In your adaptation of Querelle de Roberval, violence—social, economic, or sexual—plays a central role. You adopt the viewpoint of Jézabel to try and understand how someone can commit an unforgivable act. Why did you take this approach?

For me, the basic question is simple but mind-boggling: what causes violence to occur? In Kev Lambert’s novel, as in my adaptation of it, a woman, Jézabel, observes and moves through a masculine world. We share her perspective as she tries to understand how social injustice can lead to murder.

The play raises a question: if you belong to a minority, such as a queer man, an Indigenous person, or a struggling worker, do you need to use violence to make yourself heard? The instinctive response is of course “no.” But history and current events are a reminder that, far too often, it is murdered bodies that make the public aware of a cause. Theatre provides a space to address this destructive urge without glorifying it by situating it within the framework of tragedy. One of the functions of tragedy is to exorcise violence by showing it, so that it becomes something we think about rather than something we do.

You emphasize the fantastical aspect of the story. Why did you choose to go back and forth between the real and the imaginary?

For me, Querelle is not a realistic character. He is too handsome, too free, too threatening. He’s a fantastical figure projected by others’ perceptions of him. From the outset, I wanted to put the audience in the position of a voyeur. The set design features numerous openings, like peepholes or glory holes. We view Querelle through a circle, a screen, or a crack.

This choice makes it possible to avoid the pitfalls of straightforward realism. Showing an explicit sex scene on stage quickly kills desire—but my goal is maintain the sense of tension and obsession. Sounds, fragmented images, and hints are enough to keep the urge alive.

The work of the Ballet-Opéra-Pantomime (BOP) is vital in this regard. Along with Yves Daoust, who’s a musique concrète pioneer and a sound technician for films, we explored how to convey violence and desire using audio material. Breaking a stick of celery can evoke a broken leg, sometimes more vividly than miming a fight. Sound has a kinesthetic power that’s felt by the spectator. Then there’s the organ. An organist plays on stage in an 18-wheeler truck that’s sitting idle because of the strike. The organ invokes both the sacred and the funereal. Its sound resonates throughout the play and reminds us that we’re watching a tragedy. Thanks to BOP, the overall sonic architecture enhances the work’s fantastic aspect, sexual tension, and tragic dimension all at once.

In the novel, carnal desire and social struggle are closely linked. How do you express the parallels between the working body, the desiring body, and the resisting body?

As Catherine Dorion writes in Les luttes fécondes, desire is a motivating force. Whether bodies are burning with wanting or rage, the intensity is the same, which Kev Lambert’s novel had already noted.

Querelle embodies this in spite of himself: his freedom attracts and seduces people, but it also divides them. His very presence draws a crowd and inflames passions, but at the same time, it arouses jealousy and violence. In the striking sawmill, each character is redefined: some discover a new sense of solidarity, while others reveal their misogyny and intolerance.

The strike therefore becomes a political and personal catalyst. It reveals both the possibility of collective engagement and the brutality of toxic virility. Desire and politics become intertwined—sometimes to liberate, sometimes to destroy.

Your adaptation mixes the crude, vernacular language of Lac Saint-Jean with the powerful language of Kev Lambert and the queer literary tradition. How did you weave all this together?

I was fascinated by the dual language of the novel: vernacular and rooted in the Lac Saint-Jean region when dealing with labour struggles, literary when describing bodies and sex. I wanted to respect this linguistic richness in my adaptation while adding my own voice to it, which is influenced by oral speech and theatrical dialogue.

The play has many antecedents. Naturally, since our work is based on the book by Kev Lambert, Jean Genet’s novel Querelle de Brest looms over it. But I was thinking about Fassbinder as well, who in his film adaptation of Genet’s novel was able to express the brutality of desire using theatrical imagery. With the help of researchers and allies, I also immersed myself in a tradition of gay literature—from Éric Noël to Guillaume Dustan—that deals with shame and queer power.

I think this intertextuality is what makes Querelle so rich: it’s both rooted in a specific region and indebted to a broader literary heritage. For me, this adaptation is a way to follow in the footsteps of others and find the contemporary relevance in a work that addresses both violence and freedom, oppression and beauty.

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