I want to portray my generation: faced with the realm of this century’s past hopes, swaying from one utopia (communism) to another (capitalism), Eastern Europeans seek opportunities, while Westerners seek an Eldorado to taste Soviet ruins. As heirs to a disillusioned era (the ‘80s), we seem confused and indifferent, if not cynical. History has its way to echo prejudice. Some strive to feel European, but the instinct to belong somewhere prevails: the past resists alienation.
Within this depiction, I need to accompany the inner movement of two souls. Their rivalry - shaped by poor English, drunkenness and disorientation - wears them out into decay: full of themselves, they eventually drop the weight of their intentions. From then on each body lets go down an erratic slope, drifts away and loses itself. If awakened it doubts everything, and yet things seem extremely tangible. It’s scared, but reassured somehow. Capable of anything, it burns inside.
In this one-night fable, from the underground to the top of an edifice, small things become epically expressive. Sergueï and Quentin are two godforsaken present-day travelers - archetypes of old European values - yearning to touch the sky, stranded in the hazy polyphony of a modern Tower of Babel. Both calm and explosive, each passing moment trembles.