Ten years have passed since three intrepid detectives set out in search of the Grail. Rain has washed away their footprints, the places where they camped no longer exist, habits have changed, and one of them has been lost. But the two remaining detectives have not given up for a single moment on the sacred, self-imposed task of pursuing the impossible, the ineffable. Quite possibly even the non-existent. None of these disheartening adjectives will weaken their desire, because their only reason for being lies in the trying itself.

Les Chevaliers is born from the anachronistic cocktail that we get from mixing medieval tales of chivalry with today’s world. With the Grail as its backdrop, it unfolds as an episodic project, with each chapter marking another step toward the goal. But don’t worry if you missed the first part at the Sâlmon Festival. Over the centuries, the story has always remained the same, ever since Chrétien de Troyes created the Arthurian figure of Perceval, who devotes his entire life to seeking something he (spoiler alert) never finds, and all because he never asked the right question. Those of us who come after Perceval are the ones who, as Victoria Cirlot puts it, have inherited a mass-produced enigma, and also, as Los Detectives emphasise, the ones who have learned to live with failure as a poetic gesture.

During their residency at TNT, the tireless knights have begun to pay attention to the landscape and the weather. Troubled by their futile quest, they have come to realise that the world around them also has a voice.

Ever attuned to the codes of cinematic language and theatrical tricks, Los Detectives delve into the most aesthetic and adventurous dimension of the landscapes that accompany tales of chivalry. In Incendis by Ça marche, and Sirenas y robots by Tarta Relena and Joan Llort, the landscape also takes centre stage, but in Les Chevaliers it does so in a more whimsical, light-hearted way.