All language subtitles for Scandinavian.Silence.2019.1080p.WEBRip.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

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SCANDINAVIAN SILENCE

You going to the coast?

Put the wrong jacket on today.

It's colder now.

Promised myself I'd go
to the coast today.

Thought you didn't want to see me.

That you had better things to do.

We don't have to talk.

It's been years since I just
rode and talked like this.

Why'd you even pick me up
if you don't want to talk.

Are you listening?

Know what I think?

Your silence is just some dumb game.

How many times have
you played it before?

With other guys.

How many times have you
driven down this road?

Before picking me up?

What did those other guys tell you?

You want me to tell you something?

I'm not sorry.
Not for one single day.

Inside, we talked about everything.

There was no keeping secrets.

Well, there was but what's the point.

The worse you slit someone's neck,

the more vividly you described it,
the better you did.

Everyone knew everything.

But today I feel that
I have to be silent again.

Especially here, with you.

I often imagined something like this.

We'd come here to eat,

then drive towards the coast, to our forest.

Only I thought I'd have to find you first.

Thought you'd move on with your life.

You know,

with a family of your own.

And... forgot it all...

You're still just as beautiful.

Look more like mom.

A lot more than before.

Mom shoulda lived.

I thought I'd be the silent one.

Will we ever be able to
look each other in the eye...

and just talk...?

On the morning you turned fifteen,

before you woke up,
mom and I biked to the river.

I was supposed to pick white flowers.

Mom picked lilac and blue ones.

The ones with the bells.

I walked back and forth on the riverbank
until my hands were full of flowers.

Then turned back towards mom.

A long, loud scream stopped me.

The sound echoed down the river so loudly

that it felt like nature
was silenced for a moment.

I saw mom.

She didn't see me.

She was on her knees in the grass, crying.

I guess cause of everything
that happened at home.

I stood there for half an hour
before I went over to mom.

I don't know why... but we didn't
say a word. Just came home.

I just didn't know what to say.

Didn't know how to be...

a big brother.

How to be a man.

Not for you. Not for mom.

I don't know if dad knew
what it meant to be a man.

What does it mean? Being a man?

I remember how happy
the flowers made you.

My cellmate, Dima.

He was nine years older.
A literate.

He saw things differently.

Taught me a lot.

Helped me to see things
differently somehow.

He told me that when I get out,

I should go to the mountains
or at least go flying.

That there's a freedom up there
that we don't have down here.

That everything seems
more solid, prettier.

He was the first to get out ― for
good behavior.

But he was later brought back in.
Got three more for rape.

He'd been in twice before.

They moved him to another block.

Never saw him again.

But when we were together,
he once asked what I was in for.

I told him everything about dad.

Everyone talked there.

No matter how fucked up
the way you killed someone was.

Dima got me.

Said he would've
done the same thing.

Asked ― if I could go back in time,

would I want to be the one who
hits first or the one who gets hit?

I told Dima I didn't want
to go back in time.

Why are we silent?

Where does the feeling come
from that makes words stumble?

I don't regret killing.

I don't regret the years it took from me.

I regret...

...not protecting you sooner.

Not being your brother
when you needed me most.

In there, I learned that the
cost of crime is patience.

And in return,
I get someone watching over me.

They told me to be good
or I'd fly right back in.

I'm not even sure
what I'm more afraid of losing ―

my freedom or you.

One's nothing without the other.

I thought we could drive up North.

To the shore.

You always called it the coast, like mom.

It's changed a lot since the accident.

I thought it might be
a place you'd want to go?

I went there a lot.

Just to sit and look out at the sea.

I didn't go there for them.

I went when I missed you.

I guess I imagined our meeting
differently somehow.

You've changed a lot.

You're more like dad.

A lot more than before.

When they locked you up and I sold
dad's shop to pay for rent,

everything changed somehow.

It was like whenever I walked into a store

they turned the music down
because of me.

No one ever came to ask
about the accident.

But only the three of us
know what really happened.

You know, sometimes I can
still see the two of us

standing at the apartment window,
not talking.

The dusty, lace curtains
hiding our faces as we look down.

I can see mom look up at us
from the parking lot.

I don't think she knew but she
sensed something would end that night.

It wasn't the accident, itself.

It was the fact that mom was in the car.

Even whores and jailbait get to eat today.

The clientele hasn't changed much.

But you have to serve yourself now.

Sometimes I wonder if I could've
lasted ten years without these pickles.

I think they're the only things
that feel anything like home for me.

Like when you brought a jar of them
to my room in the mornings.

That smell of vinegar...

I'll get us a table.

Our uncle called right after the accident.

Asked about you.

Or, rather, wanted to know
if I knew anything more.

He asked me what really happened.

He's one of the few people who knew

that you don't know anything about cars.

Even less about the brakes.

Finally, even the social workers
couldn't handle him

whining about how I couldn't
manage on my own.

If I hadn't turned 18 right then,

he probably would have
demanded custody.

He was a sleaze just like dad.

I don't think he knew
what was going on in our home.

But he knew that you'd do
anything ― even go to jail for me.

Forgive me for all those years...

Remember that night when you came
into my room after dad had been in?

You took my hand and told me that
one day we'd live like everyone else.

How we dreamed.

You and I never dreamt about a good life.

We dreamt of a normal life.

I spent all those nights when dad would
come to my bed with the false hope

that maybe today you'd be
brave enough to stand up for me.

That maybe you'd finally be my big brother.

I remember a catalogue from that year.

Mom ordered Christmas lights
and dad stared at lingerie.

I remember the fight between mom
and dad about where to put the lights.

Remember? Mom wanted to
hang them on my windows,

dad in the living room.

Mom wanted us to look like
a normal family from the road.

Dad wanted my room to be dark.

They never saw the kids growing
in the shadows of those lights ―

the ones who'd be the end of them.

I sometimes feel like they're...

...guiding us.

Ever since the winter
you went to jail,

I only see black trees.

Black trees on a white backdrop.

I see one strange car
driving between the fields.

It drives through beauty that doesn't fit.

I see two people in their strange state.

I see them move through a world
that's at once familiar

yet distinctly foreign.

I see their pain.

But it's all from a great distance somehow.

I don't know which one of us was
really imprisoned for all those years.

Which of us was freed today.
Which of us was more to blame.

But I know I haven't forgiven myself
for you giving me all those years.

This silence suits us.

It's the kind of silence you feel
when your eyes are closed,

but you're still awake.

It's frail.

It's so familiar to Nordic people like us.

It's a means of communication.

Remember when we ran
between the trees?

The summer when dad was still good.

Before everything.

Remember the forest we
always wanted to go back to,

where we were little and
could talk about everything?

The trees we ran between.

That forest, those trees
are no longer there.

They only left a few strong
ones to carry on the seed.

Lone, black trees on a white backdrop.

As if they're protecting
the past in their silence.

Even whores and jailbait
get to eat today.

You fucking slut.

This isn't my car.

What?

I stole it.

Why?

Otherwise I wouldn't have found you.

I'm sorry.