It is beautiful, this Cassandra Archambault, in its floral dress, to run out on his bike. She repeats all the time his name – “I’m called Cassandra Archambault and I am born on 13 may 1986, Paris Xi”. As to justify its existence in the world. We found the same assertion in Moi, Daniel Blake of Ken Loach, who was a invisibility. The transparency of Cassandra is more metaphysical.

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early thirties, not depressed, she feels tiny in spite of his meter eighty. “Life is beautiful!”, dare she say it, in fear of passing for crazy. How dare the optimist while crying the children of Aleppo, the great Buddhas of Bamiyan, the temples of Palmyra? Self-centredness, perhaps. As a woman of Vitruvius, it’s a measure of his body, sought the figure of gold, of connections. It calculates the size of her legs. His bowel also: eight metres, it’s crazy, right? She concludes on an equilateral triangle between the tip of her breasts and her navel. In forty years, the report will it be the same?

It’s hot in the small room, Roland Topor, under the roof of the Roundabout. A fan is attached to the handlebar. The long poem (the show does not exceed one hour) of Nathalie Fillion is constructed as a rondo. This is the “sink or swim” of the bicycle. Cassandra repeats and pedal to lose his breath. The actress Manon Kneusé is this Cassandra Archambault. In a setting just impressionistic, it is well to affirm the presence of this body as an affirmation of the individual. Her character is touching, necessarily.

But the revolt is a lack of ideas. Cassandra blend his dreams and reality. Because of Greek origin, it applies Zeus. A mysterious voice and the treaty of the “little girl” and encouraged him to grow. Heroin only takes us half-way in his trip, by the lack of madness or realism. His story seems to be that of many young adults. Get up in the morning to change the world and then sit back to take a nap. Cassandra aims at the moon and made on-site. We find the specific policy for the Roundabout: revolt happily against the world. But it ends, here, by running a little in circles. It’s the fault of the bike.

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