All language subtitles for Teorema - CC

Your boss gave you workers his factory.
What do you think of his gesture?

- Is he still the focus here?
- Of course.

Has he thus blocked all chance
of a future workers' revolution?

- Possibly.
-ls his action an isolated case,

or part of a general trend today?

Part of a general trend, I think.

As a symbol of the new course of power,

can this act be seen
as a first prehistoric step

in the transformation of all humanity
into the bourgeoisie?

The bourgeoisie will never
turn all humanity into bourgeoisie.

So the rather
unoriginal idea here is this:

even if it gives away its factories,

whatever the bourgeoisie does
is wrong, correct?

I decline to respond.

But the bourgeoisie
is radically changing its situation.

If it manages to make all humanity
part of the bourgeoisie,

it will no longer face a class struggle

to win with the help
of the army, state, or church.

Then it will lose.
It would be losing its natural allies.

Then you have to answer the new questions
posed by this changing bourgeoisie.

Absolutely.

Can you answer those questions?

Can you answer those questions?

Thus God led his people about
by way of the wilderness.

ARRIVING TOMORROW

Pietro, how about a little music?

So, feeling better now?

Come on, it was nothing.

Here you go. Thank you.

Darlings!

Welcome! How are you?

Sorry about the makeshift accommodations.

That's okay.

It's been a real invasion.

This was my room as a kid.

- Good night.
- Good night.

I'm sorry!

I'm sorry.

RIMBAUD - WORKS

Here, boy! Here!

Here, boy! Here!

Lucia.

Up here!

Come on!

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Pietro!

Your friends are calling.

You're a serious player.

Finally.

These are my friends.

Lucia. Lucia!

What time is it?

I don't know. Why does it matter?

But it's 6:00 a.m. Six!

STORIES AND TALES

It's about a sick man like me.

"But even in this most
disagreeable situation,

Ivan llyich found consolation.

Gerasim, a clean, fresh peasant boy,
always came in to clean up after him."

Thank you.

What are you reading?

"He was at his daily tasks,
and that stroke of goodness

would take longer
to come around again than a star.

The Adorable One, who'd appeared
without my ever hoping he would,

has not returned
and will never return again."

I warn you, I like to go fast.

Now you'll see what this car can do.

I believe you.
I'm just not a youngster anymore.

You're not Gerasim. It's hard to face you.

There are two reasons
I feel I must talk to you.

First of all...

there's my moral sense.

And then there's this
sort of confusion inside me...

that perhaps can only be cleared up
by talking about it.

You have seduced me, O Lord,

and / let myself be seduced.

You have taken me by force,
and you have prevailed.

I have become an object of daily derision,

and all mock me.

Yes, I have heard the defaming of many,

terror on every side.

'Denounce him, and We will denounce him. "

All my friends awaited my downfall.

"Perhaps he will let himself be seduced.
Then we shall prevail,

and take our revenge upon him. "

Angelino.

Angelino.

What did you say?
So you can talk after all.

I'm so happy!

See you, Emilia.

I must leave.

Tomorrow.

I no longer even recognize myself.

What made me like the others
has been destroyed.

I was like everyone else,

with many faults, perhaps,
mine and those of the world around me.

You made me different by taking me
out of the natural order of things.

But I didn't realize it
as long as you were nearby.

But now that you're leaving, I see it.

And knowing I'm losing you
has made me aware of how different I am.

What will become of me now?

The future will be like living with a self
that has nothing to do with me.

Perhaps I must probe
the depths of this difference

that you've revealed to me,

and that is my intimate
and anguished nature.

But even if I don't want it to,

won't all of this set me
against everyone and everything?

I realize now that I've never had...

any real interest in anything.

I don't mean anything grand.

Just the simple, everyday interest

my husband takes in his work,
or my son in his studies,

or Odetta in family life.

I've had nothing like that.

I don't know how I lived
with such emptiness, yet I did.

If there was anything at all,

some instinctive love of life,

it was withering away,

like a garden where no one ever goes.

Actually, that void was filled

with false and wretched values,

an appalling jumble of misguided ideas.

Now I see:

you filled my life
with a real and total interest.

So by leaving,

you're not destroying anything
that was there before,

except my chaste bourgeois reputation.

Who cares about that?

But what you gave me in place of all that,

the love with which
you filled my empty life,

by leaving, you destroy all that.

Knowing you has made a normal girl of me.

You've shown me
the right solution for my life.

I didn't know men before.

In fact, I was afraid of them.

I only loved my father.

Your leaving will send me hurtling
even further back than before.

Is that what you wanted?

The pain of losing you now
will cause a relapse

far more dangerous
than the sickness I had inside me

before this brief cure
brought about by your presence.

I couldn't see that sickness before,
but now I do.

Through the love you gave me,
I've become aware of my illness.

How can I replace you now?

Could anyone ever take your place?

I don't think I can go on living!

You must have come here to destroy.

The destruction you've caused in me
couldn't be more complete.

You've simply destroyed the idea
I've always had of myself.

Now I see absolutely nothing...

capable of giving me back my identity.

What are you suggesting?

A scandal tantamount to social suicide,

a complete loss of myself?

But how can this be for a man
accustomed to believing in order,

in the future,

and above all in ownership?

- I'll carry that.
- No, I'll carry it.

Then let's carry it together, all right?

Hi, Emilia.

Hi, Emilia.

Emilia.

- Do you have a tape measure?
- Yes, right away, miss.

Miss, dinner is served.

Miss?

Miss Odetta?

There's nothing I can do.
It's beyond my expertise. I'm sorry.

Miss Odetta.

Miss Odetta, come on. Please.

Please open your fist, Miss Odetta.

Open your fist, miss.

Miss Odetta.

Miss.

How pathetic!

I'm such an ass!

Here we are.

Emilia, it's ready. Are you hungry?

No, I'm not eating.

Come on, eat. It's good.
You should eat, go on.

- No, I don't want anything.
- But why?

Why won't you eat?

It's good, you know? Why?

At least tell us what you'd like to eat.

Emilia, come on.

Come on, let's go.

We must try to come up with new,
unrecognizable techniques...

resembling nothing that's come before...

to avoid the childish and the absurd.

One must build one's own world...

that allows no comparisons...

where previous standards don't apply.

They, too, must be new,
like the techniques themselves.

No one must realize
that the artist is worthless,

that he's an abnormal, inferior being

squirming and slithering
like a worm to survive.

No one must ever witness
his lapses into clumsy artlessness.

Everything must appear perfect...

based on unknown
and hence unquestionable rules.

Like a madman. That's it.

One pane of glass atop another,

because I'm incapable
of correcting anything,

and no one must realize that.

A brushstroke on one pane...

corrects without sullying it...

the stroke painted earlier
on the pane below.

But no one must suspect

it's just the trick
of an incompetent, impotent man.

No, it must seem
like a self-assured decision,

imperturbable, lofty, almost arrogant.

No one must know
that the right brushstroke

happens only by chance,
and with a trembling hand.

Or that when the right brushstroke
happens, as if by miracle...

it must immediately be protected
and carefully guarded,

as in a shrine.

No one must ever know that.

The artist is a poor, trembling idiot,

a second-rate hack
who lives by taking chances and risks,

like a disgraced child,

his life reduced to the absurd melancholy

of one who lives debased by the feeling

of something lost forever.

DOWN WITH ALL STATES

DOWN WITH ALL CHURCHES

UP WITH PAINTERS OF...

Blue reminds me of him,

but blue alone is clearly not enough.

It's just a part.

Who can permit me such mutilation?

What ideology can justify it?

Weren't my first miserable attempts
at portraits better?

Just look at her.

Look what eating nothing but nettles
has done to her.

Lord, what a shame.

Sorry. I don't smoke.

Which way back to Milan?

Turn left, then straight ahead.

What would become of me...

if I stripped myself of everything
and gave my factory to the workers?

Let's go.

Don't be afraid.
I didn't come here to die but to weep.

These are not tears of sorrow. No.

They'll be a wellspring,
but not a wellspring of suffering.

Go on now. Go away.

THE END