Original subtitles

WRONG MOVE

l want you to go away.

l'm selling out to a supermarket and will give you part of it.

No...

don't say anything, Wilhelm dear.

Wait till you have to.

And don't lose that unrest and discontent of yours.

You'll need it if you want to write.

l'll enjoy life from now on.

l'll be smoking when l cross the square.

l'll be drinking a martini in the Heider Hof

while reading your letters.

l'll say, "With ice, please," when l order the martini.

I'm not desperate, just angry and fed up.

It's as if I had no tongue.

I haven't spoken for two days.

Yet in my sleep l'm talking aII the time, says Mother.

l want to be a writer,

but is that possibIe when you don't Iike peopIe?

If onIy I couId write. Write!

Bye. Do you have an evening show?

No.

Janine.

l wanted to see you again.

l can't look at you in that outfit.

You've got something there.

No, here.

ln the course of time...

The day I Ieft my hometown, it seemed alive for the first time,

though only with the dreariness of those Ieft behind.

Janine and my insuIt about her barkeeper outfit...

I had aIready forgotten.

Mother had packed my suitcase.

On top she had put two books:

Life of a Good-For-Nothing by Eichendorff,

and Sentimental Education by FIaubert.

I decided not to withdraw my arm if she'd link arms in the street,

as I'd aIways do for passers-by.

In the taxi, she suddenIy toId me not to be intimidated

if peopIe pointed out how usefuI a doctor or carpenter was

and how useIess my Iife was.

PeopIe with restricted professions reminded her of dried-up snaiIs.

l listened,

but my thoughts weren't with her anymore.

Your ticket.

ln your other hand, Mother.

Why did you choose Bonn?

l leafed through the novel you read recently.

l'm fond of you, Wilhelm. Please don't forget me.

I Ieft her to a fate I didn't beIieve in for myseIf.

l imagined the taxi driver asking her whether he shouId take her home.

By herseIf, she'd take the bus.

I feIt Iike combing my hair in the train window,

but then I rather waited for the train to Ieave.

Later, somewhere else, I wouId remember her better

when she'd be far away.

I hated that thought and forgot it.

It was a nice, peacefuI day.

The gulls that had screamed above the sea fIew siIentIy over Iand.

The canal we were passing was aIready a memory.

l began to think ahead,

intending to find out more about myseIf during this journey.

Someone's nose must have bIed on the seat across from mine.

LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING by Joseph von Eichendorff

"Chapter One.

The wheeI of my father's miII was once more turning and whirring merrily.

The melting snow trickled steadiIy from the roof,

and sparrows chirped and hopped about.

I sat on the doorstep and rubbed the sIeep from my eyes.

It feIt great in the warm sunshine.

Then Father came out of the house.

He'd been busy in the miII since daybreak,

and his nightcap... his nightcap was awry."

Hey, what's that?

Τhe woman who filled you with such longing...

is Τherese Farner.

She's an actress.

You'll want to know why my nose is bleeding.

lt is the memory.

Maybe l'll tell you about it at breakfast tomorrow.

You know the story of St. Januarius,

whose blood is kept in a church in Naples?

lt becomes fluid once a year and stirs...

on the anniversary of his death.

Where are you going?

Bonn.

Τhere's only one ticket.

No, you aren't dreaming.

Two tickets are missing.

You can pay for your companions on the train, of course.

Something terrible happened to me today.

Only half price for the girl!

l'm still confused.

When l had left the house, l noticed l'd forgotten my umbrella.

But no, l had opened it.

l had odd socks on too.

No, l can't do it. lt was indescribable.

Was it raining?

No, that wasn't the point.

l recognize that salute from old newsreels.

Go on. Τhank the gentleman for your ticket.

Have you decided on something?

l was thinking maybe minced veal, dumplings, and salad for three.

We'll drink a beer and an orange juice.

Eichinger - l mean the conductor - gave me a note for you.

"Carriage 83, compartment 3, window seat."

lt can only be for you. Certainly not for me.

What profession did you give?

l'm a singer.

And she's a street performer.

WRlΤER

Good night.

That afternoon, seeing the woman on the train

seemed a big adventure already.

l thought l'd regret it the rest of my Iife

if I didn't pursue it.

Get me 06351 -7270, please.

But now, in this ordinary room with its buIky bed,

pIastic wastebasket, and neon light over the sink,

I was as defIated as my surroundings.

l was even practicing what I wouId say on the phone.

For exampIe, "I'm dying to see you."

I tried to shake off the compuIsion. l would not start blabbing.

If she said nothing, l would say nothing too.

I Iooked down onto the square.

AII of a sudden l had the urge to write.

It wouId take my mind off her.

This thought made the fear of a new person go away.

I wanted to get to know her voice.

I hoped it'd be as cIear as her gaze at me on the train.

Afterwards l'd write, in great detail.

"For the Iast two nights I haven't dreamed.

I haven't cut my naiIs for over a week.

l've worn the same shoes for a month.

And l haven't thought about dying for years.

l've always felt everything would go on the same without me.

But since l met you, l know what's happening to me."

Could you make a song from that?

lf you let me have the poem.

l'll tell you my story soon.

Maybe tonight.

Just a hint. l ran in the 1 936 Berlin Olympics.

Τhe 1 00 meters race.

You refused to shake hands with Jesse Owens, just like your Fȕhrer.

l only got to the semifinals.

But...

l probably wouldn't have shaken a black man's hand.

And now?

We'd better go for a walk.

l wanted to start writing today for real.

But l dreamed so much last night

that it's impossible now to write about anything else.

And just writing about dreams is -

l want to write something that's absolutely necessary.

Necessary like a house...

or a glass of wine in the evening.

Even more necessary.

On the way here l noticed

that Germany still has landscapes.

l wanted to stop...

but kept on going faster.

l wanted to go for a walk with you,

leave the city.

We were just doing that.

l wanted to talk to you.

Nothing in particular. Just talk.

But suddenly -

You want to be alone with me?

Not now.

lt's good -

lt's good we have company. Otherwise it would be worse.

Τhis way, l at least feel as if l had a secret.

Do you have any idea what pain is?

Do you pigs know how a plane rushes

through your brain?

Τhis way!

So many things are strange to you.

l like that about you.

l don't think you could write otherwise.

What l don't like is...

that you think only you can be that way.

Grant that to others too.

Excuse me.

l heard you reciting poetry in the hotel today.

l write poetry myself,

so l followed you to ask you for your opinion.

May l recite something?

"l lay still half asleep

when l heard the bells ringing.

One struck so hard as if it struck me.

l was so miserable that my skin peeled off.

l felt l was not even a shadow in the entire cosmos.

lt was terrible.

Like a jellyfish, without any form,

l was gliding through the spheres."

Nobody's serving here.

"A child stepped on me

like on snail-infested, gelatinous, rotting mold.

l yearned to spurt myself into the gutter.

l belonged in a butcher shop,

transparent and trembling in aspic.

l fell through a trap door into a last dream...

and hung there like a piece of meat on a hook.

And a hanged man with a sign that read 'l am a traitor'

convulsed as myself from a plum tree.

From my terror-stricken stiff member sperm was shooting

and dripping on a white sheet.

Since then l've been living under a bell jar,

my rotting consciousness steaming up the glass.

Why must there be...

between me and the world

such a huge difference?"

l should introduce myself.

My name is Bernhard Landau.

l'm Austrian.

l've never amounted to much...

and l hope it'll stay that way.

l get injured once a year.

Τhis year l fell on the edge of a chair

and gashed the corners of my mouth.

lt's already healed.

An uncle of mine owns a big bakery. He has an estate in the area.

We could all stay with him.

He wanted to be a composer

and suffers now and then from being a capitalist.

But l think those people

are the real capitalists.

Put your gun away, Uncle, or we'll shoot back.

lt's me, Bernhard from Vienna.

l have some friends with me.

We'd like to stay the night.

Τhis isn't my uncle.

And it's the wrong house.

lt's the wrong time too.

l don't actually know you...

but l'm glad you came.

Τhere's plenty of room.

Stay as long as you like.

l'd just shoved this rifle into my mouth...

when l heard the car, and l waited...

hoping it would stop.

l live here all alone.

My wife hanged herself three months ago.

Τhat's why the house is such a mess.

l was going to redecorate, change everything.

She often wished for a machine

to stretch all the tendons of her body.

l couldn't help her.

ln the end l even started praying.

l've been alone long enough.

l feel like reading the papers again.

Come in the other room.

l'd like to talk about loneliness.

l don't believe it even exists.

lt's more of an artificial feeling induced from outside.

Once...

l sat in this room in a profound stupor.

Cigarette stubs from the night before

lay in the ashtray.

"So l must have sat there last night

as stupidly as today," l thought.

"Yesterday l sat there, today here."

And this vision of myself

moved me so much

that l felt caressed all of a sudden.

Τhat, then, was loneliness.

l was proud with loneliness,

enthused by it.

Drenched in loneliness.

l produced a similar loneliness one night

sitting outside on the terrace.

l drank a bottle of wine,

and time passed effortlessly.

People were passing by in the distance...

and looked across at me.

"How lonely l must seem to them," l thought.

At once l was again cradled

in an artificial, manipulated loneliness.

lt's just a theatrical state...

that arises at the moment

when you see yourself as an actor of your own self.

And yet...

it's these moments of hypocritical loneliness

that make me feel reborn.

Τhat's the paradox of loneliness:

that overwhelming feeling...

of security...

that l then experience.

You were going to reveal your secret to us.

l'm too tired.

Let's put it off till tomorrow when we go for a walk.

Come, Mignon.

She's called Mignon?

l never knew that. - You never asked her.

She's been waiting all this time for you to ask.

Wilhelm.

l'm going upstairs now.

Will you be coming?

Yes, you know l will.

l'll stay down here for a while.

l'm disgruntled because l've written nothing today.

He's done with his poetry.

But l don't want to remain unsatisfied.

Look in on me.

And l'm glad...

l found you people.

Good night.

A self-portrait of my wife.

l'd just like to talk a bit

about loneliness here in Germany.

l think it's more hidden

and at the same time

more painful than elsewhere.

What's responsible for it could be the history of ideas here.

Τhey were all seeking a way of life

that could help overcome fear.

Τhe propagation of virtues

like courage, endurance, and diligence

was only meant to distract from fear.

Let's say it was that way.

Philosophy could be used, more than anywhere else,

as an ideology of the state...

so that the necessarily criminal methods

for overcoming fear

could even be legalized.

Fear is considered vain...

and shameful.

Τhat's why loneliness in Germany

is masked by all those treacherously lifeless faces...

that haunt supermarkets, recreational areas,

pedestrian zones, and fitness centers.

Τhe dead souls of Germany.

"A boy knows no fear," my parents told me.

l refuse to overcome my fear.

l hope you'll like it here.

lt was touching to see the way you listened to me.

Maybe that exists: wanting to write without knowing what.

Just like wanting to walk.

Yes, not writing itseIf, but wanting to write is the need.

Not loving, but wanting to love.

l'm going upstairs.

Are you there?

l dreamed l was ice-skating.

On a frozen sea.

lt was the North Sea.

l was quite far out.

l couldn't get back...

and l kept skating straight ahead.

l was very afraid.

Τhe worst was the grating of the ice skates...

behind me on the ice.

"Τhis isn't my dream at all," l kept thinking all the time.

l dreamed you had to die.

As a precaution you were supposed to go...

to a mausoleum a few hours earlier

below the main street.

A child was to keep you company till you died.

Τhe child stood next to you...

and the mausoleum was sealed with a large stone.

l dreamed of the absolute darkness...

in which the child, till you died...

had to stand next to you.

lt was my child.

l dreamed l lay on the bed in my room...

seeing the whole time the wall with the door.

l kept waking up...

and really seeing the wall with the door in front of me.

As soon as l fell asleep...

l'd dream of it again,

almost exactly the way l'd just seen it in reality.

Except it was...

closer to me.

l had to vomit.

l'm sorry.

Now in daylight l can't remember my dream.

Τhough right now, when l reached for the sugar bowl,

it gave me a start. l almost remembered.

lt seems so significant.

And you, Mignon?

She thinks dreams are ridiculous.

A man screams at me in a fury

"RosenthaI! I've got you now!"

He grabs me by the collar

And bashes four of my teeth in

Then that man spits in my face

I think to myseIf, "Who cares?"

My name's not even RosenthaI

That's none of my business

When it's my turn to die one day

I'II enter the coffin cheerfuIIy

And because I have so many friends

I'II Iie there upside down

I'II Iie on my beIIy quietIy

And think whatever I Iike

Maybe someone wiII come visit me

But that's none of my business

Can a person write if he's alienated from politics?

lf you could describe how the alienation came about.

lt only shouldn't appear natural.

Then l'll have to tell the history of the Western world.

Of course.

ln a way, politics only escaped me when l started writing.

l tried to write politically but realized l didn't have the words for it.

The words that existed had nothing to do with me.

l felt nothing and thought, "l didn't write that!"

l wrote as progressive politicians speak.

Only...

more helpless, as l didn't act,

and more pointed, out of helplessness.

A good reason to become politically active...

and drop writing altogether.

But it was through writing that l realized

l couldn't formulate my needs politically.

Politicians never aroused them, only poets.

What does the world care about your personal needs?

Everybody has highly personal needs.

For me, they're the only real needs.

But they're unfulfillable...

compared with those needs that politics deals with.

lf only -

lf only politics and poetry...

could be united.

Τhat would mean the end of longing,

and the end of the world.

Last night l saw you lying on the floor by your bed

with a sort of whip in your hand.

What are you atoning for?

lt's time for your story.

Earlier, on the terrace, l sang a Jew's song.

Your friend's?

l killed him.

Remember the salute the train conductor gave

when he left me on the train?

He was my adjutant in Vilna.

l saved some Jews too, if they were professionally qualified.

Can you swim?

How do you know l can't?

l was hoping so.

Walking like this, l feel l could cover miles in a single step.

Then l even understand your distaste for politics, Wilhelm.

For me, nature is of vital importance.

lt makes me forget the entire past.

Τhose innocent campfires of my youth.

We cast sticks to foretell the future.

We leaped through the fire laughing, without a care.

We still rejoiced over the potatoes we baked in the campfire...

whereas the spoiled kids of today

think it's a big adventure to barbecue a suckling pig

in their parents' gardens.

l'm still trying to remember my dream.

l know it has something to do with my uncle.

A short poem just came to mind.

A sort of haiku.

ln writing, observation is better than inspiration.

Do you want to hear it or not?

l just thought of a story.

Τell me.

You say your poem first.

lt's called "Lovingly."

"Lovingly.

Lovingly

the mother watches

her children eat."

A poem by Bernhard Landau.

Very good.

My story is also quite short. lt goes something like this:

"He finally got around to saying he loved her.

At the moment he said, 'l love you,'

she happened to use a toothpick. He hated her forever from then on."

Did he marry her, then?

Of course, once he said he loved her.

You must bring that in to round the story off.

Otherwise it's just a punch line.

Also, l'd give them both names.

"He" and "she"...

are just figures from a joke.

- What should l call them? - Anton and Martha.

"Anton was finally able to tell Martha that he loved her."

lt's turning into a novel.

You didn't look for me.

Yes, l did look for you.

Your face is so soft.

Τhat's how sad you are.

Yes.

Don't say what you're thinking.

You had so much to tell.

l want to be alone with you today.

l'm not afraid anymore, the way l usually am.

l made up that dream about skating.

l just felt that way.

l realized that and looked away while you were telling it.

Did you see those feathers on the path?

Yes. Why?

Did you notice anything?

l didn't look properly.

A yellow beak was underneath.

Τhere's a lot you don't notice.

Τrue.

l have to make a conscious effort to observe.

Everyone else notices more details than me.

Yet you want to live as a writer?

l know l haven't got the so-called power of observation.

But l believe l have...

the gift of a sort of erotic view.

Suddenly l notice something that l've always missed,

and not only do l see it, but l get a feeling for it.

Τhat's what l call an erotic view.

l then write not just an observation

but an experience.

Τhat's why l insist on being a writer.

Something has to happen.

lt's all so matter-of-fact.

Finished. Closed up.

l don't want to walk anymore.

lt feels like we're putting things off.

Let's do something.

Have you ever wanted to kill someone?

No.

l have.

As a child l had a real bloodlust.

l've got it again right now.

l wouldn't even use a weapon.

Just my bare hands.

What do you mean?

l know who you mean.

l just remembered my dream.

Our host ran along a coast road.

A man with a camera pursued him. Our host shouted..

"Long live the world's exploited masses."

Τhen he leapt over the railing and plunged below.

Far below was the sea.

l had to look at the film as a witness... - Let's go.

Let's go. l'm scared.

The cameraman who filmed the plunge -

At times I stared into space

without looking at anything.

Then I shut my eyes,

and onIy by the afterimage I reaIized

what had been in front of me.

When l'm writing, l shut my eyes and see things clearly

that I wouIdn't notice with my eyes open.

After the suicide of the industriaIist whose presence had so stimuIated me,

it seemed we had aII Iost direction.

The journey through Germany I had so far experienced

as an adventure and work was interrupted,

and we moved on in a stupid panic.

Bernhard disappeared without expIanation at the service area.

The rest of us stayed together, but we too were moving apart.

Can you still run as fast as you did at the Olympics?

ln the evening we reached the Taunus foothills,

where Therese had an apartment on the tenth fIoor.

Feces Iay in the Iobby,

and the woodwork of the eIevator was carved with genital symbols.

Therese said she'd onIy just moved in.

Her apartment waIIs were still roughcast.

In the distance you saw the Frankfurt skyIine.

I wanted to sIeep with her,

but maybe it was just an urge to get a grip on things.

I feIt an aimIess rage directed at the old man,

using his past as an excuse to myseIf.

She's not a child anymore.

l know.

What?

What do you know?

Everything. l could tell at once.

Never mind.

l envy you, Wilhelm.

Me?

You don't worry about anything, at least usually.

l know it embarrasses you...

but l can't help liking you a lot.

Why?

Sorry.

You know what l think is funny?

Τhat just now your stubble was scratching me...

and you were panting on my shoulder, your mouth wide open.

And now you're making that serious face.

Your ridi-

Your detached pose is quite ridiculous.

Instead of becoming desperate, l just got more dull.

So I onIy stared stupidIy at those who were reaIIy desperate.

Yet I moved through the cement landscape

like one who cared, the hero.

I have to pay 20 marks on top?

Out of the question!

We don't have any money with us either.

All this homework! l'm sick of it.

Math and all the other stuff...

l couldn't grasp how all these people in the supermarkets,

on the playgrounds, behind the windows of the high-rises,

in this country, and not onIy here,

put up with Iife.

Are you learning set theory too?

lt's so boring!

Quantity A plus quantity B equals quantity C.

l have a friend on the third floor.

Mine's on the eighth.

l used to have one in the penthouse.

l have this feeling of total absurdity.

No sooner do l try to learn a line in this play here...

than l see this matchbox...

and wonder why it doesn't appear in the play.

lt's so artificial...

expressing yourself with other people's words.

Only by remembering for a long time...

does a text sometimes make sense.

Because l remember...

having experienced something similar.

l had just forgotten.

lf l remember, l can act

without that suffocating feeling

of not understanding my actions.

After this memory work, l enjoy being onstage,

and l'm happy doing it.

But if l don't manage to remember,

l act like a machine.

ln the last show l suddenly got stuck...

even though l knew the text entirely by heart...

and the prompter whispered it.

Being a parrot is humiliating...

l've always thought.

Are you listening?

Being a parrot is humiliating.

Help me, Wilhelm, or leave.

lt disgusts me that everything leaves you cold.

Yesterday you envied me for it.

But today it makes me sick.

l could -

Kill me.

Go ahead.

Maybe l can learn something from you.

Beat me to death.

You disrupt...

my writing.

You talk about yourself and your troubles at work,

not realizing l'm actually working.

Τhen l'm like you and your matchbox that isn't in the text.

And l can't go on writing, because l feel...

what you've just said should appear in my writing.

So...

leave me in peace.

You weren't even listening.

l was...

but l kept thinking l was missing out on my writing.

You're a pig!

Don't say that, Τherese.

Say something.

You look revolting when you're silent.

What are you writing?

l'm writing a story about someone who is a kind man...

but also incapable of any pity.

l want to prove that compassion and pitilessness go together.

l think it'll become a political story.

Where can you go boating around here?

On the Main.

ln that case, we'll go boating tomorrow

and take the old man.

We'll leave Mignon here.

She'll have to get used to being alone.

He committed suicide.

He hanged himseIf in the room behind the pastor's apartment.

It was a terribIe end.

I was unabIe to heIp Therese.

My work was mereIy a pretext,

knowing too well it couIdn't reaIIy be caIIed work

if I wasn't open for Therese at the same time.

I had onIy showed off to her.

Are we rowing here?

Wilhelm!

l've changed a lot since then.

lt's not just that l sleep on the bare floor.

l have back pain anyway.

Τimes were different then.

You must understand that.

We differentiated, like you now, between the natural and politics.

Defending the natural against politics

led to the most atrocious politics.

You really can't swim?

Wilhelm.

Please, Wilhelm!

Let me live, Wilhelm!

l know you want to move on. Τake me with you.

l can imitate animals.

And l'm a good cook! From halibut to liver dumplings.

"Rosenthal! l've got you now!"

Τhe water used to be pure and clear here, right?

lt was different then, with the cat...

When are you leaving?

Τomorrow.

How did you find out?

You've been making slips recently.

That made me realize your thoughts were elsewhere.

Where will you go?

l just saw a photo of the Zugspitze in the paper.

l've never been there.

Never been on a mountain as high as that.

A rack railway is going up there.

What if l ask you to stay?

l know l shall love you very much one day...

Τherese.

Mignon...

l'm leaving tomorrow.

You must decide for yourself what to do.

Your friend isn't going to show up anymore.

So how do we part then?

Somewhere in the crowd.

Where is your crowd?

l'm disappointed too.

l thought it would be so busy

that we couldn't even walk alongside each other.

Shall we meet again?

Necessarily.

The parents who Ieft their chiId #37 in the nursery,

pIease come and get it there. l repeat.

I toId Therese I wanted to stay in Germany

because I knew too IittIe to write about it.

But that was onIy a pretext.

In reaIity, I just wanted to be aIone to Iive in my stupor on my own.

l stood on the Zugspitze waiting for an experience Iike a miracIe.

But there was no snowstorm.

Why had I run away? Why was I here and not with the others?

Why did I threaten the oId man and not Iet him teII me more?

I feIt I had missed out on something

and continued to miss out

with every new move. WRONG MOVE