Imagine stumbling upon a teacher who not only changes your perspective on life but also teaches you to embrace the absurdity of it all. That’s exactly what happened to Simon McBurney when he crossed paths with the legendary clown Philippe Gaulier. But here’s where it gets controversial: Gaulier’s philosophy wasn’t about accumulating knowledge or carrying baggage—it was about letting go of everything, even the idea of knowing anything at all. Bold, right? Let’s dive in.
At 24, McBurney found himself in Paris, accidentally wandering into Gaulier’s class. What he discovered was a provocateur, a master of hilarity, and a teacher who demanded nothing less than complete vulnerability. Gaulier’s mantra? We’re all ridiculous. And in that ridiculousness lies the essence of humanity. No baggage, no preconceived ideas—just the raw, unfiltered experience of being alive. This approach wasn’t just about comedy; it was a radical way of living.
Gaulier’s background was as colorful as his personality. His Spanish mother cooked meals they devoured in his apartment, surrounded by writings labeled with the word “rêves” (dreams). His disdain for authority was palpable—he referred to his father as “ce salaud bourgeois” (that bourgeois arsehole) and proudly recounted being expelled from school at eight for punching a gymnastics teacher who tried to impose military-style discipline. And this is the part most people miss: Gaulier’s hatred for inauthenticity extended to politicians, academics, and fascists, but his most scathing term was reserved for “collaborateurs”—a postwar French insult dripping with contempt. His delivery? A mix of gastronomic relish and wicked laughter that was impossible to forget.
Their first meeting in 1980 was unforgettable. Gaulier’s appearance alone was a spectacle: a wild tangle of a mustache, a pipe clenched between his teeth, unruly hair, and a bright green sagging sweater. His eyes, framed by round glasses, missed nothing and took everything lightly—except the potential for humor or pretension. The room buzzed with anticipation; everyone knew Gaulier offered something unique, but no one knew exactly what.
Their interaction began simply: a handshake, a pause, a look. “Bonsoir,” Gaulier said. “Bonsoir,” McBurney replied. Then, with a spark in his eye, Gaulier asked, “You arre eeengleesh?” McBurney hesitated, “Yes… er… Oui.” Gaulier’s response? “Tout le monde a des problèmes.” (Everyone has problems.) A wicked laugh followed—the first lesson had begun.
Gaulier’s classroom was a playground of deconstruction and rebuilding. There were no fixed styles, no rigid ideas. Each student was scrutinized, challenged, insulted, and, most importantly, played with. His generosity was boundless, his humor gut-wrenching, and his persistence tireless. He taught them to fail, to start again, and to abandon their own ideas because the problem wasn’t the ideas—it was the fear of performing them.
Here’s the controversial bit: When people laugh at you, it exposes a truth, and that vulnerability is what makes us human. In real life, we dread being laughed at, but with Gaulier, it became a tool for connection. Sharing this fallibility with an audience is an anarchic act, unlike anything in other art forms. As Gaulier put it, “If an actor has forgotten what it is like to play as a child, they should not be an actor.”
Over martinis at a bar during a lunch break, Gaulier declared McBurney his assistant, and they discussed the serious business of the afternoon session. “Tiens, mon petit, on va chercher de l’inspiration,” he said, leaning across the bar, pipe in mouth. “Deux grands martini gins…”
Gaulier’s legacy isn’t just in his teachings but in the questions he leaves us with. Is letting go of everything truly the path to freedom? Can embracing our ridiculousness reveal our humanity? What do you think? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s keep the conversation as lively as Gaulier’s mustache.
