Macron stripping and Kermit boiling: The alternative guide to the Olympics opening ceremony
Once all the sport gets going, there is little at any Olympic Games which feels particularly unique to the host city or nation. The backdrop to the sailing might vary, the mascots shapeshift, but fencing in Athens looks a lot like fencing in Tokyo. A 50m butterfly race held in London is barely distinguishable from a 50m butterfly race held in Rio de Janeiro. Shot put is shot put, whatever turf you’re chucking it at.
This consistency means the opening and closing ceremonies take on even more importance. Here is where a host gets to cut loose, stamp their authority on things, tell their story and, if the mood takes them, get a little bit freaky. The flaming arrow from Barcelona 92; the painted scroll from Beijing 08; Emeli Sandé performing every single day during London 2012. Golden moments, all of them.
Paris will understand the brief. When the father of the modern Olympics, Pierre de Coubertin, a Frenchman, set out his vision for the Games in the late 19th-Century, he intended for it to include both athletic competitions and artistic achievements. In his memory, expect the French to go ouf.
While Paris 2024’s closing ceremony takes place at the Stade de France in a fortnight, the opening spectacular will happen at the Jardins du Trocadéro on the banks of the Seine on Friday night. The Eiffel Tower is assumed to be playing a healthy role. Celine Dion and Lady Gaga have been spotted in the city. But through nothing but sheer journalistic persistence and bin-diving, the Daily Telegraph – Team GB’s Daily Telegraph – has managed to secure an exclusive look at plans for tomorrow evening’s folies.* We can now reveal what to expect. So, on y va.
*Se détendre, lawyers, we haven’t really.
Act One: Gaul or Nothing
We begin in darkness, just as the planet did before the Age of Enlightenment. The first noises we hear are the raucous, piercing squeals of some 1,340 sanglier, or wild boar, released into the Jardins du Trocadéro. The atmosphere this creates is electric. The vibes? Pure porcine.
As we watch the feral hogs scour the area and bathe in the Fontaine de Varsovie, their eyes are drawn to the Pont d’léna, across which Gerard Depardieu and Timothée Chalamet are sprinting. Depardieu, shirtless and in high-waisted trousers, is reviving his role as Obelix. Chalamet, who is not French but has won inclusion on the basis of the accent in his name and the fact he’s incredibly famous, is our Asterix.
It is now abundantly clear we are in 50BC and Gaul is occupied by Rome. The boar represent the Roman Legionnaires. One by one, Depardieu and Obelix catch and kill the animals, while yelling their catchphrase, “Ils sont fous ces Romains!” (“These Romans are crazy!”).
It takes six hours for the final pig to be captured and slain. As they finish the job, édith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” plays. By this point, the global television audience understands it is in for a visceral, passionate ride through French history.
Act Two: Vive la Re?volution
(Between each act, while the next sequence is prepared, the cameras cut to the Arc de Triomphe, where innovative lighting technology makes it look as if the gargantuan limestone monument is giving a slow-motion Gallic shrug. Above it, a drone display spells out the word “BOF”.)
The second act is all about resistance and rebellion – which, of course, is part of the French DNA. It begins with Brigitte Bardot playing Joan of Arc. Impressively, given she is 89 and in ill health, the screen icon is 330m in the air, tied to the antenna at the top of the Eiffel Tower, rambling about being alone with God and daring to fail.
Suddenly she ignites, the antenna a flaming stake. The symbolism is deeply profound, if a little heavy-handed. Next, Bardot disappears as the Eiffel Tower transforms into a giant Gitanes cigarette, the fire at its tip a lit end, the dry ice all around it a relieved exhalation. Perfect.
Next we get a staging of the hit musical Les Misérables. Straight up, no real changes from what you’d see on Shaftesbury Avenue. It was so logistically difficult to put Bardot up there that it just seemed easier. Afterwards, things are brought up to date as 8,000 cyclists wearing Gilet jaunes pedal about in a black beret the size of a football pitch – a reference to the French Resistance. We agree, the portioning of time does not seem fair here.
Act Three: Amour, more, more
A specifically designed intermission for anybody watching who wishes to see their paramour and make love. It is, after all, Friday night. The organisers are aware it will have been many hours since this has been possible.
As this happens, the children’s choir made famous for paying tribute to Serge Gainsbourg in what is widely considered the greatest video of all time will reunite. Not to be missed.
Act Four: Prêt-à-manger
A delicious tribute to French gastronomy, starting with Dom Joly slithering across the stage, reprising his snail character from Trigger Happy TV. Here, Raymond Blanc enters the fray. He pounces on l’escargot and smothers Joly in garlic, before removing his chef’s hat.
With this, it’s revealed that he is not alone: Nicholas Sarkozy, bless him, is playing Remi, the rat from the iconic cookery motion picture Ratatouille. He has been pulling the strings – and Blanc’s hair. Marvellous.
With the snails taken care of, Kermit the Frog sashays across the park to a soundtrack of Daft Punk’s “Lose Yourself to Dance”. Oo la la. The audience thinks it knows what’s going to happen, except it doesn’t. From nowhere, the blades of the Moulin Rouge windmill, reimagined as brie, come loose and chase him into the Seine, in which Kermit slowly boils.
In a chic flourish, the river water turns red – to symbolise frog blood, yes, but also a tannic vin rouge. The amount of food colouring required to achieve this effect may scupper all the good work done to clean the Seine, but the mayor has insisted it will be worth it for the visuals.
Act Five: La grève
This would have been a really terrific bit, but the entire cast, creatives and crew went on strike yesterday. Désolée.
Act Six: Emmanuelcipation
A simply titillating end to the show featuring, for the first time, President Emmanuel Macron (impressive restraint, sir). As French music duo Air play their 1998 international breakthrough single “Sexy Boy”, Macron slowly strips. Dancers dressed as croissants join him, but the focus is still very much on the beleaguered leader.
Once in his underwear, Macron begins doing press-ups. Johnny Depp joins, because Johnny Depp was never not going to get involved in this sort of thing, and appears to be playing Vladimir Putin. Macron punches him. The croissants swoon. Air begin covering “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Brigitte Macron, dressed as Marie Antoinette, hands out cake to children paid to look grateful.
We will level with you: this bit of the ceremony is absolute chaos, even by the standards of what we’ve already outlined. Towards the end, Marine Le Pen’s face is created by a fleet of Citroen 2CVs, before Zinedine Zidane headbutts each one up the Champs-élysées.
It’s probably a bit much. It’s definitely a bit much. But by now it will be dawn. Nobody will be watching. The athletes still haven’t started parading out. Tom Daley, Team GB’s flag-bearer, has collapsed. Mon dieu. Fin, fin.
