Clément Schneider
Simon Rembado
Although La Cure brilliantly combines the ingredients of vaudeville with those of a mushy sitcom, Clément Schneider, director of the magnificent Un violent désir de bonheur, and Simon Rembado create, with an economy of means that forgoes no detail, a form of theatre of cruelty where the loudly professed desire to love or be loved only gives rise to the petty crimes of everyday life: meanness, cowardice, indifference, denial….The dialogue is unfettered, with a caustic and lively repartee. Outside, off-screen, the world is threatening, overwhelmed by the pandemic and plagued by repeated political and social crises. The characters have taken refuge in a family house in the depths of the countryside. Fashioned in neither a naturalistic style nor with Bressonian detachment, they all personify a type: eternal doctorate student, failed artist, depressed activist, upstart mistress… Together they paint a harsh picture of a protected and selfish social class, rather than a large family where everyone looks out for each other. As if the off-screen rumble were an episode of delirium, Kevin offers up a caricature of the people, as we like to imagine them, but have never met. Tight framing, a lack of perspective and closeups of closed faces that are rarely softened by a smile: they all remain in their own bubble, on the verge of implosion. Cut off from the world, the characters – played by a bespoke cast whose excellent performance is truly impressive – are above all cut off from themselves. A corrosive huis-clos that borrows its narrative from Children From the Sun by Gorki (1905), The Cure is a satirical portrait of introversion and a terrible emotional dysfunction that results from, or is the cause of, political disenchantment. Deep down we wonder: should we be laughing or crying. They are impossible to love, and yet we cannot truly hate them, as to do so, would be to despise the reflection that we might recognize in the mirror so cleverly placed before us.
(Claire Lasolle)