Gag Reflex

Political satire is no picnic: Les Zapartistes. From left: François Parenteau, Christian Vanasse, Nadine Vincent and François Patenaude. Photo by Louis Longpré. Courtesy Les Zapartistes.

“Vive le Canada libre!” shouts comic François Parenteau at the crowd of about 300 gathered in Lion d’Or, a dimly lit cabaret bar on the eastern edge of Montreal’s notoriously hip Plateau Mont Royal neighbourhood. Earlier in the evening, Parenteau — a founding member of Quebec satirical comedy troupe Les Zapartistes — explained his fresh spin on the nationalist slogan Vivre le Quebec libre: “We want to free English Canada from the oppression of Quebec federalist politicians who have monopolized power in Ottawa for the last 30 years.”

Les Zapartistes’ amusing and original case for Quebec sovereignty obviously appeals to this audience of mostly 20- and 30-something francophones. The club’s smoky air is thick with laughter. From behind podiums, four Zapartistes in black business suits read from their 900-word “Manifeste” (manifesto). In it, they reveal themselves as left wing, feminist, environmentalist and independantiste  (they want Quebec to be a separate country). But lest any Parti Québécois member in the room feel at ease, Les Zapartistes remind their fans that, on stage, they “have no friends.”

Indeed, their satire is hilariously irreverent. Through a roster of brilliantly executed characters — among them a breathy and clueless (but well-dressed) Michaëlle Jean and a greasily arrogant Jean Charest (the best imitation I’ve seen in English or French) — the comedy troupe stabs relentlessly at the left, the right and the middle-of-the-road. With their mastery of the spoken word and their political astuteness, Les Zapartistes rant as fearlessly and poetically as Mary Walsh and Rick Mercer in the early days of This Hour Has 22 Minutes.

Their exclusive focus on political satire makes the Zapartistes a rare commodity in Quebec’s comedy scene, which has grown exponentially in the last few years. While Quebec’s thriving stage show industry — which includes dance, theatre and singing acts — grew by 40 per cent between 1998 and 2004, in that same period, the comedy sector ballooned by nearly 300 per cent — meaning the number of people buying tickets for stand-up comedy quadrupled.

Despite their popularity, Quebec’s mainstream stand-up comics have been widely criticized for having more to sell than to say. Many of the comics here make millions peddling everything from cell phones to groceries. And with a few exceptions, most of the material produced by Quebec’s mostly male comics tends to be of the men-are-from-Mars, women-are-from-Venus variety. Not so for Les Zapartistes, whose name is a portmanteau word that references the Zapatistas (the independence movement centred in Chiapas, Mexico) and L’Aparté, the Montreal café where the performers first met. “We founded the troupe for our own mental health,” explains Zapartiste Nadine Vincent, former owner of the now-closed L’Apart café. “We were getting frustrated with what was going on around us. So we decided to do a cabaret,” says Vincent, who has a PhD in linguistics and works as a researcher on a Quebec French dictionary project. It was early 2001 and there was lots of material to draw on. Jean Chrétien had just obtained his third majority and thousands of protesters were preparing to converge in Quebec City for the April 2001 Summit of the Americas. The theme of the troupe’s first cabaret in February 2001 was globalization; since then, it has done eight others, on subjects ranging from 9/11 to freedom of expression.

This season, Les Zapartistes aim their vitriol at a group of prominent Quebecers who in the fall of 2005 published a manifesto entitled Pour un Québec lucide (“For a clear-eyed vision of Quebec”). The document’s writers — which include Lucien Bouchard, André Pratte, the editor of Montreal’s French language daily La Presse, and film producer Denise Robert (Denys Arcand’s wife) —  warn of a looming economic crisis if something isn’t done about what they see as Quebec’s inflexible unions and unproductive workforce, as well as the province’s declining birthrate.

A poster for a Les Zapartistes cabaret. Illustration by Eric Godin. Courtesy Les Zapartistes.

Accusing Quebecers of “denying or ignoring” the dangers ahead, the tone of the original document is melodramatic. But in the hands of the Zapartistes, the text of Pour un Québec lucide is transformed into alarmist hyperbole, with an ecclesiastical twist. In one sketch, a scarily fervent Catholic priest in flowing white (played by Christian Vanasse) reads from selected passages of the document, as organ music plays in the background. The audience is asked to stand, then kneel, in reverence to the god of free trade. But it is Parenteau’s maniacal “Lou-Lou Bouchard,” clad in the floor-length robes of a 17th-century Catholic Monsignor, who gets the biggest laughs. He shouts and sputters that Quebecers have to work harder and procreate: “In my time, we worked 30 hours a day, walked barefoot on glass to get home and slept in pyjamas made of steel wool.”

In a mock game show called the “Asian Challenge” —  the term used by lucide’s authors to describe the manufacturing competition Quebec faces from China and India —  a middle-aged female Quebecer engages in a productivity contest, via satellite TV, with a woman working in an Asian sweatshop. “You have three minutes to sew thirty-five T-shirts, on a greasy floor, with no gloves or goggles,” the host tells the stunned contestant. “While you do this, your foreman will sexually harass you. And if you poke your eye out, you lose points.” A bell rings. “Time’s up.”

In a passionate soliloquy chastising Les Lucides for making no mention of environmental concerns, Christian Vanasse laments the destruction of the river he played in as a kid. “There are no frogs left in that river,” he quips. “As frogs, this should worry us.”

“If we hadn’t founded the cabaret, we would have gone mad,” says Parenteau, who’s a writer-comedian and, until he was fired last December, a weekly columnist on French CBC Radio. Parenteau was let go during the last federal election campaign; he believes it’s because he’s too sovereigntist. “Decision makers in the media are cowards about politics,” says Parenteau. In a show of solidarity, Vanasse gave up his weekly gig on another French CBC show.

Les Zapartistes say they have a responsibility to inform Quebecers about politics  — global, national and provincial. Their audience appears to appreciate it. “They have strong political positions. It makes you think,” said 32-year-old Montrealer Marie-Eve-Lyne Michel after the show at Lion d’Or. It was the first time she’d seen the troupe perform. “And they are rare, because they don’t care about consensus.”

Her friend, Steven Healey, also at the show, agreed. “We live in a society that’s very tolerant, almost to the point of indifference. But they have a clear message.”

One of their messages is that Quebec sovereignty is possible. “Canada’s a nice country. It’s just not mine,” says Vanasse in nearly flawless English. “We are part of a new generation. I haven’t had to fight to be served in French.”

Les Zapartistes don’t blame “the ethnics” for losing the 1995 referendum (as Quebec premier Jacques Parizeau did), but rather “cowardly bureaucrats in Quebec City who were afraid of losing their jobs.” They don’t appear to have much faith in new Parti Quebecois leader André Boisclair. In one sketch, a comic playing Jean Charest is asked, “So, Mr. Premier, you’re the most unpopular premier in Quebec history. Why are you smiling?” His response: “André Boisclair.”

In Parenteau’s view, Boisclair just doesn’t reach people. “He’s got that smile, but he sounds like a technocrat.”

Vanasse bemoans the fact that Quebec independence has long been associated with one political party; he says it’s the people’s idea. “Unfortunately, the discourse is always about the Parti Québécois.”

“This movement isn’t supported by a bunch of inbred lemmings ready to jump off a cliff for a charismatic leader,” adds Parenteau. “It’s a valid option that needs to be debated peacefully.” And, of course, with a sense of humour.

Patricia Bailey is a writer and broadcaster based in Montreal.

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