We have seen Todo el cielo sobre la tierra (el sindrome de Wendy)

Two years ago, her "Maldito sea el hombre que confía en el hombre" (Maldito sea the man who confides in him) had already demonstrated Angelica Liddell's creative rage. And how this rage could be a fertile breeding ground from which incredibly powerful images could emerge. "Todo el cielo sobre la tierra (el sindrome de Wendy)," which she presented Friday and Saturday at the Parvis, barely five months after the Avignon Festival, is in the same vein. A two-and-a-half-hour performance to tell us about her, about her discomfort. "One day, I realized that what I was feeling had a name, Wendy syndrome, in reference to the female character in Peter Pan. In my case, it's associated with the loss of youth, when what you love begins to disappear and plunges you into solitude."

She immediately shatters Wendy's gentle image by drawing a parallel between Neverland and Utoya. The parallel between Peter Pan's island and the one where Anders Breivik murdered sixty-nine teenagers in 2011. What follows is nothing but rage around a pile of earth shaped like a grave in the middle of the stage. But it's not a rage that remains sterile, rather a creative rage that finds a form that brings together theater, dance, and poetry to carry its expression beyond the bilious outpouring against everything that fuels illusion, a hope that will inevitably be disappointed. Romain Gary wrote that a mother's love was a promise that life would not keep. Angelica Liddell goes further by vomiting up all these forms of love and self-sacrifice. A show that resonates like a manifesto between surrealism and introspection, definitively unclassifiable and unforgettable.