Analphabet

When Alberto Cortés emerges from the night, like an angel set in flowers and darkness, we are seized by a strange feeling, as if struck with stupor. The sun has just set, and this is the hour when Analphabet, a tormented spirit, manifests himself to the lovers in the landscapes where they have embraced and sometimes wounded each other.
This darkly lyrical faun tiptoes and speaks Andalûh, his laments wrapped around a violin full of thorns. Inhabited by the romantic poetry of this creature, Alberto Cortés's body is a concentrate of emotion and ardor; each of his gestures reaches us with fascinating density.
How, within a homosexual couple, can one free oneself from the patriarchal violence one has inherited? How can we avoid reproducing the brutality that still creeps into certain desires? At the end of the night, on the verge of disappearing, the Analphabet ghost ends up inviting us to tenderness and hope. (Victor Roussel)