by AMY BARRATT

There’s no other word for it: David Fennario’s return to Centaur Theatre with Condoville is a triumph. It proves, first of all, that the playwright behind Balconville—one of Canada’s greatest theatrical phenomena—has still got the goods. Although this activist son of Pointe-St-Charles hasn’t produced a “traditional” play in a while, he’s still able to pull convincing characters and well-crafted scenes out of his jeans’ back pocket.

When Condoville opens, we discover that the apartment block from Balconville has miraculously not gone up in smoke. It has, in fact, gone co-op, with most of the original tenants still in residence. Claude and Cécile Paquette and Johnny and Irene Regan still live in the two upstairs flats. Downstairs neighbour Muriel, who was not in the peak of health 25 years ago, has been hospitalized, probably never to return home. Through her, as well as through Claude, who walks with a cane and requires more and more help to descend the outdoor spiral staircase, Fennario gets in a few jabs at our threadbare healthcare system.

The fourth apartment, which in Balconville was vacant due to a “midnight move,” has been gentrified and is now home to—what else?—a yuppie gay couple. I was troubled at first by the gay stereotype played by Neil Napier (he lisps, he minces, he wears pink), but then I remembered that everyone on stage is a caricature to some degree. Fennario’s humour is broad. The Centaur audience’s, nurtured by umpteen Mambo Italiano revivals, is blunt.

It rings true that, although 25 years have passed, very little has changed. The younger generation—Muriel’s son Tom and Paquette’s daughter Diane—has disappeared. Diane cut short her life with drugs and alcohol, but not without leaving behind a daughter, Bibi-Diane. When the play begins, the granddaughter has run away and is living on the streets.

Jean Archambault reprises his role as the slightly touched bicycle deliveryman Thibault, who more and more feels like a stand-in for the playwright himself. Not that Fennario is “tetched,” but he, like Thibault, watches everything and remembers everything; he also plays the clown to make serious political points. And when Thibault opens the play by directly addressing the audience with “It’s me, I’m back,” it definitely feels like the playwright winking at us.

As in Balconville, there is a lot of drama going on at all times of day and night on, under and behind these four balconies. Hardly anybody has a steady job, but everybody is busy, whether they’re dreaming up new moneymaking schemes or organizing against the condo-ization of the block. There’s always time to stop for a beer and a quick ethnic joke with your neighbour. The English and the French are still scrapping with each other, but it feels more like old habit than anything fresh. Also, it seems to me they’ve all become a bit more bilingual, if only to toss off a few new insults in the other’s language.

For a snapshot of how far we’ve come—or not—in 25 years, go see Condoville.

CONDOVILLE, TO OCT. 30 AT CENTAUR THEATRE (453 ST-FRANÇOIS-XAVIER), 288-3161

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