Théâtre du Châtelet

Stand for a moment in the open square and listen. Buses sigh to a halt along the quay. Footsteps echo up from the Metro stairs below. Somewhere behind you, the Seine runs grey-green under the Pont au Change. And in front of you rises a long, pale stone facade with a row of arches at street level, quietly waiting for evening. This is the Théâtre du Châtelet, one of the great stages of Paris.

The name comes from something you can no longer see. For centuries, a grim medieval fortress called the Grand Châtelet stood near this spot. It guarded the approach to the Île de la Cité, the island where Paris began. Over time it became a court and a notorious prison. It was demolished in the early nineteenth century. The fortress vanished, but its name stayed attached to the square, and later to the theatre.

What you see today belongs to the 1860s, the era of Baron Haussmann. Haussmann was the official who rebuilt much of Paris under Emperor Napoleon the Third. He cut wide boulevards through tangled medieval streets. Many old theatres stood in the way of this work and were torn down. The city needed new homes for them. So this square was redesigned as a stage set for the modern capital, with not one theatre, but two.

Now turn around and look across the square. The building facing you is the Théâtre de la Ville. It is a near twin of the Châtelet. Both were designed by the same architect, Gabriel Davioud, and both opened in the early 1860s. Davioud wanted them to mirror each other across the open space. Most visitors walk between them without noticing the pairing... but once you see it, the whole square starts to look like a carefully balanced composition.

Between the two theatres stands a tall column topped with a golden figure. This is the Palm Fountain. The column is older than the theatres. It was raised in the early nineteenth century to honour Napoleon's military victories, and its shaft is decorated like the trunk of a palm tree. When Haussmann rebuilt the square, the whole fountain was moved to its present spot. Davioud added the sphinxes at its base, which spout water into the basin.

Back to the Châtelet. When it opened, it was called the Théâtre Impérial du Châtelet, a reminder of the emperor who reshaped the city. It was built big. The house was designed for spectacle: grand productions, crowd scenes, elaborate scenery that could rise and fall from above. Through the late nineteenth century, audiences came here for lavish shows full of special effects, adventure stories and music. This was entertainment on a scale few rooms in Paris could match.

Here is the first surprise. In the early twentieth century, this theatre became a launchpad for the avant-garde. In 1909, the Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev brought his company to the Châtelet for a season of Russian opera and ballet. Paris had never seen dancing like it. The company that grew from these seasons, the Ballets Russes, changed how Europe thought about dance, music and stage design for decades.

And in 1917, in the middle of the First World War, the Ballets Russes premiered a ballet called Parade on this stage. Look at the team behind it. The music was by Erik Satie. The story came from the poet Jean Cocteau. The costumes and curtain were designed by Pablo Picasso. The audience reaction was famously mixed, and the evening entered art history. The poet Guillaume Apollinaire wrote about the production, and he used the word surrealism in that text, years before the word named a movement.

The Châtelet has worn many faces since then. In the middle of the twentieth century, it was known for big, colourful operettas, popular musical comedies with singing, dancing and romance. Later it turned toward serious opera and classical concerts, and for years it hosted the César awards, France's national film prizes. In the 2010s, it also became a home for American-style musicals. The stage adaptation of An American in Paris premiered here before it travelled to Broadway.

Notice how the building itself suits all these lives. The facade is calm and classical, almost modest for such a large theatre. Arches at ground level shelter the entrances. Above them, a loggia, a covered gallery with openings to the air, runs along the upper floor. Inside, the auditorium is red and gold, with curving balconies stacked one above another. In the late 2010s, the theatre closed for a major renovation and then reopened to the public.

Now look past the theatre toward the river side. The quay here has a working rhythm. Traffic flows along it. The bridges lead across to the Palais de Justice and the Conciergerie, where the old royal palace still stands. Beyond the theatre, a short walk away, the white Gothic Saint-Jacques Tower rises above the rooftops. It is all that survives of a medieval church. This corner of Paris is full of these layers.

Here is the second surprise. Under your feet lies one of the largest underground transport hubs in the world. The Châtelet area links several Metro lines and suburban trains. Every day, huge crowds pass beneath this quiet square without ever looking up at the theatre. That contrast is part of the charm. Up here is a grand stage of the nineteenth century. Below is the fast, crowded engine of modern Paris.

If you have time, try to come back for a performance. Even a short concert lets you sit in the hall where Diaghilev's dancers once stunned the city. And if not, simply stand here a little longer. Watch the light move across the pale stone. Look across at the twin theatre, then up at the golden figure on the column. As you walk away toward the river, listen once more to the buses and the footsteps... the city is still putting on its show.