Original subtitles

- Alright, Mr. Limonòv... - Limònov!

Mr. Limònov.

I'll start again.

- Alright, Mr. Limonòv... - Limònov!

Limònov...

When you're ready, look at the camera and start when I say "action".

Should I do it in French?

Yes. In French, that's good.

And... action.

Name: Limonov. First name: Édouard.

Also known as Edichka or Eddie-baby.

Born somewhere in Russia, in 1944.

Known residence in

the 50s-60s: Kharkov,

a large industrial

city in Ukraine, and Moscow.

Professions:

student,

thug, worker, poet.

Emigrated to New York in the 70s.

Professions:

dishwasher, butler, poet.

Last known address:

rue de Turenne, Paris.

Eddie, is it hard to be a writer in Paris, today?

A Russian writer

and an immigrant?

It's hard everywhere to be a writer.

Is it hard to be an immigrant?

For me, it's okay.

Writers must be driven

out of their country of origin.

They must!

That's my opinion.

There are two images of the Russian writer.

The dissident and the Soviet.

I was...

the new one, a new type of writer,

neither official nor dissident.

If you are not a dissident, why not return to the USSR?

For some, it is impossible to imagine that something else exists.

The question is not about living here or there,

it's stupid.

HOTEL UKRAINE

Have a good night.

We need territories!

What's the point of fighting.

England, America, and France for their colonies?

Make the USSR your colony!

Or at least its flourishing suburbs,

its republics,

or even Ukraine.

Everything has changed in our country,

thanks to perestroika and glasnost.

We can finally bring people like our guest back to Russia.

He has become a famous writer in the West

and it's wonderful

that he can return to his country of origin.

Where her novel ♪ La Grande Époque ♪

Is among the bestsellers.

I would like to ask the author

why a man who claims to be a dissident

defends the KGB.

I never claimed to be a dissident.

I was only a man in disagreement with the Penal Code.

I remember you when you lived in Moscow.

We knew each other.

But no matter.

What matters,

is that I remember a young poet

with long hair, inspired and talented.

What I see now, forgive me,

He's a bureaucrat, a kind of Komsomol secretary.

It breaks my heart.

I don't give a damn about your heart.

It's me, Eddie, and I've

returned to the USSR.

It's become much more interesting here, compared to the measured life of the West.

With the empire in ruins, the country in

complete chaos, people feel like they're worthless.

For me, it's the opposite.

Where others are content with their

boring and banal lives, I've taken many paths,

Waiting for my hour to strike.

The hero's hour.

And when it strikes, better to be in the motherland.

One must live in Russia long enough to see

the pendulum of time make the round of the

clock face, to hear its blade cleave the

air, to feel oneself an integral part of History.

"O my loving and maternal homeland,".

"I curse you with forbidden words."

"For those who live in you, for the

dead," "the young, the naked, the mad."

"What are you going to do with a monster, whore?"

"I am a triton who lives in a stream."

"Deformed by nature," "raised

in the darkness of an urban sea."

I live in Kharkiv, a city in Ukraine.

I am a poet, but no one here knows it.

For them, I am just a beast

of burden who fulfills quotas.

The USSR runs on quotas.

But I abhor the monotony of planned life.

With my talent, what the fuck am I doing in this factory?

COMRADE: YOUR FACTORY, YOUR PRIDE!

Thus goes life in Kharkiv.

You end up stabbed in a brawl or dead drunk with boredom,

there is no third choice.

The rules of the fatherland hinder the blossoming of its children.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue."

"And I will light a candle in your name."

"And the Russian will look at the flame"

"and understand your purpose," "will take

off his hat and weep for the fatherland."

Tolya, I was wondering, if

Eddie went to Moscow with poems

like this, would he be successful?

It's avant-garde stuff, not for

the official publishing houses.

To break through in Moscow, you have to have thick skin.

It's really a good poem.

You should go to Moscow, Eddie.

Moscow is going to explode soon.

Why is everyone so obsessed with that city?

We are so good here,

for writing,

painting, partying, debating.

Life is good in Kharkov.

Away from the artificiality and

the empty frenzy of the capital.

This is the good life.

Right here.

You know, I almost envy you.

Regarding life,

I would like to share with you my latest poem.

A little encouragement.

"Don't dissolve, my dear star."

"It's time to be as joyful as possible..."

Eddie!

I like how you squint.

As if you're trying to solve a riddle.

I'm nearsighted.

Do you like it?

It says some bullshit.

Why did he take off, if he loves Kharkov so much?

With the salty wind of sorrow.

Each breath is poisoned by the loss of common sense.

She chooses a prey that she will attract...

Good job.

Here are some of the poems that I've written.

Have someone read them.

Okay...

Did you copy all of this by hand?

Me? No!

My fans, some of them...

All the better!

For the first time, this

country can finally choose.

We won't have peace as long

as the capitalists and imperialists...

Savenko...

Savenko...

You should have cut them lengthwise.

Not across.

Now I know.

Was it for a girl?

Among other things.

They locked you up?

Yes.

My mother denounced me.

She said it was for my own good.

Listen...

if you do it...

do it like a man.

With a rope.

Or a gun.

I went to a mental hospital too. It wasn't bad.

I met some interesting people there.

Like the guy who shared my room.

He would jerk off

constantly, staring at my feet.

Savenko...

Savenko...

You need a pen name.

I was thinking Limonov.

Like "lemon"?

Like limonka...

grenade.

Little rascal!

Little scoundrel!

I resigned from the factory and left Anna.

Both were preventing me from writing my poems.

I moved to Moscow, seeking fame and fortune.

I know I'm bad.

I'm proud of it.

But I'm better than all those stupid foreigners in Moscow.

The Kharkov workers were honest, ordinary people.

They stank of tobacco, vodka, and sweat.

These ones have no smell.

Sated professors or installed,

domesticated poets, pseudo-rebels.

They gather in their dachas, rich secondary

residences in the countryside, where they

read their poems and congratulate each other.

Liars, devoid of talent, thirsty for attention, posers.

They parade, as if to say: "Here we are!"

They proclaim themselves "the face of the generation."

"Fuck, ♪I'm♪ that face!"

Not them. Me, Eddie.

"I stretch," "I stretch

and I try to find,"

between two mirrors.

"The birthmark that I caressed for so long."

"The final piece of

me," "finally visible."

"Why think about others? Useless."

"A forgotten face, a hand withdrawing."

"All, inconsistent, will dissolve."

"But whatever happens, I, I will remain."

I found it great, didn't I?

Let's take a little break.

"A sacred god."

"What triumph is it then" "that demands

of him that he conquer the distance?"

"Behold the man,"

"look at him and see"

"through the mists of time"

\ "the proud stubbornness of his face."

\"The desert of Egypt held him as a slave,"

\ "brown abandonment, panting in his flight,"

\ "that death was waiting for,"

\ "even if he should cease to desire..."

What's her name?

Lena.

Forget it, she's too good for you.

So, you've really examined your own ass in a mirror?

I see exactly what you mean.

I do too.

Imagine, managing to see oneself entirely.

And not just in bits and pieces.

360 degrees.

My baby...

Lena? Where are you, honey?

Yevtushenko is about to start.

I'm coming.

Your jeans are nice.

I made them myself.

Incredible!

It's an exact copy of the classic Wrangler.

It's okay, honey.

I can sew you one, if you want.

That would be great.

Calm down, baby. Everything's fine.

Mine are 32x34.

But they shrink a little, after the first wash.

Calm down, I said!

- We should take your measurements. - Absolutely.

Beautiful glasses, aren't they?

Lena, is everything alright?

"While you feel the same shame

doing business as being sold off cheap.

"Life dyes grey the forty-year-old man.

"

If you cannot be a ba..." Where are you going?

I have to get up early.

Your poem was incredible!

As always.

Good, let's continue.

"Life tinges with gray the forty-year-old man."

\"If you can't be a bay, be gray, but dappled."

\"When you reach forty," "remember

that the world isn't just a market."

So, what are you going to do?

Do you...

have a tape measure?

Do I look like I have one?

Okay, I'll measure by hand.

Please.

I'll start with the outside of the leg.

Seven and a quarter.

Inside of the leg.

Say, could you maybe...

Of course.

Is that better?

- Eddie? Do you know what time it is? - The jeans!

Thank you. Come back tomorrow morning.

My buddy's back! Go away, please.

Fucking shit!

I have to talk to Elena. We're in love!

We're made for each

other, please, let me through.

Elena!

Elena abandoned her comfortable life for Eddie-the-broke.

She gave up everything for me,

who had neither house nor money.

A foolish act in the eyes of ordinary people.

I love madness,

only madness.

I don't aspire to logic, but to pleasure.

We lived for pleasure, to make those

who calculate everything die of jealousy.

Go fuck yourselves, you calculators!

We won't calculate anything.

I'm ready.

Elena, perfect.

\ "A knife."

\ "A knife is a woman's weapon."

\ "Treacherous and quick."

\"We must kill so as not to become piles of tired meat."

\"We must kill the creations, the

ideas" "and the souls of others."

Neither rhyme nor reason.

Why are you saying that?

No musicality, no powerful images.

Like: \ "The Earth is blue like an orange"?

- Something like that? - Exactly.

I like to write my way.

It's up to you.

But you're walking a tightrope.

Come on, it's not meant to be mean.

Anyway...

We're talking about you, Savenko. You're attracting attention.

Too much.

Limonov.

That pen name is idiotic. It sounds sour.

In a way.

What exactly am I being accused of?

Distributing samizdat...

You're not a member of the writers' union, are you?

That's an offense.

I understand.

And precisely, what do you expect from me?

Obviously, there exist

many ways to make this problem disappear.

What kind of ways?

You know a lot of people,

in specific circles: artists, writers...

You frequent their dachas.

You want me to rat them out.

Call it what you want.

In truth, you have no choice, Savenko.

Cooperate

or it's prison.

I await your answer.

And exile?

- What do you mean? - From the Soviet Union.

So what?

Like Brodsky.

I'm no less a parasite and profiteer than him.

If you managed to expel an old razor

like Solzhenitsyn

or a useless aesthete like Brodsky,

you should put me on the first train out.

Rather than harm our communist motherland,

I'm going to go wreak havoc in capitalist society.

Rest assured that I, will send them back to the Stone Age.

Easy, Savenko!

It doesn't work like that.

- Why not? - First, you have to become famous.

You just told me that I was too much so.

I mean famous in the West.

I will become it.

Damn, it's broken!

In that case, come over here.

Oh, my God.

My darling!

Are you fixing it?

Help this girl and others like her to get back on their feet.

Help this girl!

Help this girl!

We managed to flee the KGB

and this dull, mediocre and vegetative existence.

My works finally made me just famous enough

to be exiled.

May we stay young and beautiful forever!

May we always stay happy,

smiling from ear to ear and madly in love!

Our new free life

is about to begin.

My God, what joy!

You can be who you want!

SIGN FOR THE EMANCIPATION OF MAN

Let's tear down the fences.

Why does a brother kill his brother?

It makes no sense.

Don't retaliate.

Let's tear down the fences.

Let's come back to ourselves.

Let's lay down our arms to rest.

Because we are all the same.

Aim for the heart.

You are splendid.

Aim for the heart.

I might be crazy

...the lives of so many people.

...weighs only 1.3 kilos!

And there, no annoying buttons...

Let me through, I'm fighting for

freedom, against communism!

All the cuts, with bangs or bowl cuts.

Dad saves time and money, and no annoying buttons...

Let me through, I'm fighting for

freedom, against communism!

...and makes way for many misunderstandings.

Your favorite!

Everyone today easily

identifies two major world powers.

The writer Solzhenitsyn,

Nobel Prize winner.

He plays at being anti-Soviet, but he is Soviet to the bone.

He deserves to be drowned in a

bucket of shit, for his boring

description of a world without amusement.

Better to smoke weed,

drink alcohol, snort

cocaine, shoot up with heroin.

Better to kick the bucket than to be like you, Solzhenitsyn.

Cheat, torture, burglarize

villas, shoot out the window,

find your way in life with pleasure...

and fuck the best women.

Let him look at us.

You're really sick!

Magnificent, Elena, splendid!

Again!

Open your mouth.

Stop like that.

Like that!

Magnificent, look up.

I want to come with you. I'll be quiet.

I'll stay seated.

Why don't you go to the museum?

- I'll be your moral support. - Go shopping.

My English is better than yours.

Fuck you.

In a week, you will receive a check in the mail.

I can't do anything.

Next!

Try again.

Now I'm getting welfare,

278 dollars a month.

The American taxpayers are supporting me.

They pay and I do fuck all.

In the morning, you leave your warm bed and you rush to serve.

I hate serving.

I have a very expensive

white suit and I fuck all of you.

I deserve much better than this shitty

welfare, but what good are Russian

heroes when you have Dalí and Warhol in the flesh?

What does it matter that I am a great Russian poet?

What does it matter, my relentless efforts to embody my heroic destiny?

Here, there are a lot of rich

people, bars on every corner.

But literature is debased, reduced

to the level of a professor's flourish.

I don't need all this shit.

Medical care.

Edward, can you tell us who provides medical care in your country?

The State.

The State...

If you are sick, you go...?

- To the polyclinic. - A clinic?

- Polyclinic. - And you pay...

Nothing.

Nothing?

And who pays for education?

The State.

So what are you doing here?

The Socialist Workers Party is an American Trotskyist party.

We want the world revolution.

The world revolution? Yes, I'm all for it.

- Take a leaflet. - No need, count on me.

I'm for the reds, the Blacks, the gays, the Arabs, the Puerto Ricans.

And for those who have nothing to lose.

Then participate in the demonstration for Palestine.

I'm warning you, there might be clashes.

Great!

Let's go.

It doesn't work like that.

How does it work?

We talk, we vote on resolutions.

And then?

And then we do another demonstration.

Fuck!

Fuck!

What were you expecting?

I want everyone to grab a rifle

and attack a government office

or hijack a plane or kill someone. I don't know!

Fuck, this is bullshit!

Take the flyer.

WOMEN ARE STRIKING FOR PEACE

Disappointment,

intolerance, anger.

That's what you feel here.

What's the point of the shops,

the hotels, the luxury restaurants,

if immigrants can't go there?

You're in consumer paradise, there's everything,

but you're excluded from it.

Inequality also exists in the USSR, but it's well hidden.

Here, material inequalities are flaunted,

nobody questions them.

Should we smile and say that everything is fine?

But in the name of what should we lie?

For the prestige of the United States?

To fuel the myth of the West?

There is only terror,

corpses hanging from lampposts.

Revolution, that's what we need.

FOR OUR FREEDOM AND YOURS

Did you have a good evening?

Go back to sleep, I don't feel well.

What were you doing?

Champagne.

Cocktails, cocaine.

Sorry.

For what?

I was invited to dinner.

I couldn't refuse.

I have to be available, if I want to work.

So I stayed, I

smiled and nodded.

Sleep, Edichka.

No, let's talk for a bit.

Now? And about what?

About us. What else?

I don't see you anymore.

- We don't fuck anymore. - Fuck, Eddie, tomorrow!

My head is exploding.

Tell me what's going on.

Nothing!

It's an interrogationthe moment I cross the door!

What is it, some KGB thing?

Is it in the family?

Sorry, Lenochka.

Excuse me.

I just wantyou to tell me the truth.

I won't get angry.

I just need you.

As long as we're together...

I can accept anything.

Even if you've been with another,I'll get over it.

You can even be a whore if you want.

As long as I'm your pimp.

I don't care if you'rethe biggest whore in Manhattan.

Me...

I'll always watch over you.

I'll cover your back.

I'll buy you the most beautiful clothes.

The best perfumes.

So...

Have you been with someone?

Yes.

Who?

A photographer.

He wants to do a shootwith Grace Jones.

Lesbians, black and white.

What's his name?

Jean-Pierre.

He's Belgian.

Did you fuck?

How?

- What do you mean?- How did he fuck you?

Which holes?

All my holes.

And I stuck a dildoup his ass.

What's a dildo?

A fake dick.

That vibrates.

I see.

Bitch!

Fucking dog!

Jean-Pierre!

Son of a bitch!

You fucked my wife!

You want to know how we got married, Jean-Pierre?

We got married in a fucking church!

With thirty icons, goddamn it!

Son of a bitch!

My name is Brian!

I'm calling the police if you don't leave.

You're sick!

Are you okay?

Brian?

Brian!

You'll pay for this!

Hey.

I'm Eddie.

- Can I have a little? - Dude...

Fuck off.

I told you to get lost.

What's your name?

I want you.

Let's make love.

Fuck me.

Fuck!

- I can't believe it... - Shut up.

Someone could hear us.

Baby.

My baby.

My name is Eddie.

There's no one to take care of me.

You'll take care of me, right?

Yes, baby, I promise.

Really?

And you'll never leave me?

Never, baby.

And you won't cheat on me?

No, baby.

If you betray me...

I'll kill you.

Baby, calm down!

Calm down.

Calm down.

Dust yourself off, Eddie.

You've got sand in your hair, in

your ears, in your boots, everywhere.

Get rid of the sand and go!

A whore going home from her night shift.

Now I'm free.

What good is this freedom to me?

I don't know, but I'm free.

And that makes Eddie want to dance.

Look, New York, it's.

Eddie dancing, goddamn it!

Guess what?

I got fucked!

Shut your mouth, asshole, it's 5 in the morning!

Who's the man? I'm the man!

Go to hell!

Shut up, fuck off!

- Who are you waiting for? - Certainly not you.

For sure, after reading my novel,

the whole world will be at my feet.

I just have to make them understand those on whom it all depends.

Egotistical, they don't have time for the ingenious Eddie.

World glory sleeps like a tired

prostitute who is in no hurry to please me.

Brodsky probably won't like your book.

Don't expect too much from his review.

I have no competition, Shmakov.

It's not my fault, they don't need my talent. Not here, not in the USSR.

Brodsky and his opinion can go fuck themselves.

Okay, Joseph is a genius, but he's old school.

Listening to, reading his poems,

is like listening to classical music.

Prokofiev or...

Britten?

Your book, it's like reading the beatniks or...

listening to Lou Reed, Walk on the Wild Side.

Edichka is a bad boy!

I know, the book is great.

I deserve fame, I just have to get it published.

The perfect monologue for the perfect loser.

- I'm not a loser. - No, the protagonist!

I'm not a loser!

I know what's going on in a loser's head.

He's so desperate he'd grab

a rifle and shoot into the crowd.

Since I can describe him, I'm not a loser.

You're the loser!

Faggot immigrant!

Nobody wants you, you're all alone, what hope do you have?

And you?

Either I will be famous, or I will be assassinated.

You always dress in white.

A ray of light in this kingdom of darkness.

You are dazzling.

What would you do if a million dollars fell from the sky to you?

I would buy weapons, I would launch the uprising.

In all countries.

I prefer to live the good life,

the sparkles, to be surrounded...

by beautiful things.

I don't give a fuck!

Poverty is beautiful.

I have always been poor. Being poor is beautiful.

The trash in the street is beautiful. The revolution is beautiful.

Protect your children!

Something is wrong, something

is very wrong in this city.

It must be the end of times...

Yes, great!

New York?

Fuck you!

The more chaos, the more I like it.

You're pretty frank in your book.

Is it all true?

I only write about what happened to me.

Brodsky's commentsdidn't annoy you?

I don't care.

Baryshnikov, on the other hand, is enthusiastic.

When he was askedwho I was, he said:

"Just another Russian!"I like that answer.

Yes, I'm just another Russian!

Eddie, you are magnificent.

No.

So not everything is true.

That's not what

I want right now.

Excuse me.

Excuse me!

Eddie!

Call an ambulance!

The famous Russian writer Eduard Limonovassassinated today in New York.

- Should I cut it for you?- No need, I'll take care of it.

Do you need anything else, Edward?

200g of Parma ham,thinly sliced.

Right away.

Eddie is dead, long live Eddie.

I now work as a butler.

My master, boss and slave driveris the multimillionaire.

Stephen.

Stephen pays welland I'm not proud.

Besides, the most important

thingfor a writer is experience.

I know I'm nota real servant,

but an impostor, a writer who plays the role of a servant.

I write in the morning.

From time to time, I send my manuscripts

and I receive rejection letters from publishers.

That's where my identity as a writer ends.

I dedicate the rest of my

time to the world of servitude.

Perhaps I am truly a servant.

A servant who plays the role of the writer.

- Good evening, Eddie. - Sir.

Did you manage to write today?

Two hours in the morning, as usual, sir.

It's the most productive time.

They will arrive at 6 p.

- M. - Everything will be ready, sir.

- Good. - Your lemonade.

- Thank you. What's on the menu?

Crudités and cold cuts

followed by a

steak beautifully marbled and a chocolate mousse.

Perfect.

Look what I have here.

A gift from a French client.

Sir...

Atlas, here is the man you must meet.

Richard is a publisher. Important.

He publishes Solzhenitsyn, he has all the American rights.

Do you want to try some?

Yes, sir.

Later.

Well...

So...

Can you prepare the guest room?

Yevtushenko might stay overnight.

One of the most famous Russian poets. Do you know him?

Yes, sir.

What do you think of him?

He flirts as well with the USSR as with the West.

He supports everything and says nothing.

He does it well.

Eddie, Russian authors are in vogue in the United States right now.

Yevtushenko is in high demand.

Sir...

Alright...

Where are my glasses?

On the bedside table, sir.

OK, thanks.

It seems to me that Tarkovsky is making a

new kind of cinema, far from Hollywood absurdity.

You are absolutely right.

Khrushchev...

It sounds like all your bones are being broken!

- Dinner is ready, sir. - Thank you, Eddie.

Gentlemen,

dinner is served.

Our Eddie has prepared us wonderful steaks.

- That's what I wanted! - Follow me.

Khrushchev...

I'm starving.

This is a bottle of 1955 whiskey.

An incredible scotch.

I won't mention the price!

This is bullshit!

I am destined to be someone else.

I still have many years to live, that's for sure.

But I'm already fed up with the people on

this planet, the strange dreams, the dawns,

the sunsets, and the hideous prospect of old age.

If you escape now, you

will be eternally young.

By tonight, the whole world will

know you and will be watching you.

Your picture will be in all the newspapers.

You will no longer be Edward, the

faceless butler, but a historical figure.

Shoot, Eddie.

The world that rejected you all

these years will only talk about you.

Shoot, Eddie!

Shoot!

They will publish everything I have written.

Down to the last line.

And before they sit me in

the electric chair, I'll

have time to bask in my glory.

Shoot, Eddie!

You will be famous all over the world.

Instant, dazzling glory.

Yes, sir.

Eddie, can you come down? We need you.

Yes, sir.

Here is my kingdom.

Look, Jackson Pollock, action painting.

Rothko, a Latvian painter.

A golden crust that my wife

bought I don't know where.

Eddie, Yevtushenko!

Eddie, my brother!

Eddie is a fantastic butler. Shall we eat?

- No, we drink! We drink vodka. - We drink!

Always, in the name of the present.

I used to be a poet, if you want to know.

Poet.

An unofficial, underground poet.

But it's over. Now, I

am one of you, garbage.

Eddie!

I am the one you feed with shchi.

And he, he's a poet!

A real poet, believe me!

Sit down.

I even remember...

\"I will hold him in the embrace of my mind..."

I don't write poems anymore.

Good!

Listen.

- I'm going to tell you something. - Drink.

I'll have to pull some strings to get that published.

I'll get a contract, I promise you.

You have to

promise too.

Okay!

\ "The white hell of Kolyma."

\ "We were going to the zona."

It's like a prison.

\ "Through a frozen mist."

\"And I noticed a cigarette

butt" "with lipstick on it."

I don't know why.

\ "And I escaped from the column."

\ "To take it."

\ "I haven't seen a woman since..."

\ "For about four years."

- Are you following me? - Good, better.

Do you understand?

She didn't write the lyrics, but Yuz.

Aleshkovsky did, when he was a prisoner.

I need to take a piss.

Be careful, my friend.

Eddie.

You know how you'll become a great writer?

Sit down.

You will become a great writer.

Believe me, I'm never wrong.

First, you'll be

published in France.

Then you'll return to Russia

and you'll end up in prison.

And I will save you.

And at that moment, you will

become a great Russian writer.

Think about it.

Where's the bathroom?

Stephen?

They will all come: The hooligans

and the cowards, the dealers and

those who hand out brothel flyers.

They will come,

The masturbators and the porn lovers.

They will come.

Those who wander alone in

museums and those who browse

books, alone, in Christian libraries.

They will come.

Those who spend their time at Macy's and.

Alexander's, without money to buy anything.

They will come.

Those who drink only coffee, for two hours, at

the counter and who look sadly out the window.

They will come.

The unlucky in love, in money, at

work and those who have the

misfortune to be born into a poor family.

They will come.

Those who are tired of everything, the bank

employees and the salesmen who have already

wasted their lives in insignificant and endless jobs.

They will come.

The miners who can no longer stand the

mines, the workers who hate their factories.

They will come.

The bums and the stay-at-homes who are fed up with their families.

They will come.

The soldiers of the army, the students on campus.

They will come.

The brave and the strong, from all walks of life.

They will come to distinguish themselves and seek glory.

They will all be there.

They will take up arms and put an

end to this order, once and for all.

\"And the revolutionary guard of

failures" "conquers city after city,"

"starting with a powerful explosion in New York."

\"America is free and me, Eddie," "I lead

the way and everyone knows and loves me."

There is... a voice.

There is an idea behind it.

And a hero, isn't there?

But it's a bit...

Have you seen Taxi Driver?

Your book made me think of it.

Go see it.

It would help you develop the plot that's missing from your book.

I'll go see it.

I want Tanya Brown, this is great.

I'll have her come tomorrow morning.

I want more things like this on my desk.

Do you have a cigarette?

- With low cyanide concentration. - What?

- Cyanide. - That exists?

Yes. Since this year.

- Do you have a light? - No.

It's okay, I have some.

Low concentration of cyanide!

And what else, then?

Taxi Driver, Robert De Niro.

In Taxi Driver, De Niro

wants to eliminate all

the scum with a Magnum 45.

Your hero, he, wants the scum to

take control to destroy civilization.

There's a slight difference there.

You know where the problem is?

The problem, is the main character.

What's his name?

Eddie.

Eddie.

Eddie.

Eddie...

Eddie doesn't change.

His only goal is to fuck everything and everyone.

The women, the men, himself.

And...

destroy everything.

While you, Edward,

live in a beautiful house,

in a rich neighborhood.

You have an easy job

within the bourgeoisie,

from which you derive a certain benefit.

Asshole.

Wouldn't you want

to make your protagonist

more...

loyal

to this society,

to civilization?

More relaxed, well-fed.

Bastard.

Don't you think he should change, in one way or another?

Find his place in society, mature,

find redemption!

Drop dead.

Pardon?

Yes, I understand.

I'll work on it.

Excellent!

Excuse me.

Guin speaking.

Jim!

I've been looking for you for a week! How are you? Where are you?

Are you sick?

A little.

Shall we go for a walk?

Shall we go to Bloomingdale's?

I'll buy you something nice, anything you want.

- You got money? - No problem.

I'm a butler now, I'm rich.

- Why don't we go to lunch? - Sure.

When you strangled me, it turned me

on a lot, but I understood that if

it happened again, you'd go all the way.

That's why I left you.

It's true, I would have done it.

I would have gone all the way.

Are you seeing someone?

How does a girl survive in this city, otherwise?

But he's a real asshole.

He writes everything down.

He gives me $100 to go shopping

and he writes everything down in his little notebook.

Can you imagine?

So I told him:

\"You should put all the blow jobs I give you on my credit."

He likes when I braid my hair and dress like a schoolgirl.

And then he fucks my mouth.

Lenochka...

I'm a failed writer

and you, a failed model.

I have to get out of this city!

I'll go to Madrid.

Maybe I'll find work there.

Listen, Elena...

Lenochka...

whatever.

Let's give ourselves a second chance.

I already have a plan all ready.

The only thing that matters in life, is love.

To be able...

to count on someone. You can count on me.

I am strong and I will always be there for you.

We can't go home, but we

can leave this rat hole

and go to a quiet place.

I'll find a job, in Texas or

elsewhere, like anyone else.

I will work in a gas station and...

we will start a family.

You'll make me soup,

I'll tell you about my day,

we'll fall asleep together

and I'll tell you that I will always love you.

And in the end,

I will close your eyes,

or you will close mine.

It's simple.

Edichka,

you are adorable!

Really!

But it's all bullshit.

I am not that person and you know it.

And neither are you.

You are a born hero,

never forget it.

It's your destiny.

Butler... What a load of crap.

- Elena? - Carlos!

He's my ticket to Madrid.

Wish me luck.

Thank you for everything.

The check. Would you like anything else?

Another one.

A double.

My insignificant life.

I walk the empty streets of New York

my teeth clenched in anger.

I fuck this world

where I don't belong.

What will become of me? Who knows? It's a mystery.

Deep down, I'm ready for anything.

You're waiting for me to give you something,

I know it.

You're waiting

and I'll try.

An act of heroism,

my insignificant death.

What do you mean, "try"?

I will give it to you.

ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF REAGAN

ASSASSINATION OF INDIRA GANDHI

Eddie lives in Paris.

I am beautiful, like an orchid in the snow.

I am the same in France as in America.

Countries adapt to me, not the other way around.

Countries change, but the hero remains the same.

I've published seventeen books in Paris, more than Solzhenitsyn.

I am famous now.

Long live Eddie.

So, is it true, Mr. Limonov…

Limonov!

Limonov.

Excuse me, I'm French.

I know.

Start again, please.

Is it true that you only know how to write about one thing?

Namely, yourself?

Bullseye!

I shit these trifles.

To make a little money, but

the truth is, I never

considered myself a man of letters.

And I would never want to become one of those...

\ "great" men who receive the Legion of.

Honor at 60, die of prostate cancer in

their villa on the French Riviera and are buried...

at Père Lachaise.

Me, I do, I work.

I've always worked with my hands and...

For me, living is much more interesting...

than writing.

You sewed jeans to earn a living in Moscow.

I've been a tailor, a metalworker, a pasta

maker, a butler, a thief, I've done everything.

I've always worked and I

know that working is shit.

The workers are history's cuckolds.

They are always betrayed and it's happening again.

In a recent article, you seem to

regret having left the Soviet Union.

Everyone just...

repeats in chorus this

bullshit that the Soviet.

Union was the Evil Empire.

But for us, who lived there,

grew up there, fell in love there,

had children there, died there, it wasn't that.

And ultimately,

The Soviet Union was...

an eternal chaos,

but chaos is always a lot of fun.

So for you, the fall of the Berlin Wall...

It's a catastrophe.

Okay, so...

it's a victory for you.

Of course, it's the end of a nightmare.

Of a despotic system initiated by Stalin.

Stalin?

Without Stalin, you would all be speaking German.

20 million Russians died to save you from the Nazis.

My father was wounded in the war.

Mine too.

When the Germans lined up their tanks in the Ardennes,

you pissed yourselves, emptied your pockets,

renounced your vows and got down on all fours.

The victims of Stalin asked for it?

You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.

Communism was a scam!

A colossus with feet of clay collapsing like a house of cards.

So you believe that the age of ideologies is over?

And that we are witnessing the end of History?

One could say that we are always getting closer

to a global acceptance of democracy,

of the free market and the rule of law, since the 17th century,

with a few setbacks.

Despite the fall of its empire,

Russia still believes itself to be unique, invincible, and destined for greatness.

Unfortunately, the Russians have only known autocratic tyranny.

Then a bloody revolution that elevated a

primitive ideology to the rank of false blind faith.

Russia needs...

You piece of shit.

Hearing the word "Russia"

come out of your filthy

mouth makes me want to vomit!

History is not dead!

History will return and kick your ass!

Fuck you!

Go fuck yourselves!

When Erofeev found out that you were coming to Moscow...

...and that you would be published by that obscene Semenov...

I'm not thinking about it.

- What do you like about Russia? - The people.

You never considered yourself a dissident.

Okay but,

what do you think of Soviet dissidents, in general?

They like to flaunt their dissidence,

so that everyone sees it.

Thank you.

Eduard Veniaminovich,

I work at the factory where you worked.

And...

with some friends, we read your book

about America.

And there's this scene

where...

I mean...

you sleep with this Black guy.

Is that true?

That's the truth.

And it was great.

Every man should try it at least once.

- I'll tell the guys. - Yes, please.

Thank you.

The change.

- Yes? - Pleased to meet you.

Are you back for good?

I'm here for the publication of my new book.

I was invited by the publisher.

Can I sit with you?

I've read some of your books.

I liked them very much.

This is the second time I've come.

It's a fascinating time.

I know there are a lot of problems, but...

It's not my place to judge.

The Russians know how to die, but they don't know how to live.

But...

The faces of the people

are so full of life,

so real.

In the West, one only sees baby faces.

Over there,

everything is permitted and nothing matters.

Here, it's the opposite.

Nothing is permitted

and everything is important.

It would be a shame to lose all that with this change.

Yes.

Like in Africa, it would be a shame

for everyone to get dressed.

No more exotic photos.

But the soul of this country must not be lost.

I hope that one day Russia fucks you really good.

That way, you'll know how we feel.

We'll see what you have to say.

Who is it?

Mom, Dad, it's me.

It's me, Eddie.

At home, we have everything we need.

We have 30 kilos of sugar.

A whole bag of kasha and

the cellar is filled to the brim.

We don't need anything.

Who will take the apartment when we're no longer here?

If you come to live here, it's up to you.

It's good here.

It's calm, comfortable.

I'm only staying a few days.

I'm only staying a few days!

One of my books has been published.

Press conferences,

readings, I'm overwhelmed.

I understand.

And your wife?

Do you have a wife?

Children?

No, no children yet.

Not yet.

You're 46, Edik.

Gorbachev.

That asshole is going to destroy this country.

I just read the story of a woman who

punished her daughter by chaining her

up in the yard, in -30 degree weather.

The little girl's arms and legs froze

so badly that she had to be amputated.

And when they brought home what

was left of her, the mother's

lover raped that stump of a girl.

And she had a baby who also,

one day, was chained up in the cold.

Is this what we fought

for, all these years?

Sounds fake.

No, it's true!

I read it in the newspaper.

Which newspaper? Show it to me.

Drop it! The newspapers don't lie.

Leave it!

It's warming up.

And it gives me the impression that there's another soul with me.

If I did this in Paris, it would cost me a fortune.

The government is so greedy that it makes us pay for gas?

Yes.

Gorbachev and his people want to do the same thing here.

Look at them!

Madmen!

And who is this Sakharov anyway?

You'd think they're burying Stalin again.

We will shed tears for the idealistic

visionaries, those we are burying today...

What does this "six" mean?

Anti-Soviet bullshit!

We are surrounded by enemies.

Stalin would have put them in their place.

Do you want some soup?

Three Russians and a Latvian,

members of the national-Bolshevik

movement, have been convicted of terrorism.

The Riga court ruled criminal their threat to

blow up the bell tower of a church in Latvia.

Limonov's party activists were

sentenced to 10 years in prison.

In November of last year...

Fucking shit!

They want war.

Come on then, man was born for this.

It's natural, nothing to be ashamed of.

War is bullshit.

We'll fuck it!

Fuck war!

I said they'd come and

look, they're already here.

Young, enraged and desperate.

We have nothing to lose, we thirst for power.

We're underground for the moment, we only have

this bunker and it's already bursting at the seams.

We're a young political party that makes the criminals in power tremble.

A party of 300 Spartans.

And I'm their

leader, me, Eddie.

\ "He was already drunk"

"when we ordered the

pelmeni" "at Savelovsky station."

\ "Just between us monkeys..."

Russia awaits us,

frightened and anxious.

Like a virgin in a bombed-out house waiting

for a strong and handsome man to take her.

He's a bit dangerous, so what?

The enemies will be crushed, there's nothing to fear.

Even if war and death are looming,

you're better off joining us.

You are either with

us or against us.

Today we are witnessing the Russian revolution.

Just being here fills me with pride.

This revolution is a real reason to rejoice.

Even if it ends in a shipwreck, I am at

peace, I am not ashamed of my country.

What do you say, if I say "civil war" to you?

Those words delight me.

A good bourgeois is a dead bourgeois!

No to the liberal rot that poisons our brains!

Capitalism is a stinking shit!

Oh, my loving and maternal homeland...

I curse you in forbidden words.

For those who live in you, for the dead.

For the young, the naked, the mad.

What are you going to do with a monster, damn it?

I am a triton who lives in a stream.

Deformed by nature, raised...

If you are a rebel...

The car is here.

If your heroes are Jim Morrison, Lenin, Mishima, Baader,

Congratulations,you are already a member of our party.

Mr. Limonov,who are the members of your party?

They are young,tired of living

in a shithole country, they don't want

to bepathetic peasants or

assholeswho only think about money, or KGB agents.

We overthrew this fucking

disgusting regimethat was never ours.

And I guarantee you that even if

we drown in blood,our honor is safe.

\u003ci>Our grandchildren will

say:\"They took to the streets," "they

found the courage to do it," "even without weapons."

\u003cbr>Did you attack the Ostankino Tower?

They will say that they invaded the streetand that they fucked everything up like in '45.

I'm called an extremist, a

fascist,but you know that's not true.

Yes, but your partywill never be officially recognized.

I planned and organized everything myself.

Arrest me and release the kids.

It doesn't work like that.

We are not a banana republic, there are laws.

We have 7,000 members, it's very simple.

If they don't register us, we will be forced

to act illegally.

What are you trying to tell me?

I'm telling you

that if you cut off the legal path for us,

we will be forced

to take other paths.

Explain your slogans to me.

That Limonka grenade, on the leaflet,

is it a reference to your pseudonym or a call to arms?

Images of ammunition

are not prohibited by law.

And our slogans

are just poetry.

I warned you a long time ago

that you had chosen a horrible pseudonym.

Do you remember our conversation?

Too late to change, Andrei Sergeyevich.

It's never too late, Eduard Veniaminovich.

You have the right family,

your father worked for us for a long time.

Why do you despise your life?

You are a writer, an engineer of the human soul.

Politics is dirty.

Write your books, sit down

and scribble, don't take that path.

Very well, I will continue to write.

But I'm asking you

to give me a hand.

Are you going to help me or not?

I can't help you.

No point in continuing to discuss this, then.

As you wish.

It wasn't me who requested this interview.

Now...

I have another proposal, if you're interested.

What's it about?

The President's office is putting together a think tank,

strategy and geopolitics, that kind of thing.

It's right up your alley.

And?

It would be a perfect job for you.

Excellent salary, a

dacha, a car, an office.

And direct access

to the President's ear.

Access to his ear?

It makes perfect sense.

If you look at your party's platform, it's

almost identical to what the government wants.

The President is a professional, serious and patient.

He's taking Russia in the

right direction, at the right pace.

Important changes are underway.

It's time to become reasonable.

Eduard Veniaminovich...

God save me from dying in winter!

It's snowing.

Doesn't look like it's going to stop.

I have nowhere to go, no parents

waiting for me, they're gone.

No friends waiting for me, they're gone.

No loved one, she doesn't exist.

No drinking buddy.

I don't drink.

Nobody's waiting for me, there's nobody.

Me neither, I'm not there anymore.

I am the prisoner Savenko.

I was dragged to Siberia, locked up.

And had my voice taken away.

Everything is cold.

Empty.

It's snowing.

COLONY No. 13, 2003.

I am nowhere,

and yet, I am entirely here.

I am dead, but I have never been so alive.

There is nothing, but there is everything.

And then what?

What is there after worldwide fame?

After prison?

After everything that has happened to me?

Maybe I should invent a new religion

or start a new war.

It's certain that Eddie,

being the "true hero" he

is, isn't going to die of

old age, lying in a bed.

That would be so unfair.

That would be so ugly.

Can you sign my book?

Of course.

We're going to miss you,

Eduard Veniaminovich.

Thank you.

The first step towards freedom! Here we are!

Eduard Veniaminovich, can we do it again?

Your arrival. We messed up.

Eduard Veniaminovich, just one thing.

Can we put a microphone on you?

Yes.

In Russia, they say: "If you

come to the ball, prepare to dance."

Ready? Let's do it again!

Action!