All language subtitles for eisen 3_Eng

In 1931, the Russian
film director Sergei Eisenstein

travelled to Mexico to make a film.

It was tentatively to be called
iQue viva Mexico!

Eisenstein had a worldwide fame

based on the reputation of only three films,

all made in Soviet Russia.

Strike, a violent tale of civilian unrest

viciously crushed by authority,

The Battleship Potemkin, a violent account

of a naval mutiny over rotten meat,

and October, a violent celebration

of the Russian Revolution.

In the West, the film October

was called Ten Days That Shook The World.

This present film might be called

Ten Days That Shook Eisenstein.

I arrive accompanied by flies.

They have been with me ever since
I crossed the Mexican border.

I brought them with me from Moscow.

I recognise them.

They are Soviet flies, spy flies...
Russian accents,

a growling, gruff, ill-mannered buzz.

They have bloodshot eyes, like me.

Do I have bloodshot eyes?
Do I have bloodshot eyes?

Do I have bloodshot eyes?
Do I have bloodshot eyes?

Of too much looking. Too much...

Too much looking.

- Diego.
- Sergei, my friend!

- You're welcome.
- Grazie.

- Frida.
- Sergei.

- Bienvenido.
- Encantado.

Jorge Palomino Cañedo.
Your Guanajuato guide.

Sergei Eisenstein.

Sometimes a Russian film director

or Russian film director retired.

Ah. This is Aleksandrov.

Always an actor.

- Frida.
- Grisha.

And this is Eduard Tisse, cameraman.

The cameraman.

- Frida.
- Tisse.

Please take the suitcases.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen.

Hey, look.

Put all the red books over there.

All the books with
the blue markers over there.

All English books by the bed.

All American books under the bed.

- Can I help?
- There is a trick, isn't there?

What am I doing wrong?

I expect nothing.

We don't have showers in Moscow.

In fact, we don't have showers in Russia.

Baths, Turkish baths.

And wash basins.

Sometimes we have running water.
Sometimes we have water.

Sometimes we have just the empty taps.

Sometimes we have to
break the ice in the tank.

Often...

We don't wash.

What are you laughing about?

A Russian body. Very white.

We rarely see the Sun in Moscow,

and we never undress in public.

- Then I can't be public.
- Public enough.

That's his.

And a very well-fed body.
Pea-soup, pickled cabbage,

salty bacon, sour milk, turnips?

When we can get it.

See you at breakfast?

Tortillas, tamales, chicken burritos,

chimichangas, sopecitos,
huarachitos, pan de muerto...

Hey! Warm water?

Being naked in public?

Or a response to an amiable young man?

Signor Prick, behave!

He's handsome, it's true.

And he's seen you, it's true.

But you are a foreigner
with a Russian passport,

a limited visitor's visa,

and very little sexual experience.

You would be woefully disadvantaged.

Besides, you are here to make a film with me,

and I need your frustrations
to feed my imagination.

No dissipation.

It leads to a dilution of energy.

I am a boxer

for the freedom of cinematic expression.

I have never had my shoes shined for me.

We don't do those sorts of things
any more in Soviet Russia.

You're in México.

Why don't you try it?

Sí.

I'm behaving like a colonial grandee.

Shining shoes is tantamount to kissing feet.

Who kisses feet any more?

Do I tip him heavily
to cover up my bourgeois guilt?

No.

If you tip him, news of your generosity

will be around the town in five minutes.

And your shoes will never be yours again.

They will be a host to fortune.

You have come here for something
other than shiny shoes.

What are you looking for?

I came to Mexico to make a movie.

I came to Mexico

because my very first
theatre production in Moscow

was called The Mexican.

I came to Mexico because
you had a successful revolution

five years before we did.

I came to Guanajuato

because you have here
a Museum Of The Dead.

Maybe I have to make a film
called Museum Of The Living.

Those are my excuses.
What are your excuses?

I live here. I have a family here.

I teach in Mexico City, and I teach here.

And what do you teach?

I studied as an anthropologist.

And now I teach comparative religion.

This is a Roman Catholic country.

How come you are allowed
to talk about other religions?

Roman Catholicism of México
is generous and all-embracing.

Pantheistic.

A bit of everything. Old and new.

They just take what they need.

So much so, we should call it
Mexican Catholicism.

They customised it.

We have pre-Columbian equivalents

for everything
the Roman Catholics dreamed up.

Certainly, we invented
blood sacrifices before you did.

Christianity adopted us.
We did not adopt Christianity.

It's Gideon. His name is Gideon.

He was born blind.

And the bells have made him deaf.

There is a problem.

They have been searching
through your books

and found pornography.

Are you a pornographer?

I didn't think so up till now.

One of the hotel maids arranging your books

has taken some photographs,
but she is underage.

Her mother found the photographs
and complained to the hotel.

I am sure it can be sorted out.

Stay in sight of your bodyguards.

It's OK, boys.

Sergei!

Sergei!

México!

México!

Guanajuato!

Vomit and shit pour out of you in floods.

I should not be here.

I should be back in Russia,
being constipated.

In Moscow, you can go for a week
without shitting once.

Sergei? It's me. It's me, Cañedo. It's me.

Ugh.

Come on. Let's go, let's go.

It's just me, Cañedo. Hey, it's OK. Shh.

- Come on.
- Ugh.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

Close your eyes, close your eyes.

You know...

You know, I sat like the Tsar

on the throne of the Winter Palace.

But the Tsar did not have running water.

You Mexicans don't have tsars,

but you do have running water.

What is that noise?

Someone banging on the pipes.

Oh!

Come on.

OK. OK, hey.

Wake up.

Come on, come on.

It's the 22nd of October.

Someone is banging on the pipes

to commemorate the start
of the Russian Revolution.

No. It's the hotel plumber fixing the hot water.

Go to sleep.

The hot water of the Revolution.

We shall all be cleansed

with the hot water of the Revolution.

Watch him carefully.

Or you'll have Stalin on your backs.

Stalin's reach is very long.

If anything happens to him,

you'll be picking ice
out of your asses in Siberia

or have an ice-pick lodged in your brain!

Here, your photographs.

Put them away somewhere safe.

Don't leave them lying around
for innocent chambermaids

to steal and show to their mamás, hmm?

But they are paintings.

Mexican mothers
protecting their innocent daughters.

We countered by accusing the maid
of stealing from guests.

Is thievery worse than voyeurism?

She should not be sacked for curiosity.

You must get her reinstated.

She's in the bar
with her mother and her father.

- You could tell her yourself.
- No, you tell her.

And tell her mother
her daughter's forgiven for stealing,

and from now on, she's the only one

to bring me my breakfast in bed
in the morning.

The manager says it's a good job
she didn't take a look

in your red suitcase.

Oh? What's in the red suitcase?

Enough to have you thrown in jail.

And how did the manager

know what was in the red suitcase?

After the complaint, he searched everything.

God, he has no right to do that.

That's invasion of privacy!

Shh. Look, he's winking at you.

Curiously, it's a mark in your favour.

But if you offend him,
he could use it against you.

Tread carefully.

The Camorristas.

They are looking for
wealthy foreigners to prey on.

They wait outside all the big hotels.

And you are giving them
good reason to prey on you.

That's why you have bodyguards.

These are the small-time guys.

We don't worry so much about them.

They are posing as tough guys,
but they are lazy.

The big guys are much tougher.

And the real big guys, you'll never see.

That's why you should try
and stop attracting attention.

Don't get yourself photographed
and in the newspapers.

If they smell a ransom possibility,

they will be in and kidnap you.

How much do you think you are worth?

Not much.

What will your government pay
to keep you alive?

Nothing.

Just trust that we are looking
after you properly.

But maybe you are a Camorrista?

If I am, then you are lost.

You ought to make a film about them.

The corpse at the door is wearing a red shirt,

as you can see.

Even among the dead,
the Camorristas have influence.

Ransoming a corpse
is not uncommon in México.

Aah!

Míralo.

Do you only have one suit?

Well, I left Moscow with only $25.

Russia has very little foreign currency,

and that was all they could afford to give us.

I get paid expenses here in Mexico.

Or I get paid expenses,

and I have to share with Tisse and Grisha.

That suit is taking some punishment.

You should buy yourself another.

It's my first American suit.
I bought it to walk down Sunset Boulevard

with Charlie Chaplin.

It's a sentimental matter.
I could not part with it.

This is my wife, Concepción.

- This is Rolando.
- Good evening, sir.

Good evening.

The eldest was born
when I was studying troubadours

and the second, Pascal,
when I reluctantly gave up God.

Now I don't believe in God, but I miss him,

as did Pascal.

I'm sorry. I have no Russian buttons.

But these are curious. What are they made of?

Ah. Gunmetal.

They are stamped out
of discarded cartridge cases,

pierced with two holes

and glued to a piece of army blanket,

which usually very quickly becomes unglued.

A Russian soldier is told

never to let his shoes out of his sight,

if not out of his hand.

Better still, always keep them on your feet.

Shoes are the most precious item of clothing.

Won't help your modesty,
scarcely keep you warm,

but you will simply not be able
to function without shoes

in any way at all.

Don't worry. I'm a foreigner.
I'm a child abroad.

Russia's so big
that nobody thinks about abroad.

It's always too far away and well out of sight.

We believe most of the time

that "abroad" does not really exist.

Does not really exist. Does not really exist.

I was earning money
from American publishers,

and I bought an old battered Ford car.

Mayakovsky had a Renault,
and we raced around Moscow

at 40 miles an hour with our windows down,

shouting, singing,

- and mooning.
- Oh!

He had a nice arse. My arse was way too fat.

He got his car impounded for moral turpitude.

Mayakovsky, that is, not his car.

His car was innocent.

Is this car, with Death in the driver's seat,

completely innocent?

No fat on his backside.

In 1927, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks

of Universal Pictures,
Charlie Chaplin's company,

saw Potemkin and invited me
to come to Hollywood

to make a film! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!

I met them all. All those Hollywood guys.

They all came to Moscow.
Would you believe it?

Joseph Schenck lost in Russia,

but he looked like a Russian smoothie.

All Jews look lost in Russia,

but there is never a better home for them.

He fast-smoked big cigars.
He was a caricature.

It was to make sure no one took him seriously

so he could take everyone else seriously
when they weren't looking.

I am a caricature. I don't smoke fast,

but I can talk fast, don't you think?

Joseph Schenck
came with a Hollywood contract

in his pocket, which was soon in my pocket.

And then my pockets were filled
with Hollywood happiness.

Felicidad Hollywoodus.

To get to Hollywood,
you must first pass through Europe,

and then you have to pass through America

because Hollywood is a separate country
all on its very own.

So like bug-eyed cultural tourists,

we went through Europe,
looking, seeing, shaking hands.

Although it was more like
shaking hands and looking.

I had eyes in my hands,
and they never stopped shaking.

We met George Grosz and Man Ray
and Dos Passes.

Oh, Käthe Kollwitz.

She had at least half a way
for social conscience,

though her droopy face and sagging breasts

were overplayed as a sort of trademark.

And Le Corbusier,
who said I reminded him of Donatello.

All architects love cinema.

We met Léger and Cocteau
and Marinetti, who was a fool.

Terrible poetry, worse painting.

Oh, we met James Joyce,

who sat through Battleship Potemkin

in his dark blind glasses.

I imagine he did not see a thing.

We met Abel Gance and Buñuel.

And Al Jolson, the blacked-up
singing son of a Russian rabbi.

This one.

We saw Dalí's Le Chien Andalou
and Dreyer's Joan of Arc.

I went to Holland, where a crowd of reporters

met me at Rotterdam airport.

They were all very excited.

They had come expecting to meet Einstein.

We had von Sternberg in Babelsberg.

And he was shooting The Blue Angel
with Marlene Dietrich.

We were all the time
being watched and followed

by two Russian agents.

One looked like Fatty Arbuckle

and the other one looked like Buster Keaton.

One was rosy and laughing
and always fingering his backside,

the other solemn and sad,

as though he had wet his trousers.

Dorothy Gish and her sister
wanted me to make a film,

but sentimental melodrama is not my hat.

Too much gushing and gishing, no irony.

I sent them to Pudovkin.
He is good at tears and whey.

He said, "If I was no good
at treating American ladies well,

"I was nothing. What are you?" he said.

I replied, "I am a scientific dilettante
with encyclopaedic interests."

We left Moscow just as
the ceiling was falling in.

Pasternak and Mayakovsky
were forbidden to leave.

Passports forbidden.

Trotsky was deported to Turkey.

Poets, painters, and publishers

were sacked, spitted,
sat upon, and spat upon.

We felt the flames up our bums,
red-hot pokers up our asses

as we fled to America.
It scorched us out of Russia.

And I had Joey Schenck's invite
in my back trouser pocket,

resting against my right buttock.

An invite to Hollywood.

Excuse me, sir,

I see you are being protected
by grandmothers.

And then came the bad news.

Keep out the Red Peril!

These Russians will rape
and abuse our American children!

The biggest shark in the shark tank

was an American Senator, Hamilton Fish,

Redneck Extraordinaire.

And behind sharkman Senator Fish

was the riot-master Major Frank Pease.

The bad meat-man in Battleship Potemkin.

I could well have been accused
of sacrilege, insulting God.

I was the "Roosian" Eisenstein,
the Messenger from Hell.

And they won.

Paramount Pictures
could not afford the bad publicity.

Paramount Pictures pictured me

with everyone American
American they could find

to bolster me up,
to keep my image squeaky clean.

I shook hands with Walt Disney,

the greatest and only true filmmaker

who starts from an absolutely clean slate.

Oh, and I met his apprentice-assistant

and protégé, Mickey Mouse

and I rubbed wet noses with Rin Tin Tin.

But in the end...

They could not afford to hold out.

They gave in. They caved in.

They were getting jumpy and jittery.

Said it was the Depression.

Said they had to weather the storm.

Said it was the rains.

And when the rains had passed,
they would call me back.

So exit Eisenstein.

Jew. Red. Troublemaker. Communist.

And then I met Upton Sinclair

and came here to Mexico
to meet you, Palomino,

and Palomino's wife

and Palomino's two small children.

Who should be in bed.

So where do I sleep tonight?

- I cannot sleep naked.
- Why not?

Because I have never slept naked,

except last night when you stole my clothes.

My mother didn't like it. I didn't like it.

Someone could have stolen my virginity

when I lay there sleeping naked.

- Virginity?
- I was joking.

- Do you have a nightshirt?
- No.

My wife has a nightgown.

Let me borrow your nightgown.

Why not?

# Twinkle, twinkle, little star

# How I wonder where you are

# Up above the world so high

# Like a diamond in the sky #

Good, Pascal.

There are no flies on me.

Those flies again. Are they still Russian flies?

They are preparing themselves, getting ready,

assembling to devour my putrefying flesh.

Flies and maggots.

I 'm familiar with maggots,
Battleship Potemkin maggots.

- Knock, knock, who's there?
- Only Death.

Death is so close here in the hot sun.

He's tapping me on the shoulder.

In Russia, we hide Death away.

Make him a distant villain.

Here, Death is very close,

and a friendly hero.

She greets us at the cemetery gate

and walks with us politely.

We walk with Death in the cemetery

under the same parasol.

We benefit from the same shadow.

Better that Death is a friend,

not a stranger.

Lenin is dead.

So is Karl Marx.

Both died in their beds.

Jesus Christ is dead. He was crucified.

And Saint Peter,
he was crucified upside down.

And Cortés and Pizarro

and Torquemada is dead.

Moctezuma is dead.

And George Washington is dead.

And Abraham Lincoln is dead. He was shot.

Pancho Villa is dead. He was shot.

And Zapata is dead. He was shot.

And Benito Pablo Juárez is dead.

Miguel Hidalgo, he is dead. He was shot.

I once played Leonardo da Vinci

dying in the arms of Francois I at Amboise.

Eisenstein will die...

Like Leonardo.

I'm not so sure

that filmmakers will be remembered.

We have made a procession
of the mighty dead.

Aren't you surprised that we spend

so much time making people die in films?

All actors, sooner or later,
and sooner rather than later,

in theatres and cinemas around the world

are asked to fuck or die.

Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth,

Juliet, Madame Butterfly,
Joan of Arc, Yevgeniy Onegin,

Cleopatra, Julius Caesar,
Savonarola, Helen of Troy,

Ivan the Terrible...

We give you licence to show us
people fucking and dying,

and we know they are not.

And you know they are not.

And we know that you know
that we know they are not.

It's all to prove we are alive twice over.

First as an affirmation

and then as a challenge

to Death itself.

The willing and very necessary

suspension of disbelief.

In modern-day Russia,

Death comes drunk in a crumpled
dark-grey suit with no underwear

because no one has money
for vests and underpants in Russia.

He wears a second-hand grubby white shirt

with no collar and dirty cuffs.

Death in Russia
is a shabby meeting at life's end.

Here in Mexico,

Death comes bright-eyed
and laughing, totally sober,

beginning his greatest adventure,

kissing the air.

His head, his heart,

and his cock held high.

Sex and death, the two non-negotiables.

Eros and Thanatos.

We are never aware of our own conception.

Can we really be a witness to our own death?

You have introduced yourself
to Death in México.

Indeed, you seem to me
to have introduced yourself

to Death in México.

Perhaps now you need

to introduce yourself to sex in México?

Well, perhaps now I need to introduce myself

to sex in the world.

Perhaps, Cañedo, you could introduce me

to sex in Mexico and the world?

Another subject matter
could be money.

Money?

I am not so sure at all about money.

It has not been around for so very long.

And now so many fools have it
and so many wise men do not.

It cannot be very important.

And money can be so easily subsumed

into death and sex,

if only to delay one and pay for the other.

Another subject matter could be power.

You will have to go back
to Russia sooner or later.

And in Russia,
you will witness power unlimited.

Every morning there is a flood
of yellow telegrams

pushed under my door.

They want me back in Russia.

Russian power reaches its huge hand

here to me in Mexico.

Can anyone escape it?

Now we sleep for one hour.

Enjoy your siesta.

A siesta splits the day in two.

Makes two days out of one.

But really, you must do it properly.

Undress,

and the most important thing of all,

sleep between cool sheets.

No snoozing in your day clothes.

You must be naturally drowsy.

Give in. The best sleep of the day.

Drift away.

Then you go to bed.

And pretend you are dead.

Silent.

Still.

The best sleep you will know
when you are not dead.

And you are cheating death.

Go on, take your clothes off.

I have a clumsy, unattractive body.

It's not unattractive. I have seen it.

You make it unattractive.

Your belief in your ugliness
is a sort of exhibitionism.

You are vain about your ugliness.

I have a coward's bravery.

Short arms, big head,

big feet.

I have the correct physiognomy for a clown.

No woman could ever take
a delight in my body.

Why not? Clowns are loved by women.

Their helpless foolishness is appealing.

Is that really the problem, do you think?

That you have believed that no woman
could approve of your body?

Or your prick?

So you have denied them.

I have a prick only fit for peeing.

That could be very usefully true.

But it cannot be all.

Make it rise.

You see? It takes on a brand-new life.

Respect it.

I am not going to deny myself sleep any more.

We will discuss your prick later
when we wake up.

Now take a shower and lay down.

Mmm.

I am already falling over the cliff

into the abyss of sleep.

This is really the way to fall into this.

Delightful.

Guiltless.

Unfatigued.

This way, you will not dream.

I never dream during a siesta.

Pera? Pera?

Is that you?

- What's that noise?
- I'm in the shower.

Water. Warm rain.

I am in Guanajuato,
and there is a man in my bed.

- What is he doing there?
- Sleeping.

It's early afternoon. Siesta time.

We should learn to take siestas in Moscow.

What are you doing?

What should I be doing here in Moscow?

Nothing much, writing invoices,

typing scripts for the publisher,

being your secretary,

looking after your interests
whilst you're away,

refusing chocolates and visits
to the cinema from Boris.

Pera, why don't you drop everything

and come to Mexico

and rescue me from men
falling asleep in my bed?

I could never get a visa.

And there is no money for foreign visits.

We have shot over 70 miles of film, 20 hours.

I have a lot of ideas,
though they keep changing.

Usual stuff. It's gonna be a great film.

People here are saying you won't come back.

Of course I'm coming back.

Sergei, be careful.

Don't get mad at me,
but your American experience

could act against you.

They've stopped paying your mother.

Don't worry, I'm getting
something through to her,

though she continues to be very rude
and condescending to me,

the bitch.

Sorry.

You know there is no love lost between us.

His name is Cañedo.

Whose name?

The man in my bed. He's my guide.

And what else is he to you?

He's an instructor

of comparative religion.

Since when have you needed
instruction in religion?

We talk about Mexico and death.

He's my guide to the Underworld.

Pera? Pera? Are you still there?

The line is very bad.

I hear all sorts of noises,

like someone banging a hammer on metal.

A spanner on a radiator.

No, that's here, upstairs or somewhere.

Sergei, think of yourself.
Think of coming back soon.

They are starting to ask even little me

all sorts of questions, like,

"What do the Americans think of Sergei?"

Using your first name,
suggesting we are intimate.

I'm not with Americans any more.

I'm with Mexicans,
an entirely different race of people.

Pera? Pera? Pera, are you there?

You are a long way off.

You're right. I'm in Mexico.

It is 9:45,

a quarter to 10:00 on the 25th October.

The official time we stormed
the Winter Palace.

14 years to the minute
when the Revolution began.

Ten days that shook the world.

Except we have now changed calendars,

and it's all happening in November.

And anyway, if it's 9:45 here in Mexico,

it can't be 9:45 in Moscow.

The anniversary was over ten hours ago.
We missed it.

Then Eisenstein did it all over again.

He recreated the Russian Revolution

all over again on film.

Though much bigger and much better

than the first time round.

And twice as expensive.

With Eisenstein's version,
the street cleaners complained.

They took three days
cleaning up the broken glass.

"The first time around," they said,

"People were more considerate.

"They made far less mess."

They thought the first revolution

was, was better choreographed.

They thought Eisenstein's version
wasn't worth filming.

It was a waste of film, they said.

With Eisenstein, there were
much more windows broken,

more statues chipped by ricocheting bullets,

and much more noise.

The original revolution had apparently been

a fairly quiet affair,

with no swearing and no bad language.

Eisenstein is very equivocal about women.

And he really is a vulgar, fat little chap.

Any opportunity to pass on obscenity,

he will fart it through.

Sublimated sexual frustration.

He can be very crude about women.

He can't do the sex, so he'll talk it.

Come on, let's take the young woman home.

A present,

so you can celebrate your Russian Revolution

far from home.

Congratulations, Mr Russian Film Director.

Thank you.

I will wave it and remember.

Turn around.

Initiation ceremony.

Formal initiation into life
was essential for the Aztecs,

a full ritual.

You have left it a little late, Sergei.

But doesn't matter. Better late than never.

Better never late.

You are far from home

and off your home initiation ground.

I cannot.

Cannot what?

Why not?

Because I have argued with myself repeatedly

that this cannot be the way.

I have reached my accustomed point,

and this is where I stop.

It used to be where you may have stopped.

It isn't any longer.

This is where I get off the train.

Sorry, no station.

Well, then I will have to jump.

Jumping off a moving train
could be dangerous.

And your prick tells you

you have a first-class ticket
to continue the journey.

My prick is a stowaway,
an even sadder clown than me.

He wears a sad clown's helmet.

He's a wiser clown than you.

Follow where he leads.

And if you won't lead,

let me.

I am the guard.

I will be at the back of the train.

It hurts, it stings!

I'm going to vomit!

Shh, shh, shh.

That's what every virgin must say.

That's what the virginal New World said.

- I'm bleeding.
- So you are.

Every virgin is supposed to bleed,

so you were perhaps telling me the truth.

Don't worry.

Small, broken, injured capillaries

in the sensitive anal interior sphincter.

Recovery almost immediate.

- Bleeding makes me vulnerable.
- It does.

But you have no reason to feel concerned.

Unless you are a haemophiliac.

You are not a member
of the Russian royal family,

are you?

Are you a Romanov?

Europe gave México many things.

And perhaps México
gave only one thing back,

syphilis.

It was known for a time
as the "Mexican disease."

Then as the "Spanish disease."

The Spanish gave it to Italians
in southern Italy.

The French army of Francis I
caught it from the Italians.

Then it was the "French Disease."

The French soldiers took it back to France.

And then it was everybody's.

The Mexicans had a natural immunity?

Is that really true?

The Old World, the New World.

You are the Old World. I am the New World.

But we have it all the wrong way round.

México,

pre-Columbian Middle America,

is the Old World.

Where you come from is the New World.

And you tell me all these things

while your prick is in my arse?

Could be the reason.

Could be an excuse.

Could be a justification

to remind you about subjugation.

But it could be none of those things at all.

And it isn't.

And you are not entirely unwilling.

Curiously, neither were the Aztecs.

The European invasion had been prophesied.

They were God-fearing, superstitious people.

They did not resist.

The new New World should learn from the old.

They say all Americans, north and south,

originally came across
the Bering Straits to Alaska

and then all the way down

to Tierra del Fuego.

If the original Americans came that way,

they must have travelled
originally from Siberia,

which means all Americans,

and that also means all Mexicans,

were once upon a time Russians.

And now, Sergei,

I want to enjoy your virginal Russian arse.

At 2:00,

on the 26th of October, 1917,

the Russian Revolution was over.

The Winter Palace had been taken.

I was 19.

Congratulations, Eisenstein, on a revolution.

14 years ago, Russia lost its virginity.

I was 14 years too late.

Sergei, there has been a mudslide

to the south of the city,

the heavy rains last night.

There are many dead, many injured.

We should go there

and film a natural Mexican disaster.

Is there such a thing?

Aren't all disasters natural?

Hey, come on, get your clothes on.

It's not time for idle philosophy.

Hey, come and help.

Come and tell us how we should film it.

No, you do it. You know what to do.

I'm not so good with reality.
I'm going back to bed.

We have the car outside.
We can be there in 20 minutes

if the roads are not washed away.

The local people will not like
you seeing them distressed.

You are vultures. You will not be popular.

Sergei, we can record it,
show what happened.

You go, I'll come later.

Having children of my own

has just not occurred to me as a possibility.

Is that strange?

No.

It seems to be so very, very far

from what I have ever thought.

You really do have to have
the thought in your head,

and I never have.

You need to find the desire.

And the desire needs to be consummated.

We stake a claim to be human

by continuing the inexorable chain

on and on and on,
generation after generation,

father, son, and grandson,

which means we simply are
in a hopeless relay race,

permitted to hold the baton

for a few yards of hectic running,

with me thinking and feeling all the time
that I will default,

that I will drop the baton

and disgrace myself

and the team of an extended family

and, not least, betray the woman
who is bearing the child

at my request

and who is far more exhausted than me.

So better not to enter the race,

humiliate myself,
and embarrass all around me.

No, no fotos.

Cañedo? Cañedo, help me!
This baby is bleeding.

I thought she was peeing down
my leg, but it's blood.

Look! Help me.

I could not face a child
bleeding to death in my lap.

I only... I only construct death in the cinema.

I don't make it, cause it. Get the mother.

Where is the mother of this child?

I came to Mexico

a virgin.

And I leave it debauched.

My body was a stranger.

And now it becomes familiar in its...

...sheer vulnerability.

Come with me to Moscow.

Impossible.

I brush away my tears.

Am I weeping for that child?

For you?

For myself?

You are a hero!

Mercedes.

Are you not disturbed

by the Russian film-director's nakedness?

Not at all. He is not interested in women.

Besides, his photograph is in the papers.

He does not have long to live now.

Unless he has a great deal of money.

And unless he is very lucky.

Some papers say you are a hero.

This paper says you are responsible

for a child's death.

This one says

you and your wife have just had a row

about her mother, your mother-in-law.

And this paper offers you condolences

on the death of your daughter.

It's amazing how you have suddenly acquired

a Mexican family,

and the Camorristas don't normally like

to get their hair wet.

But they can get nothing out of me.

There are two people downstairs

waiting to talk to you.

Shall I ask them to come up?

Mrs Upton Sinclair and her brother.

Upton Sinclair is famous in Russia.

All his books have been translated.

One hundred thousand available
Upton Sinclair books in Moscow.

Read largely by literature snobs.

Well, when they chopped
my Hollywood contract,

I couldn't go back to Moscow empty-handed.

And I'd met the film-director Flaherty,

who made Nanook Of The North,

and he got me interested in going to Mexico,

which I must admit wasn't difficult.

Well, Flaherty makes films

with people who are not actors, like me.

And he convinced me

I could make a film independently in Mexico

without actors.

And when I was in Hollywood,

and I was lonely,

and miserable,

and homesick,

I spent a great deal of time
in the Hollywood bookstore

and practically bought up
their entire stock of books

on Mexico.

The owner of the bookstore,

who had fought in the Mexican Civil War,

said I could make a film in Mexico for $25,000.

And I talked to Chaplin,

and he agreed it was a good idea.

Mexico is fashionable amongst
all Chaplin's left-wing friends

in California.

They all have second homes here.

And Upton Sinclair

was one of these left-wing,
fashionable friends.

He and his horse-riding,

name-dropping,

faded Southern belle wife were very excited

that they could assist a Russian filmmaker

with all the right credentials.

With all the right credentials.
With all the right credentials.

Sergei! How are you?

We have been waiting to see you.

Hunter is worried.

Palomino, this is Mary Craig Sinclair,

the wife of Upton Sinclair,
famous American author,

much published in Russia.

Mary, this is Palomino Cañedo.

My, you're handsome, Mr Palomino.

Palomino! Sounds like a horse.

I used to have a beautiful
palomino mare two years ago.

Tennessee Walking Horse
out of an Appaloosa.

Are you a stud, Mr Palomino?

Are you registered at the Jockey Club

like my palomino, Mr Palomino?

Hunter, shake hands with a beautiful man

who could have been a horse.

Oh, we could have some coffee, too.

Oh, are you the maid?

Or are you doing for Mr Palomino

what my Appaloosa did for
the Tennessee Walking Horse?

Bring us some coffee, will you, dear?

Sergei, Hunter and I wanted
to know how you are doing,

how you are getting along.

Oh!

We have put your latest film rushes

through the laboratory in California,

and I must say...

We all say...

They are truly splendid.

Albert says so, and George says so, too.

I'm sorry.

Albert Einstein and George Bernard Shaw.

You have shown my rushes
to all these people

when I have not yet seen them myself?

Well, you couldn't, could you?

There are no Mexican laboratories

worth knowing, are there?

And we didn't want to disturb
you in your good works

and your long hours.

Though, Sergei, it is 10:00 in the morning,

and you are still in your pyjamas.

Yellow pyjamas, no less.

And in bed having breakfast?

Mmm-hmm.

With your friend.

Cañedo is my official Guanajuato guide.

He intends to take me
to Diego's favourite restaurant,

and I am to meet Frida.

Oh, I'm sorry. Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.

- Ah.
- And then,

since I have been introduced
to the siesta by Cañedo,

I intend to spend a large part

of the afternoon in bed, practising it.

Well, it is good to know
that you are in such safe hands.

But Hunter here has to speak
to you about budgets

and finances and money.

You know, you have been
in Mexico for eight months now,

and we only budgeted, as you know, for 12.

Oh, shall I get the invoices to check?

Oh, good Lord.

Oh, well...

I see it is still quite early for you.

Oh, yes. I am acclimatizing myself
to local practices,

many of them imported
from across the border.

You know? The border with America?

Russians don't wear pyjamas.

Even Stalin doesn't wear a pyjama,

but I'm sure that before long,
he might very well do, red ones.

I am used to wearing a Russian nightshirt

which can be a cast-off daytime shirt.

It is usually genderless, and usually,

if you tug it well,
can reach down to your knees

and even, with some sewing
and some adjustments,

can be made, when it's really cold,

to reach down to your ankles.

Well, we will be going now.

Hunter can make an appointment with you

to talk finances and... And rushes.

Is, is that the right word?

And maybe you could do it
over dinner, Hunter?

Is that all right?

Infantile behaviour.

- Something else?
- No, thank you, Mercedes.

Gracias, Mercedes.

However, Mercedes,

you could put your naked elbow

under the shower
to test the water temperature.

And, oh...

Perhaps you could warm up
the lavatory seat for me again.

Take your knickers down,

sit on the seat the wrong way around,

take a pee, and wriggle around a bit.

Do you really want me to translate that?

Was that wise?

Wise? Wisdom?

What is that?

Learning how to live
with a modicum of happiness

and no harm to others?

Freud says that there are five things

essential to a man's happiness

and if you can get them all perfectly aligned,

you are extremely fortunate indeed,

health, work, money,

sex, and love.

I have my health.

I have unbounded amounts of work.

Money? As you just heard,

I have a banker, and he has money.

It's not mine,
but it's in their bank under my name.

Sex? Well...

I'm more than agreeably accounted for there.

And love.

I have the love of a centaur.

Obviously a half a man, half a horse.

A palomino.

"A Tennessee Walking Horse.

"A stud out of an Appaloosa."

Can you whinny and neigh and snort

and trample the earth with your hooves?

I can.

Stop!

Stop.

Oh! Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

I am 33,

the age of Christ and Alexander at death,

the age St Augustine said
we all go to Heaven.

It is obvious.

I had to come to Mexico to go to Heaven.

You could have found this

ordinary heaven like most other people at 17.

I doubt it.

I doubt it very much.

I doubt that there are many 17-year-olds

that found Heaven that very first time.

I am certain that I would not have.

I was callow in all ways,

and it would have been a wasted experience.

33 is the ideal age,

old enough to be wise enough to know that 33

is the probable limit of promise.

After 33, you can no longer claim

to be a young person of promise any more.

And at 33, you are still young enough

to have your...

Physical attributes,

but old enough

to no longer have them
with vanity or triumphalism.

And...

33 is still young enough
not to be hopelessly cynical

and resigned to your fate.

I am discovering everything all at once.

And the catalyst,

the catalyst is sex.

I am just stupidly living

now in the present.

I could be fodder for
the Camorrista and not care.

Someone...

Has opened a door to a...

Wet

and weeping...

Dirty...

Hurricane.

Look after little Sergei.

He is a Russian innocent,

and Russian innocents are the most innocent

of innocents in the world.

You should be in that car, Sergei.

Keep them under control.

Stop them from spending needless finances.

Oh, don't worry. I'm following later.

Señor.

And they could be better off without me.

Tisse is a Capuchin monk
with money, doesn't eat.

And Aleksandrov is so charismatic

that everyone else pays for his bed and board.

He could scarcely be a drain
on anyone's resources.

We need to talk.

Salud!

Sergei, with over 100 miles of film,

you're going to make a film 20 hours long,

which is stupid and intolerable.

Griffith shot 200 miles on Intolerance.

Von Stroheim shot 100 miles on Greed.

It is normal to shoot that much,

and we have a project here
covering the whole of Mexico.

We are not at all doing badly,

considering all the language difficulties,

the extras that don't turn up
or turn up too late,

the Mexican authorities who, out of the blue,

when we are all prepared,
deny us permission,

the exceptional heat
that is making everyone sick,

then, then the heavy rains,
not known for 20 years,

and then I fall sick with some mystery disease

that no one can find a name for, even in Aztec.

And what about this letter

that Upton sent to the Russians in America,

saying that the hacienda story's
the only one that makes a film

that anyone could understand in Hollywood

and that the rest is just
aimless pretty pictures?

Upton does not simply understand

that the film needs to be edited the right way.

Well, he says the rushes are the same thing

- over and over again.
- Jesus!

That's the way you make a film, god damn it!

Where have you been?

We keep shooting till we get it right.

Not every single retake
is in the goddamn film!

He said, anyway, at the end of his letter

that he was convinced that it would be

a beautiful and magnificent work of art.

And, and look what he wrote
to Stalin, "Dear Stalin..."

You don't address the Premier
of the USSR like that.

Upton did, and he's a writer.

"You may have heard

"that I have taken the job
of financing a moving picture,

"which the Soviet director Sergei Eisenstein

"is making in Mexico.

"It is going to be extraordinary work

"and I think will be a revelation

"of the moving-picture art.

"Someday you will see the picture

"which Eisenstein is making

"and realise that Soviet technique

"has advanced another step

"and been crowned with fresh laurels."

Well, I'm not sure what else
he wrote in that letter,

but he must have provoked Stalin somehow,

because this is what he telegrammed

back to your husband.

Oh.

"Eisenstein lose his comrade
confidence in Soviet Union.

"Stop. He is thought to be a deserter

"who broke off with his own country. Stop.

"I'm afraid the people here

"would have no interest in him. Stop.

"I'm very sorry,
but all assert it is the fact. Stop.

"My regards, Stalin."

How did you get hold of a private telegram

from Stalin to my husband?

Well, from those very people

who apparently have no interest in me.

So who's lying?

And my husband wrote back at once,

saying he had never,
ever thought you were a deserter

and had never been disloyal

and that you were ferociously attacked

by the American rednecks in California

and that you stood firm in your principles

and had every intention of returning

when the film was completed.

There are so many
contradictions flying around

to your advantage,

it is hard to believe
that you want us to succeed.

And I wonder what you have not contributed

to all these contradictions.

You have been nothing but trouble

from the moment we started.

Even on the train leaving Los Angeles,

you get into a fight with the brother

of the Mexican Chief of Police.

Well, we weren't to know who he was!

He was ravishing some woman
on my couchette!

Ha!

With nights under hotel arrest
until Sinclair phoned Chaplin

to persuade them to release you.

Well, see how popular we are.

In the end, we had 12 American senators,

Douglas Fairbanks,

and Albert Einstein rooting for us.

And the Mexican President apologised.

What about that business with the young man

stealing your gun and shooting his sister?

That was an unhappy accident,
which you well know.

And it wasn't my gun.

This troublemaker, your brother,

is being very far from helpful.

His poor, not to say, bad management,

and his not knowing anything
about film production

has wasted hundreds of dollars
that we could do well with.

He has presented me to your husband

as a liar and a blackmailer
and God knows what else.

It is impossible to work
under such an ignorant tyrant.

What the hell does he know
about film production?

He's just a stockbroker salesman
from the provincial South.

You have to get him off my back.

- I wouldn't be at all surprised...
- Señor!

If he was spending the film money

on women, drink, and gambling.

We all know he was jailed in Mérida

for public indecency at a brothel,

throwing whores into a... Swimming pool.

You are a liar and a slanderer.

I am a respectable businessman,

and you and your company
are just a bunch of homos.

Ah, what have we provoked?

I think Mary, Mrs Upton Sinclair,

we have all said more than
we intended, eh, Kimbrough?

I think not, Mr Sergei Eisenstein.

I think not.

Well, how am I to arrive
in this skeleton state for real?

You have four options.

One. The Stalin option,
an assassin from Moscow.

Ah! Poisoned coffee.

Machete in the desert.

Pig falling down from balcony.

Car without brakes. Eight out of ten.

Oh, or two, wasting away

in a Mexican jail for moral turpitude,

either for the seduction
of the young and under aged or...

Or, or for sodomy,

in which case expect perhaps
a red-hot poker up your arse

like Edward II.

Six out of ten.

Or three, Sinclair's revenge.

He sets light to my film.

And throws you on the pyre. Two out of ten.

Or four, the Camorrista kidnap me

and cut me up into little pieces,

mailing me off on the slow boat
to Saint Petersburg.

500,000 rubles for every pound of flesh.

- Zero out of ten.
- Which is it going to be?

Well, I think the Camorrista
are the most deserving.

We don't want to disappoint them.

We just have to take
Hunter Kimbrough's photograph

and give it to the newspapers.

That will do nicely.

Camorrista!

No! No! No! Aah!

Come on, try it.

Right. Come on.

Right, left.

Oh. Oh!

Hey.

Well, I have to teach from 11:00
for three hours.

See you later.

Pera? ls that you?

Sergei, it's the middle of the night.

Oh, I'm sorry,
were you asleep?

Did I wake you?

Do you have anyone with you?

Sergei, is that likely?

I was wondering
if you had finally given in to Boris.

Things are heating up here
about your long absence.

They are threatening
to take away your apartment.

What? They can't do that.

Sergei, I'm afraid they can.

Do you want me to start
packing up your books?

My God,
it will take me months.

Listen, Pera, listen,

I have something extraordinary
to tell you.

This country...
This country is astonishing.

All the large things in life
constantly hit you on your head,

in the pit of your stomach,
and in your heart.

Nothing can be superficial.

You know how I work...

Timid with affairs
of the heart and body.

My prick always
safely tucked up in my trousers.

Sergei!

You know
I'm a work automaton.

Well, suddenly
my timidity collapsed.

My defences fell down.

I shocked myself.
I behaved without reserve.

You would have been
both shocked and amazed.

And I would have
wanted you to be.

Everything we ever talked about
has been bowled over.

I have been moaning
and complaining to you

that I could not go
the distance.

Well, now I have...

And beyond.

I have got everything
that I desired.

And not just
the satisfaction of lechery.

Sergei,
your secrets are safe with me.

And you can tell me everything
later in every detail,

but you must be careful.

Now, hold your excitement
and tell me things

our listener might want to hear.

Pera, I am sure
there is no secret listener.

It is you, Pera,
you are the secret listener.

You are two people.

Sergei, you might be right.

I have probably
always been two people...

Your secretary, nurse, and bum-wiper.

Pera, you have never wiped
my backside,

but Cañedo...

But Cañedo has?

Sergei, shut up!

Pera, you are the only person
in the world

that I can tell
without holding anything back.

That is both the best and
the worst thing you can tell me,

especially on a cold October morning
at five degrees below zero.

Now that I know you are well
and happy and working hard,

I wait for your next call.

I'm now going to
cry myself to sleep.

Good night, Sergei.

Take very good care
of yourself.

Death...

Should always be ready
to take a call.

Found you, Eisenstein.
Is this filmmaking?

Of a kind.

Looking after your feet
is important.

Did you know that ignoring
your feet in old age

statistically brings on death?

Corns, chilblains, blisters.

In-growing toenails
cause walking problems.

Problems of balance
create falls,

which mean damaged hips,
broken bones,

which don't mend so good
after 60.

How old are you,
Mr Kimbrough?

Eisenstein,
I have a chiropodist

to tell me all that.

Oh, another mark
of American affluence.

Your average Russian wouldn't
know what a chiropodist was.

So look after your feet,
Kimbrough.

If not, collapse of mobility,

a downhill slide to permanent
horizontality without sex.

Pneumonia, bedsores,
depression, death.

Stay vertical as long
as you can, Kimbrough.

Look after your shoes
and look after your feet.

Upton has sent me
with an ultimatum.

You have 20 days left
on your visa, Mr Eisenstein.

God, Kimbrough!

Have you brought along
the Mexican Passport Office?

I'm afraid you'll have
to leave Mexico, sir.

In that time, you have enough
raw stock to finish the film

and a budget of $8,000.

That's 20 minutes a day
for 20 days.

Enough is enough.

We have to bring this thing
to an end.

"This thing?"

What to you, Mr Kimbrough,
is "this thing"?

A long, protracted,
irresponsible adventure

leading to nowhere.

Mary says Upton
has to tame

your disobedience
and extravagance.

Upton has collapsed and is sick
in hospital in Pasadena.

The doctors say
too much unnecessary stress.

He's been running around
on your behalf,

forever raising money to satisfy
your exorbitant demands.

I now take over.

Upton has lost his faith in you
and your integrity.

You have manoeuvred him,
used him.

He has empowered me
to close it down,

wrap it up, the end, full stop.

You're like a Negro.

Kind words and consideration
are not enough.

I thought I was a Red.

Now I'm also a Black?

And you also forgot, a Jew.

Being Russian is
the mildest of concerns.

You wear your prejudices
proudly on your sleeve, Mr Kimbrough,

a true Southern gentleman.

Upton is exhausted
by your hesitations

and delays and changes of plan

and the dubious company
you keep.

You have deliberately
packed filth in our luggage

sent through
United States Customs Authorities.

The police said it was the
vilest thing they'd ever seen...

Obscene and blasphemous drawings
of the Crucifixion.

I leave for Hollywood
on Wednesday.

The last of the rushes have
to be in by the 21st of December

when the contract terminates.

Amkino and Moscow

have said you must return
to New York.

You sail from New York
on the 17th of January.

You'll be arriving in Europe
by the 23rd.

Perhaps you can be back
in Moscow

by the 2nd of February.

You miss the connection,
you are on your own.

Mr Cañedo is no longer
your guide here in Guanajuato.

He has been dismissed.

Mr Cañedo,

in Mexico City, they talked
about ending your contract

at the end of this period.

It's best for his sake,
Eisenstein,

you should leave Guanajuato
immediately.

He has a wife and children.

I suggest
tomorrow morning! Oh!

Allí, cabrón.

Quieto, cabrón,
hijo de la chingada.

All right, Sergei.

Now you have
to give them back.

What were you thinking
of doing,

opening a restaurant
in Red Square?

Don't you have forks
in Moscow?

It was
my insurance policy...

An excuse to be arrested.

There.

Now I cannot leave
Guanajuato.

I cannot go home.

You must never separate
a Russian from his shoes.

I cannot leave you.

I cannot.

Palomino loves well.

You were lonely.

You needed comforting.

You were like a lost child.

I love him.

I love him, too.

We will come to say good-bye.

We want peace...

All of us.

And I am the one
to seal that peace.

You have to go now, Sergei.

Your time is up.

We want Palomino back.

He is not gonna spend
his time dreaming of Moscow.

Drive away.

This is the Day of the Dead,

and I am a dead man.

Drive slowly
to the edge of town.

This is a funeral cortege.

And when you reach
the edge of town,

drive like the Devil.

I need to leave Heaven
in a hurry.

Eisenstein left
Mexico two months later.

He had shot
some 250 miles of film,

which he was never allowed to edit.

Soviet laws made homosexuality
a punishable offence in 1936.

Homosexuals were sent to Siberia.

Ten years' hard labour for sodomy.

Eisenstein dies of heart attack
aged 50 in 1948,

banging on the radiator pipes
for over three hours

to arouse his neighbours,

a prearranged signal,

but they never heard him.

Day ten of my stay
in Guanajuato

is the 31st of October

and the eve

of the Day of the Dead.

In the West, my film October is called

The Ten Days That Shook
The World.

I...

Shall consider these ten days

as the ten days
that shook...

Eisenstein.