In a large white room, a woman and a man are talking to each other. He is the one who starts the conversation. She listens, attentive, and answers him with a second monologue. They talk about their separation, talk about before and now. It is precisely in this movement of distance that the tension of relationships, the strangeness of recognition, the disturbance of discrepancy are played out. To the question: "Who do we love when we love?" Pascal Rambert does not provide a ready-made answer. It circulates in possibilities. He does not refuse the clichés used, at least once, by those who separate, who seek the reasons for falling out of love, who rewrite memories, embellish them, before destroying everything with a few murderous phrases. The uninterrupted river of words, the questions-answers that we chain, the breath blocked, in a sort of marathon between fear and liberation: it is there, in the heart of this painful moment, that Pascal Rambert installs us, not fearing to disturb, to create doubt, to toss around in the twists and turns of a story that leads inexorably to rupture and, perhaps, to the adventure of another life. In the brutality of an omnipresent verb, in the incredible rigor of cold and murderous writing, a merciless fight unfolds. Stanislas attacks and Audrey has to fight against the obliteration he wants to impose on her. They are on equal terms, but do not use them in the same way. There is the masculine and the feminine. There are two looks, two silences, two words to express the violence of a dying love.
Jean-François Perrier about the play Love’s End
