From what place does it come that to love and to be loved is sometimes the premise of the most brutal violence and of the most murderous insanity, where the territory of this love is none other than the sack of neuroses we call family? From what place does it come that the best education or material wealth do not ward off, in any way, the most acrid hatred, leading irreversibly to strife and crime?
As silences and shame passed on over the years, can sometimes lead to an incident arising out of nowhere throwing us into the appalling and the unthinkable. One day, the wind rises and with it everything which has always been shushed, hatched, woven and piled up.
Perhaps Fauves tells the story of this upheaval. It is a story which attempts to, by terror, to compel the characters to remove themselves from their domesticity, with no other choice than to display their ancient, archaic savagery, which dwells in all of us. When love isn’t what we thought it was, when there’s nothing left to lose, when all that is left in our hands is a knife and powerless, at our mercy, the being we accuse of our downfall, demanding a pity we refuse to grant him.