Street theatre with a French flair

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THERE'S something amiss in Glasgow's Buchanan Street and it has

nothing to do with the George Square bomb scare which has sent people

spilling out of their offices. Ignoring the potential threat of death

and disaster, the puzzled buzz is instead focused on the activities of

two hapless looking tourists. Alan Fairbairn and Nicolas Peper of

Theatre Decale have easily upstaged the mounted police sentried across

Exchange Square.

They begin their unique style of street theatre by literally stopping

the traffic in Argyle Street. Two lost foreigners, halting cars and

asking directions, spreading maps across car bonnets and, somewhat

surprisingly, considering the jam the traffic diversions have caused,

treated with benign tolerance from bemused drivers. They then move

slowly up Buchanan Street. They pose for photos in unlikely spots, in

front of scaffolding or shops, and, intent on getting the picture just

right, they collide with passers-by, some of whom they then try to

befriend, hustling them into the shot or getting them to take a picture.

They're doing what tourists normally do but they're injecting a subtle

satire into the stereotype.

Their ''act'' is almost impossible to perceive as such. This is the

beauty and great inventiveness of Theatre Decale; they reject most of

the traditional methods of street performance -- no clowning around, no

hyperbole, no bizarre costumes, no dramatic plea for attention -- yet in

doing so they perfect the central premise of street art, improvisation,

and thus create considerable impact. The slow-witted facade is a

disguise for their artful ingenuity.

Subtlety and instinct drive their performance. They are attired in the

traditional gear of the Continental tourist, chic glasses, bright

jackets, and funny hats and if only they weren't constantly getting in

people's way they might pass without a second glance; well perhaps they

would merit a second glance but certainly not the brazen stares they are

currently attracting. But there's something not quite right about them;

the jackets are ill-fitting, their movements slightly frenetic. If you

get up close you notice there are no lenses in their glasses.

The bomb scare has given them a captive audience but deliberately they

do not take advantage of this. Indeed, each time a sizeable crowd does

encircle them they play to the gallery for only a little while, then

look almost bewildered to find themselves at the centre of this

attention and move on. At first everyone is unsure how to react to them.

The first giggles are stifled -- it's not nice to laugh at the funny

foreigners -- but gradually their antics are so mirth-making it is

impossible not to burst into gales of laughter.

''That's priceless,'' murmurs a besuited business man passing quickly

by, glancing at their efforts to pose with some local girls. A woman

behind me explodes with hilarity. ''Oh, it's their faces!'' she says

tearfully. ''What's happening, what's happening?'' asks an urgent voice

by my side. It's an old lady entranced at the sight of Nicolas climbing

into a shoe display while Alan stands outside snapping. ''Is it just a

carry-on?''

A few women fall for them totally -- perhaps their good looks help

here -- and oblige their requests. As Alan stands chipper in the

background one elegantly dressed lady is persuaded to lean nonchalantly

against a litter bin. Her pose is gradually adjusted until her arm is

completely in the bin but her fixed smile stays constant for Nicolas and

his camera. Another woman, snuggling up to Alan in front of a designer

shop window, unaware that they are mimicing the pose of the mannequins

behind them, suddenly spots me scribbling notes and is at first enraged

-- ''are they pulling my leg?'' -- but soon gets the joke.

Then Theatre Decale unbutton their jackets, remove their glasses and

hats, and immediately melt into the crowd. Over coffees at Rogano they

reckon this has been a good day. Alan was hit (''just gently'') by an

impatient car but they weren't arrested -- as they have sometimes been

in their base town of Paris. If anything, Glaswegians have been almost

too obliging.

One man, watching their predicament with the map, had came over to

help and -- somewhat to their dismay -- spoke fluent French. He pointed

out that their map was one of a town in Austria (they meekly pretended

ignorance) then marched them down to Strathclyde Transport Information

Office for Zonecard maps. He missed all the clues they were sending out

and as he had so thoroughly fallen for their ''deceit'' they didn't have

the heart to tell him.

I have every sympathy with him. I am constantly unsure if I am playing

victim to their satire, yet I warm to their clever humour. When asked

about the mime elements of their work they elaborately send themselves

up. ''This is mime,'' intones Alan gravely, picking an apple from a

tree. Nicolas objects. ''That was a pear!''

For a few moments they seem to shrug back into their characters' skin

and idly harangue the waiter who, with impeccable aplomb, smiles

politely back.

A consummate double act who have been working together since they met

at the Parisian theatre school, l'Ecole Jacques Lecoq, eight years ago

(they have been resident in Paris ever since although Alan hails from

Newcastle and Nicolas from Belgium), they play verbal games with each

other, accusing one another of hogging the conversation and gently

sparring over the topic of the one-man play which Alan is currently

rehearsing. The director lives in London, the set is being built in

Newcastle, but the show, No Joseph, opens in Paris, on May 31 in the

Theatre du Nesle.

''It's inspired by Nicolas,'' he explains, eyeing his partner warily

as he listens with mock-patience. ''It's about a guy who was part of a

double act with another guy, only in transition this has became a bird.

The bird has left him but has invaded his pysche. He even dresses up

like a bird, a sort of transvestitism.''

Nicolas, not to be outdone, then tells me in great detail about his

one-man venture -- Rebirth. ''This guy goes to his therapist . . .

avant-garde . . . huge model of a woman onstage . . . slides down the

womb . . . head gets stuck for half an hour.'' I ardently take notes

until Alan's shaking shoulders and the sheer improbability of Nicolas's

vision alert me. Like all those gullible pedestrians outside I've just

been well and truly had. But hey, it was a lot of fun.