YES — The film that says yes to everything, except sobriety

                           ...Or how Nadav Lapid started yet another world war with a lateral tracking shot)

A film by Nadav Lapid.

Starring people who scream, dance, bleed, and occasionally breathe.
And Pierre, the director with experimental diction— a man whose stutter has become a visual style.

“Uh… do we… do we just… let it roll?”
— Pierre, during the Cannes screening (before he vomited in his tote bag).

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Synopsis (or the long version of a collective misunderstanding)

Y., a broke, masochistic musician, 

and Jasmine, a luminous yet exhausted dancer (except when it comes to humiliation), 

decide to turn their art into a chic public service of submission. 

Between two cocktails dripping with decadence, they symbolically lick the boots of power until death, boredom, or accolades come knocking.

And then, miracle of miracles! 

They’re asked to compose the new national anthem.
Kind of like asking Patrick Bruel to rewrite “La Marseillaise.”

Result: a baroque opera of sweat, ego, and pseudo-political rants.
Yes, Lapid does Lapid, 

but this time, he cranked the delirium up to 11.

---

Review: A slap in the face, but with a washcloth.

From the very first scene, it’s clear: Lapid is not here to tell a story. He’s here to exorcise.

The camera shakes, the music screams, the actors roll in sangria like it’s the blood of their illusions, while Pierre, our hero in the background, watches it all, dumbfounded, and mutters:

“Uh… it’s… it’s conceptual, right?”

Yes, Pierre. It’s even too conceptual.
Each shot is a metaphor that thinks it’s smarter than the audience.
Each line feels like a coded message from God.
And each scream seems to yell: “LOOK HOW CINEMATICALLY TORTURED I AM.”

Halfway between performance art and a filmed panic attack, YES tosses the viewer between ecstasy and nervous laughter.

It’s pure Lapid: an aesthetic slap that first caresses your cheek, then bites your jugular.

And Pierre, what about him?

Ah, Pierre.
The stammering director, apostle of the “uh” and prophet of the failed shot.

We find him, lost in the wings, repeating his lines like a scratched record:

“Yes… no… well… yes… no but… yes.”

He embodies the entire philosophy of the film.
The articulated chaos.
The doubt incarnate.
The “yes” said with the intonation of a “save me.”

Some say Lapid wanted a tragic sidekick.
Others think Pierre just forgot his lines.
But who cares? His hesitation has become the soul of the film.

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Act Two: Desert, Dust, and Symbolism Overdose.

Lapid moves all these characters to a biblical desert because, apparently, filming human degradation indoors was too easy.

The sand flies, the camera spins, the actors scream at God, capitalism, and the weather.

And Pierre, in a corner, still tries to adjust his shot:

“Uh… the hill… should we take it from the side, right? Or… uh… head-on?”

A silence.
Then Lapid screams:

“Head-on, Pierre! It’s a metaphor for national guilt, damn it!”

It’s theatre, it’s cinema, it’s vaudeville on amphetamines.

Finale: A Cosmic "Yes"

The film ends as it began: in sublime, absurd chaos.

Everyone’s crying, everyone’s screaming, everyone’s making love to the concept of the “wounded nation.”

Pierre, in the post-credits, concludes:

“Uh… I… I think we’re done, right?”

And the viewer, dazed, gets up, half-fascinated, half-traumatized.

Because yes, YES is a film that grabs you by the throat, slaps you, talks to you about art and politics, then leaves you in your underwear in the desert of your own cynicism.

Lapid has struck again.

And Pierre, stammering and magnificent, has survived to tell the tale.

By Giulia Dobre, Paris.

October 5th, 11h45.

OUI — le film qui dit oui à tout, sauf à la sobriété. (ou comment Nadav Lapid a encore déclenché une guerre mondiale avec un travelling latéral)

OUI — le film qui dit oui à tout, sauf à la sobriété.

(ou comment Nadav Lapid a encore déclenché une guerre mondiale avec un travelling latéral)

Un film de Nadav Lapid.

Avec des gens qui hurlent, dansent, saignent, et accessoirement respirent.

Et Pierre, metteur en scène à la diction expérimentale — un homme dont le bégaiement est devenu un style visuel.

 “Heu… on… on la… la… laisse tourner ?”

— Pierre, pendant la projection à Cannes (avant de vomir dans son tote bag).

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Synopsis (ou la version longue d’un malentendu collectif)

Y., musicien fauché et masochiste, et Jasmine, danseuse lumineuse mais fatiguée de tout (sauf de l’humiliation), décident de transformer leur art en service public de la soumission chic. Entre deux cocktails dégoulinants de décadence, ils lèchent symboliquement le pouvoir jusqu’à ce que mort, ennui ou honneurs s’ensuivent.

Et puis, miracle ! On leur demande de composer le nouvel hymne national.

Un peu comme si on confiait à Patrick Bruel la réécriture de “La Marseillaise”.

Résultat : un opéra baroque de sueur, d’égo, et de saillies pseudo-politiques.

Oui, Lapid fait du Lapid — mais cette fois, il a tourné le bouton du délire jusqu’à 11.

Critique : une claque, mais avec un gant de toilette.

Dès la première scène, on comprend : Lapid n’est pas là pour raconter, il est là pour exorciser.

La caméra tremble, la musique hurle, les acteurs se roulent dans la sangria comme dans le sang de leurs illusions, pendant que Pierre, notre héros en second plan, regarde tout ça, béat, et lâche :

> “Heu… c’est… c’est conceptuel, hein ?”

Oui, Pierre. C’est même trop conceptuel.

Chaque plan est une métaphore qui se croit plus intelligente que le spectateur.

Chaque phrase sonne comme un message codé de Dieu.

Et chaque cri semble hurler : “REGARDEZ COMME JE SUIS CINÉMATOGRAPHIQUEMENT TORTURÉ.”

À mi-chemin entre performance artistique et crise de panique filmée, “Oui” balance le spectateur entre extase et fou rire nerveux.

C’est du Lapid pur jus : une gifle esthétique qui te caresse d’abord la joue, puis te mord la carotide.

---

Et Pierre, dans tout ça ?

Ah, Pierre.

Ce metteur en scène balbutiant, apôtre du “heu” et prophète du plan raté.

On le retrouve, perdu dans les coulisses, répétant ses répliques comme un disque rayé :

> “Oui… non… enfin… oui… non mais si… oui.”

Il incarne à lui seul toute la philosophie du film.

Le chaos articulé.

Le doute incarné.

Le “oui” dit avec l’intonation d’un “sauvez-moi”.

Certains disent que Lapid voulait un personnage secondaire tragique.

D’autres pensent juste que Pierre a oublié son texte.

Mais qu’importe : son hésitation est devenue l’âme du film.

---

Deuxième acte : désert, poussière et symboles en overdose.

Lapid déplace tout ce petit monde dans un désert biblique, parce que, visiblement, filmer la déchéance humaine en intérieur, c’était trop facile.

Le sable vole, la caméra tourne, les acteurs crient à Dieu, au capitalisme, à la météo.

Et Pierre, lui, dans un coin, tente toujours de recadrer son plan :

 “Heu… la colline… on la prend de profil, non ? Ou… heu… de face ?”

Un silence.

Puis Lapid crie :

 “De face, Pierre ! C’est une métaphore de la culpabilité nationale, bordel !”

C’est du théâtre, c’est du cinéma, c’est du vaudeville sous amphétamines.

---

Final : un grand “oui” cosmique

Le film se termine comme il a commencé : dans un chaos sublime et dérisoire.

Tout le monde pleure, tout le monde crie, tout le monde fait l’amour au concept de “nation blessée”.

Pierre, en post-générique, conclut :

 “Heu… je… je crois qu’on a fini, là.”

Et le spectateur, hagard, se lève, mi-fasciné, mi-traumatisé.

Parce que oui, “Oui” est un film qui t’attrape par la gorge, te gifle, te parle d’art et de politique, puis t’abandonne en slip dans le désert de ton propre cynisme.

Lapid a encore frappé.

Et Pierre, balbutiant et magnifique, a survécu pour témoigner.

By Giulia Dobre

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.

---

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.

---

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.”

---

Moral of the Cabaret:

Saying “yes” is easy.

Saying “no” is political.

Stammering is artistic.

And surviving a Nadav Lapid film — heroic.

---

Standing ovation.

Curtain.

Broken glasses.

Camera on the floor.

Pierre stammering into the dark.

By Giulia Dobre

Paris Oct.5th

Fifty Shades of Cervantes

 Quixotic Desires: When Cervantes Gets Naughty

Cervantes Before Don Quixote: 

History Gets a Little Hot and Bothered

Alejandro Amenábar is back. 

Yes, the man who gave us the solemn While at War (Lettres à Franco) now returns with something much more playful — and, let’s be honest, much more sultry. 

Cervantes Before Don Quixote isn’t really a biopic; it’s more of a sensual duel where the sharpest weapon isn’t a sword but a glance.

The setup? 

In 1575, young Miguel de Cervantes, not yet famous but already dangerously talented, gets himself captured by the Sultan of Algiers. 

Instead of despairing in his cell, he spins tales like someone posting endless Instagram reels.

 The inmates can’t get enough — and soon even his jailer falls under the spell. 

Which brings us to the film’s true theme: seduction as universal currency, breaking down walls, dogmas, genders… and yes, a fair number of tunics left suspiciously unbuttoned.

But the real fireworks? 

The chemistry between the two leads.

Julio Peña Fernández is all fiery intensity as Cervantes — clever, passionate, forever teasing the line between manipulation and genuine desire. 

And then there’s Alessandro Borghi as Hassan Veneziano. 

Let’s be clear: this is not just “acting.” Borghi owns the screen, blending Venetian elegance, raw authority, and lethal sensuality. Every time he appears, you can practically hear audiences tossing their chastity belts into the Mediterranean.

Amenábar dares to go where most biopics chicken out: a possible homoerotic romance between prisoner and captor.

 Was it real? Was it imagined? Who cares. 

What matters is the blazing chemistry, the constant hum of desire, the way every threat feels like foreplay and every conversation a slow undressing.

Yes, there are brutal scenes, daring escape attempts, and narrative layers that hint at the birth of Don Quixote. 

But the real takeaway is simple: Borghi, incandescent, irresistible, turning captivity into the hottest game in town.

And Peña, who throws himself into this inferno with the passion of a man whose destiny is equal parts ink and fire.

So no, this isn’t a safe, reverent biography. 

El Cautivo (its original title) is a fever dream, a romantic, sensual, and mischievous spin on history. 

Amenábar has found his spark again, Cervantes his swagger — and Borghi? He’s found the key to keeping us all deliciously captive.

BY Giulia Dobre

Oct.1st, 2025

Paris