Formidable France — Paris Olympic Games 2024 opening, a ceremony like never before

“The history of France is this: a story that clashes, is rebuilt, then deconstructed,” Thomas Jolly, a French actor, director and the creative mind behind the Paris Olympic ceremony, said in a recent interview with The New York Times. 

On the night of 26 July, history indeed clashed, deconstructed and rebuilt itself.

Jolly, along with his team that included journalist/TV presenter Daphné Bürki (the ceremony’s stylist), actor and author Damien Gabriac (costume director), choreographer/dancer Maud Le Pladec and historian/author/professor at the Collège de France, Patrick Boucheron, created 12 scenes built around 12 words:  

1. “Enchanted”;
2. “Synchronicity”;
3. “Liberty”;
4. “Equality”;
5. “Brotherhood”;
6. “Sisterhood”;
7. “Sportiness”;
8. “Festivity”;
9. “Obscurity”;
10. “Solidarity”;
11. “Solemnity”; and
12. “Eternity”.

Fashioning a ceremony around a selection of words already presented a challenge. 

In a country attached to its republican values and the Constitution’s First Amendment, which proclaims that “France shall be an indivisible, secular, democratic and social Republic”, words are often fiercely debated. 

The bedrock of a societal “model”, the word “secularity” — the separation of church and state, a concept that was made into law in 1905 — is repeatedly debated in tense and polarising discussions. 

Like the Turritopsis dohrnii, it returns, proud and immense, reminding us that words can — and should — change, evolve and reshape to reflect our ever-changing world. Words don’t lose their power as they grow; they don’t lose their beauty when dissected, broken down or multiplied. But they certainly lose their lustre if they remain stuck in the past.

The 2024 Olympic Games opening ceremony clashed with, deconstructed and rebuilt words and ideas against the walls of Paris’ most famous monuments. 

And what a feast this was! 

The ceremony followed the “Bateaux Mouches”, a fleet of barges that took athletes from around the world down the River Seine, over 6km, starting at the Austerlitz bridge and going all the way to the Trocadéro, across the river from the Eiffel Tower. 

Each “scene” opened with different historic buildings as a backdrop, rethinking and reinterpreting history with one message at its core: our common humanity and inclusivity. 

Using movement, dance, language, music, costumes and pyrotechnics, it revolutionised window frames, marched over paved bridges, nudged at classical statues, circled venerable columns, swung down ancient staircases, flew over rooftops and hustled the Republic with fabulous joie de vivre (and yes, giving a delicious middle finger to the far right, which came once again so close to victory at the recent national elections).

But the ceremony wasn’t done in response to France’s snap elections. According to Bürki, it took the team two years to write the scenario, weaving together the history and values of the Olympic Games and those of a complex, nuanced and layered city. 

It took two years, with teams split across France, 3,000 artists rehearsing in secrecy, and more than 3,000 costumes made of upcycled and recycled material, to bring to life what many called a historic event. 

In an interview with the French radio channel France Inter, the morning after the opening, Bürki explained that they tried to work with the “grey colours of Paris’ sky” and that they hoped “for everyone to feel represented … and to show the richness of French society”. 

Even if the ceremony wasn’t a direct response to the elections, it lyrically challenged conservative and traditionalist ideas and addressed the notion that history must either be destroyed and erased to be reinvented or left untouched to be preserved.

Art is by default political. It exists to help us see things differently and think about the world in ways we might not have otherwise, caught as we are in the business of our daily lives. In all its often uncomfortable or unusual beauty, art breaks the speed of everythingness to make us stop and contemplate. 

And so, for more than three hours, art exploded in front of our eyes, outside of the confines of what can usually be intimidating and elitist spaces: galleries, museums, monuments, stadiums. 

For more than three hours, art burst into colours and sounds, bouncing off towering brick walls (a parallel with the May ’68 barricades?) reminding us that history can be all at once celebrated, honoured, challenged and reinvented.  

There is nothing more empowering than French-Malian Aya Nakamura dressed in metallic gold (a medal!) performing a medley of her hits

style="font-weight: 400;">Pookie and

style="font-weight: 400;">Djadja and Charles Aznavour’s For Me Formidable with the orchestra of the French Republican Guard right in front of the Académie Française. 

Officially created in 1635, the Académie is “the principal French council for matters pertaining to the French language”. The academy refused in October 2017 to make the French language, which is gendered, more inclusive. And just last year, President Emmanuel Macron “opposed gender-inclusive spelling” like the use of “they” as a gender-neutral pronoun, at the inauguration of the French language museum. 

Nakamura is continually attacked by the far right, with racist, sexist and vicious comments posted and voiced about her work, her person and the slang she uses in her songs.

What better way then, to gracefully and joyfully shake up the institution than with Nakamura exiting that very monument of “Frenchness” singing songs that stretch and rethink the French language with the Republican Guard tailing her? A Guard dressed in traditional costumes, made by exclusive ateliers that preserve and safeguard centuries of craftsmanship.

There it was: history recognised, remembered, challenged and awakened.   

It wasn’t the only place, of course — just before, the heavy metal band Gojira and opera singer Marina Viotti performed at La Conciergerie. There again, people gasped at the sight of what looked like a guillotined Marie Antoinette, her dangling head singing: “Ah ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates on les pendra!”, “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, the aristocrats we will hang them”, a French revolutionary song first heard in May 1790.

On France Inter, Gabriac explained, “We wrote the ceremony following the fleet of athletes [on the Seine], passing the Conciergerie where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned before being guillotined. 

“We thought, we have to talk about the French Revolution. We are known worldwide for this historical event… We wanted it to be filled with energy, the energy of the French Revolution, and so Gojira, a heavy metal band, along with guillotined heads … it was also a snub to London and the queen of England and James Bond!” Gabriac said with a laugh.

Irreverent? Absolutely. But it did help us shatter the mould of our fears and face them head-on, ensuring we don’t become fossilised.

And then there was a scene that many viewers associated with a rendition of “La Cène” — another beautiful language quip, La Seine and La Cène are pronounced the same in French. (“L’Ultima Cena” is Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting representing the Last Supper of Jesus with the 12 apostles.) 

Over the River Seine, a cosmopolitan festival: a drag show, a catwalk, a living painting with Belgian visual artist Philippe Katerine rising from a plate as Dionysus, a mix of poetry, fun and festivity.

Many criticised the scene for being offensive to Christian values. To this, Piche, a drag performer, responded in an interview with The Parisien: 

“Nobody was dressed as Jesus, nobody parodied him, not in their costumes, not in their behaviours. The idea was to bring a new outlook. In the past, there have been many representations of the Last Supper and it never bothered anyone. But when it is done by drag [performers] and people from the LGBT community, it is offensive. But we’re used to it. People are obsessed with questions of gender that pique conservatives.” 

On BFMTV Thomas Jolly said that the Last Supper wasn’t the inspiration behind the scene.

“I thought it was quite clear: there is Dionysus who arrives on this table, Dionysus who is here because he is the god of festivity and the scene is called ‘festivity’... the god of wine-making which is also a symbol of France, and he is the father of Sequana, the goddess of the River Seine. The idea was rather to portray a big pagan party linked to the gods of Olympe…”

At a press conference, Jolly added: “This ceremony is political, just like I am, in the Greek sense of the word ‘polis’, the city, the continent, the world.

“There is no desire to be subversive or to offend but to say, we are this large ‘We’ with Republican ideas of inclusion, generosity, solidarity that we all are craving so much right now. Here, artistic creativity is free, we have this freedom. There is no desire to send militant messages but republican ones: in France, we have the right to love who we want and as we want, we have the right to believe or not to believe. The idea was to show those values.” 

And so, just like the galloping silver horsewoman, a revamped Pegasus crossing Paris, who carried the Olympic flag to its final destination, values of love, inclusion, diversity, sorority and togetherness travelled through the night. 

From the masked torchbearer (an ode to Assassin’s Creed, created by French video game publisher Ubisoft), mezzo-soprano Axelle Saint-Cirel singing La Marseillaise, dressed by Dior, atop the Grand Palais, to the rising statues of historical French women, and athletes Marie-José Pérec and Teddy Riner lightening the Cauldron of the Olympic Games (created by the French designer Mathieu Lehanneur), now flying 30m high above Paris, a “100% electric flame without fuel thanks to EDF, made of water and light”, according to the official Olympic site) to Céline Dion’s return, singing Edith Piaf’s L’Hymne à l’Amour, the evening was eccentric, surprising and formidable. 

Boucheron explained on France Inter: “I don’t know if it’s a historical opening ceremony, I don’t know what one ceremony can do to History, but I know it was important at one point, to portrait our society in a resembling way; and the place where we live; and above all, the place where we’re going, where we would like to go, in a world where we can feel encouraged that yes, indeed, we can live together. For this, we need to put our efforts together, our energy, our past, our traditions, our cultures… And yes, many of us want that.”

Today, France continues to grapple with racism, sexism, antisemitism and traditionalism. The far right is no longer lurking in the background; it is present in the Assembly, inching closer to power, and fuelling its agenda with a dangerous fervour. 

Despite its proclamations, France isn’t always welcoming and inclusive of other cultures, languages and differences. It doesn’t consistently protect its most vulnerable communities nor does it prioritise women’s rights. Resistant to change, France can be messy, chaotic and unruly. It strikes, complains and resists, yet it remains a country of nuances, hope and idealism. 

Here, love can flourish in any form, and maybe the ideals of liberty, equality and togetherness can forever triumph over nationalism and obscurity. DM   

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