Le Corbu

Architectural Review, The, June, 1997 by Lesley Hussell

Le Corbusier's Cite Radieuse stands like a beached ocean liner between the sea and the hills that ring Marseilles. Once despised and now revered, this national monument engagingly fulfils two complementary roles: a shrine for visiting architects and their pupils, and a backdrop to the daily lives of its 1500 inhabitants.

A magnet for the bourgeoisie of this truculent city, it is the most successful of Le Corbusier's 'machines for living in', having been transformed en-route from a novel scheme to house the poor into an urban version of the village idyll that burns in every Frenchman's heart. The old-fashioned community spirit and joie de vivre engendered by this concrete block set it apart from mundane metropolitan flat-dwelling.

Apartments are not advertised in estate agents' windows. Whether the aim is to buy or to rent, the only way to climb aboard is by word of mouth, coupled, if possible, with that most Mediterranean of business and social tools, 'le piston', or who you know. It is not a question of bribes and skulduggery, simply that the flats are now so popular that they change hands within days at prices which are above average for Marseilles: rents of [pounds]600 a month are typical for a 100 m sq apartment and they sell for [pounds]100 000.

The irony would not be lost on the critics who derided the project during construction as a 'slum', nor on the low-income families for whom it was originally intended but who refused to move into so strange an edifice and christened it colloquially 'la Maison du Fada' - the Madhouse.

State employees were the first occupants when the building opened in 1952, but gradually the 337 apartments have been colonised by liberal professionals like teachers, doctors, engineers, scientists, journalists and social workers.

They revel in its unconventionality: the third-floor shops, hotel and restaurant, the splendid roof terrace, the double-height rooms, the bright primary colours. And as the handful of ageing original residents potter around the gardens outside, a new generation of toddlers plays in the eighth-floor infants' school. Still rather mistrusted by the population at large, 'Le Corbu' remains one of the city's proudest talking-points.

A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF LE CORBU

MONDAY, 6.30 AM: The third-floor bakery opens for business and the building stirs sleepily. Children in pyjamas are sent to buy croissants, early dog-walkers head out of the lobby and the night security guard clocks off his shift. Little by little Le Corbusier comes to life. The first class of the day begins in the roof-top gym and grocer Bernard Perret sets up his fruit and vegetable stands.

A couple of tourists are breakfasting in the bar-restaurant after a night in one of the hotel's 25 rooms, which offer an authentic experience in cell-like, plain Corbusian living but are sadly devoid of original furniture, all stolen over the years and replaced by grim melamine. The hotel guests are mostly architects and students, and as they photograph and note each facet of the building, it is open to question whether it is the inhabitants who play the part of zoo animals or the visitors themselves.

MONDAY AFTERNOON: Eric Broquere, a pharmacist and writer, is alone on the roof terrace, wandering between sculpted concrete funnel vents and a stepped stage. 'This is the most inspiring part of the building. It is the perfect place to meditate, walk and dream, high in the sky amid sculptural forms. It was designed as a meeting place yet one can also find exquisite solitude here, it allows a remarkable synthesis of exchange and contemplation.'

TUESDAY AM: Martine Ricoux, headteacher at a private Catholic school, is enjoying a day off at home. Before she first entered Le Corbu, she had no desire at all to live there. Marseillaise born and bred, she knew it only by reputation - 'fada' - and its architectural significance was of scant interest. But after visiting a friend, she was converted. 'It hit me immediately: the warmth, the atmosphere, neighbours dropping by. It felt special, a world away from the curtain-twitching small-mindedness of other apartment blocks. I loved the wood floor and fittings and, above all, the fantastic view. When I look out at the shimmering Mediterranean and the little white boats, it truly makes my heart sing.'

Her flat, like the majority, has double aspect: over both hills to the east and sea to the west and so enjoys spectacular sunrise and sunset views all year round one of the architect's most appreciated inspirations.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON: clearing tables after a hectic lunch session, Jean-Marc Sialelli is tired but in good spirits. He and his wife Brigitte took over the bar-restaurant in January and have revitalised it. Cheerless and empty under previous management, it now hums with activities like a Chinese calligraphy class, couscous soirees and something Le Corbusier, no matter how visionary, could never have foreseen: break-dancing sessions.

WEDNESDAY AM: as France Emran strolls along the third floor, she passes a series of empty windows where once were a florist, butcher's and hairdresser's. The recession hit hard even in this relatively prosperous enclave and the latest victim is an art gallery which shut after a brave attempt to provide all imaginative service that the local hypermarket could not beat. With little passing trade and higher prices than city chain stores, the 'street' ironically mirrors the plight of hundreds of French villages and rubs a little gloss off the idyll.