Imaginary interview with Coluche
by Charactorium · Coluche (1944 — 1986) · Performing Arts · Society · 6 min read
Late afternoon in a dressing room cluttered with motorcycle jackets and cups of cold coffee, somewhere between a Europe 1 studio and a café-theatre. The man in the striped overalls slumps onto a stool, lights a cigarette, and eyes you sideways, wary like a kid about to be questioned about his mischief. He sets one condition: "We'll joke, but we'll tell it like it is."
—How does a kid from the Paris suburbs end up founding a café-theatre?
I was born in 1944 in the 14th arrondissement, a place where we counted every penny, so you could say I wasn't raised to be an artist. Then in 1969, with Romain Bouteille and the Café de la Gare, we cobbled together a place where we could say anything, get on stage without a diploma, without anyone's permission. It was a stable of madmen, we played for a handful of people in a room that smelled of beer, and that's where I learned my trade. The café-théâtre for me wasn't a career, it was a bunch of friends who refused to shut up. Patrick Dewaere hung around, we were young, we had nothing to lose. Nothing is still the easiest thing to lose.
We played for a handful of people in a room that smelled of beer, and that's where I learned my trade.
—What made your humor different from that of traditional cabarets?
The others told well-groomed stories with a punchline you could see coming. Me, I preferred the lost guy, the one who stammers, the one everyone makes fun of. C'est l'histoire d'un mec, in 1974, is just that: a guy who can't finish his joke, and it's the fact that he can't that makes you laugh. I spoke the way people talk at the bar, with wisecracks, provocation, swear words when needed. The self-righteous found it vulgar. But real vulgarity isn't saying "shit," it's letting people starve while you're in a three-piece suit. I always aimed at those on top, never those below. That was my only rule, and I stuck to it.
Real vulgarity isn't saying "shit," it's letting people starve.
—How did that presidential candidacy in 1980 go from a joke to something serious?
At first it was a joke, one more. I get on stage and announce: "I'm running for President of the Republic. All together to screw them, with the only candidate who has no reason to lie." And then, disaster: people laugh, but they agree. Polls give me up to 16%. A clown in overalls worrying guys who think they're Jupiter, can you imagine the panic in the ministries! It became serious because my joke said out loud what people were thinking quietly: that they were being taken for fools. I touched something, and it scared me a little too.
A clown in overalls worrying guys who think they're Jupiter.
—Why did you eventually withdraw that candidacy?
Because it starts to smell bad when a provocation works too well. They let me know, gently, that the fun was over. There was pressure, barely veiled threats, the atmosphere getting heavy around me. I'm a comedian, not a kamikaze. My thing is the microphone and the stage, not backroom deals where you sell your soul by the pound. I withdrew my candidacy, but I didn't take back anything I said. The political class had been scared of a guy in yellow sneakers, and no poll can ever erase that. I had done my job: shown them, in a mirror, what they looked like.
I'm a comedian, not a kamikaze.
—Do you remember the audience's reaction when they saw you in a dramatic role?
People came to see the overalls and the red nose, and then they stumble upon a poor guy at rock bottom. Tchao Pantin, in 1983, it was Claude Berri who dared to give me that role, a broken night watchman, silent, the complete opposite of my act. I was scared, I swear, more than in front of any audience. And then in 1984, I find myself with the César for Best Actor in my hands, me, the joker no one took seriously. The best part was the silence in the room when I played: for once, they weren't laughing, and that was worth all the laughter in the world.
They weren't laughing, and that was worth all the laughter in the world.
—Laughter and drama, are they so far apart for you?
It's the same job, old friend, it's just the lighting you change. A good comic knows misery better than anyone, otherwise what would he make people laugh about? When I put on my striped overalls and bright yellow sneakers, I was playing a poor guy acting smart. In Tchao Pantin, I just took off the costume, kept the poor guy, and stopped acting smart. Laughter is sadness that found an emergency exit. Sad clowns aren't a postcard image, it's the strict truth of the job. Making people laugh means taking their blues and giving them back as glitter. It wears you out, in the long run.
Laughter is sadness that found an emergency exit.
—How was the idea for Restos du Cœur born, that morning in September 1985?
It came out of nowhere, on the microphone of Europe 1, September 26, 1985. I blurted out: "I have a little idea like that... something if maybe some rich people want to help us, we could set up a free canteen in Paris." That's it, it wasn't a program, it was a cry over a table corner. I couldn't stand it: "It's not normal that in France, a rich country, there are people who are hungry." We thought we'd do a small winter thing, help out two or three people. And the first winter, we distributed nearly 8.5 million meals. A number like that teaches you humility. It means hunger was there, close by, and no one saw it.
It wasn't a program, it was a cry over a table corner.
—What do you say to those who think a comedian shouldn't play the crusader?
I tell them I have a microphone and they listen to me: might as well use it for something. This new poverty, as the papers call it, is people who were working yesterday and are queuing today, because unemployment keeps rising, rising. I'm neither a priest nor a minister, I'm just a guy who refuses to eat in peace knowing his neighbor has an empty stomach. The volunteers who show up by the thousands, they're the heroes, not me; I just shouted into a radio. A country that needs a comedian to feed its poor should be a little ashamed. I do what I can with what I've got, that is, my big mouth.
A country that needs a comedian to feed its poor should be a little ashamed.
—That first Enfoirés concert, with all those singers together, what does it mean to you?
The idea was for stars to lend their voices to fill plates. I gathered Jean-Jacques Goldman, Michel Platini and a bunch of others, people who had nothing to gain from it except the satisfaction of being useful. I called them les Enfoirés, of course, you know me, I wasn't going to give them a sugary compliment. It's a word from my neck of the woods, familiar, a bit mean, but said with all the tenderness in the world. The idea is as simple as a meal tray: we sing, people pay for their seats, and that makes meals for those who have nothing. If this thing could continue without me, year after year, then I would have left something more solid than three sketches.
I called them les Enfoirés, said with all the tenderness in the world.
—Where does your passion for motorcycles and speed come from?
The motorcycle is the only place where no one asks you to be a clown. With the helmet on, you're no longer the TV guy, you're nothing but a speeding dot. In 1985, I pushed a prototype beyond 250 km/h, a world record, and at that moment you think of nothing, that's the luxury. After years of making all of France laugh, finally having an empty head is almost restful. People think speed is recklessness; for me it was the opposite, a way of being totally present, totally there, one second at a time. I know it can end badly. But dying doing what you love isn't the worst way to go.
The motorcycle is the only place where no one asks you to be a clown.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Coluche's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.