Nihilism in the Spotlight: YES by a Dadaist Who Can’t Even Critique Himself

 YES!” — A Murder Cabaret Review in Three Acts and One Final “uh…”

(with the special participation of Pierre, the stammering director, accidental prophet of cinematic chaos)

Here is my “Cabaret Murder” version — the review of YES by Nadav Lapid, turned into a deranged stage performance, halfway between a Dadaist stand-up act, an exorcism ritual, and a film critique read in a smoky cabaret while the curtain catches fire.

Here, Pierre, the stammering director, becomes a full-fledged character — a kind of tragic clown, companion to a Lapid drunk on symbols and artistic self-destruction.

Take a seat — words are about to bleed.

Act I: The Ball of Yes

The room is plunged into darkness.

A sticky jazz tune rises.

On stage, a couple of dancers:

he, a broke musician sweating despair from every pore;

she, a tired but flexible dancer — especially morally.

They writhe in front of sweating bourgeois, like two contestants on Dancing with Shame.

And behind the camera, our dear Pierre trembles and mutters:

“Uh… do we… do we cut now? No?”

No, Pierre. We never cut.

Not in a Lapid film.

Here, we film until it hurts — until nausea becomes art, until discomfort reaches orgasmic metaphor.

Champagne drips, bodies crawl, dignity dies.

An old millionaire asks to be “licked by art.”

The musician obeys.

The audience hesitates between applause and calling the police.

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Act II: Lapid and the Holy Stammer

Nadav Lapid enters the stage.

He looks possessed by a demon called “European Art-Film Grant.”

He films everything that moves, then everything that doesn’t, while shouting:

“More chaos! More meaning! More political sex!”

And Pierre, behind him, scribbles in an imaginary notebook:

“Uh… meaning, chaos, sex… uh… yes, okay.”

Every shot looks like a visual assault:

emojis appear in the sky,

a man sinks into rubble as if into his own psychoanalysis,

the camera does loopings while reciting Nietzsche.

This is not cinema that speaks to you — it attacks you, rips off your jaw, and then explains why you should thank it.

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Act III: The Desert of Symbols

Change of scenery:

A desert. Dunes. Wind.

And metaphors collapsing like poorly pitched tents.

There, Y. contemplates the “Hill of Love” (a.k.a. a metaphor as subtle as a poetic jackhammer).

Jasmine screams.

Lapid screams.

The microphone screams.

And Pierre — always true to himself — delivers his greatest moment of direction:

“Uh… should we do another take? I, uh, filmed my finger.”

A silence.

Lapid cries.

The desert trembles.

The universe nods:

“Yes.”

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Epilogue: Yes, But You Really Shouldn’t Have

End of screening. The room is silent — stunned, trapped somewhere between genius and an artistic hangover.

Someone coughs.

Pierre, emotional, takes the mic and says:

“Uh… I… I would like… to thank the blur.”

Applause.

Spectators faint.

A lady cries out, “Masterpiece!”

Someone else retorts, “He’s kidding, right?!”

Lapid walks out, eyes empty, murmuring:

“The artist is a whore like any other.”

Pierre follows, stumbles, and concludes in a trembling voice:

“Uh… yes.”

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Moral of the Cabaret:

Saying “yes” is easy.

Saying “no” is political.

Stammering is artistic.

And surviving a Nadav Lapid film — heroic.

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Standing ovation.

Curtain.

Broken glasses.

Camera on the floor.

Pierre stammering into the dark.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris Oct.5th