Folies Bergère?

About 300. Out of these around 80 are artistes, the rest technical personnel. Our stage is very small—only 18 feet deep—and our performances run for three and a half hours. Each scene runs for an average of 90 seconds, some only a minute and a few for four or five minutes. Everything has to move at a tremendously fast pace—for we have found that this is the only way of keeping the audiences interested and, I hope, fascinated.

You said that most of your productions run for two or three years. How do you start creating such a revue?

I can only answer that there is no beginning, middle, or end to it. I always have ideas already worked out which I had left out of the previous production and kept in my desk. Besides, in a theater that has existed for over a century, and during more than three decades of my own work, everything has been done before. The task is in the presentation, the dressing-up of some idea that is old enough to be new or has acquired a new angle. It is rather like the chef's work who can prepare the same dish in ten different ways. If the sauce or the decoration is different, people believe they are eating something completely new. It is the same with revues. I work about a year on each new production— alone. I design the sets and costumes, compile the music, elaborate the choreography and the various movements so that by the time rehearsals start (which never last less than three months), my share is practically finished. I simply have to communicate it to the company. The rehearsals are smooth and clean, with never any incidents for I have no doubts about my own conceptions—or rather, if I have any doubts, they have been resolved by me. It is wonderful how easy it is to convince yourself that you are right.

Nudity naturally plays an important part in the productions, but somehow the nudity of the Folies has a different quality. Is it the presentation, the garnishing—or the girls themselves?

I think the girls themselves. A totally nude girl is pretty helpless, cruelly exposed. She has nothing with which to cover up any blemishes, balance any imperfections—and I need hardly say that even the most ravishing beauty has some little imperfection, something that needs the emphasis or diminution of this or that feature. A girl, cunningly and lovingly dressed—or undressed, if you like—always has the ways and means to improve and enhance nature. A nude girl has nothing to speak for her except her nudity. Parisian girls, by and large, are charming and delightful and not at all sophisticated as the American girls are. Let me tell you a little anecdote to illustrate my point—to explain why the Parisienne is so popular and ravishing. In our Las Vegas revues only half the company is French—the other half is made up of American girls. This is according to union rules, of course. During the rehearsals it became evident that the American girls were working much harder—it was striking how much more seriously they took their job than my French girls. The management asked me to tell the American girls not to be such eager beavers, to slack off a little, to chatter and gossip, to miss an occasional step, to forget about mechanical precision.

Why would the management want such a thing?

Because then the public would believe that the American girls were also French, that they had all been imported direct from Paris. It took me a little time to break the ingrained habit of efficiency in my American showgirls but I did succeed in the end. At first they were quite shocked—but later, as I found, they quite took to the idea. Too much neatness and efficiency, I think reduce feminine charm—certainly in my business.

How long do your showgirls spend at the Folies Bergère?

It varies from three weeks to 12 years. In the first case the girl might find the work uncongenial or too hard, or develop a sudden attack of modesty, or I may not like the way she performs, and then out she goes. But many stay on—I have several who have been with us over a decade.

What is the private life of a Folies showgirl? Is she usually single or married, frigid or lesbian...?

To answer your last point first, there are always lesbians in any revue theater. But I have found this is mostly a passing phase. Two girls live together and opportunity creates this form of sexual outlet—until one of each meets a man who can satisfy her—the right type of lover. After this they very quickly forget what I consider a third or fourth-best substitute. There are girls, too, who are afraid of pregnancy or infection and so they find a surcease in lesbian practices—which does not mean that they are real, lifelong lesbians. On the whole—and I am not trying to whitewash them, why should I?—the girls are far more moral in our place than their reputation. People tend to believe that the girls of the Folies are promiscuous—but this is quite untrue. Most of them are married. There are, of course, a good many who have both husbands and lovers—but that happens in any given group of Parisiennes, whether they are showgirls or shopgirls. Nor is such an arrangement to be despised or condemned—after all, this way the husband gets a little respite now and then. But generally the moral level of our girls is extremely high, and this has to be so—it is almost essential. Our shows demand much physical exertion and if someone indulges in what is so picturesquely called systematic debauchery, his or her work is bound to suffer. There is, I believe, more chastity or continence, a better balanced sex life in a revue theater as an occupational necessity than, say, in a hospital or at a university.

There must have been crises, upheavals, or minor disasters during your years at the Folies Bergère. Would you like to recall some of them?

You really must believe me that during the time I have been here—except, of course, the war years—there have been no problems. For eight or nine months out of each year we play to packed houses. Of all the Paris theaters the Folies Bergère grosses the largest amount—true, we have also the highest ticket prices—and we have consistently returned handsome dividends. Of course, we pay tremendously high taxes—but then so does everybody.

Never any trouble with the audience? Nobody trying to pick up any of your girls, invade the stage or the dressing-rooms?

No. We have strong and well trained stage-door keepers and it is an absolute rule that no one can go behind the scenes or into the dressing rooms. Not even parents. If someone's family is in the audience, they must wait until the performance is over and meet the girls outside.

When exactly did you first come to Paris?

In 1933. I had worked for the principal musical comedy theater in my native Budapest as a stage and costume designer. Then two things happened. The theater changed hands and the new owner insisted that his girlfriend should star in the new production. She was knock-kneed, stoop-shouldered and her bosom was sagging. I did my best to cover up all the disadvantages nature had seen fit to bestow on her, but somehow she seemed proud of them, and insisted on modifying my designs. The result was disaster—for which I was blamed. So I told her: "It wasn't my costumes that ruined your performance. It was your performance that ruined my beautiful designs." And I resigned. The second thing that happened was the emergence of an equally ill-favored person named Adolf Hitler. I thought I'd better get out of Hungary before he got in. So I left for Paris.

Did you speak French?

One word. Merde. Everybody seemed to be using it in my carriage, which was full of French tourists returning home after their vacation. It was their universal comment on the food, the accommodation, the people in foreign countries.

What did you do when you reached Paris?

I looked up in a guide which was the nearest theater to the Gare de l'Est and found it was the Folies Bergère. So I took a cab and deposited my bags with the stage-door keeper. They stayed with him for six months.

You mean, they engaged you right away?

They did nothing of the sort. In the next two or three years I went through the usual round of dishwashing, modeling, selling drawings in cafes, but mostly starving. Then, some thirty-two years ago, I did get a job with the Folies Bergère as a junior set and dress-designer and general dogs body. I have been ever since.

Only a few years after you joined the Folies Bergère war broke out. How did you fare during the German occupation?

We left Paris during the collapse of France and got as far as Biarritz. We wanted to cross to Spain and then make our way to America. It was a strange caravan—beautiful girls, wardrobe mistresses, specialty acts, electricians—the lot. But the frontier was closed and, after a few months we came back to Paris. By then the Germans were ensconced in Paris and they reopened the Folies Bergère, perhaps to show that everything was "normal" and that they appreciated French culture. They more or less reserved it for themselves, putting on godawful shows—all kinds of little strumpets who wouldn't have got past the stage-door were dancing and singing, the German soldiers clambered on the stage, there were drunken scenes every night. It was like a base-camp improvised theater and they ruined the seats, the walls, the fittings.

Where were you during this time?

In the country—working with the Resistance. I must confess that I'm not the military type. I would call myself a well-adjusted coward. But one did what one could, and being afraid most of the time provided a little extra spice. The mere fact of belonging to the Resistance gave one moral support—made life bearable. Otherwise I did what I was told. I had, at one time, five different apartments in Paris under different aliases and came up from time to time, always with forged papers and on various errands.

Which of your Folies productions was your all-time favorite?

I always like the last one best—like the newest baby. But people keep talking to me, and this makes me rather angry, about a Chinese scene in one of the revues, saying that they had never seen anything more beautiful before and since. This isn't very satisfactory, for one always likes to believe that one develops, matures and can do better than before. But that revue, immediately after the war, happened to be truly attractive and reasonably original. It was a scene of Chinese ivory figures, with masks and costumes perfectly in period and style. Since then it has been copied in England, in America, all over the world—and today I doubt whether could match it. It has become a sort of legend.

Which nationality provides most of your audiences?

The Americans are the most numerous, because they also represent the largest contingent of the tourists. They are followed by the Germans, who adore Paris—some of them became familiar with our city during their prolonged visit of four years. They are trailed by other nationalities, most of them from the West, though we have a few visitors from the East. The Russians and the others come to scoff at the degenerate West—and then go home to tell about it to the other comrades. Apparently they do enjoy being shocked. As for my former fellow-Hungarians, they usually get free tickets from me as they rarely have any spending money and I allow myself this survival of local patriotism.

Mr. Gyarmathy, thank you.