All language subtitles for The.French.Dispatch.2021.2160

FEMALE NARRATOR:
It began as a holiday.

Arthur Howitzer, Jr.,
college freshman,

eager to escape a bright
future on the Great Plains,

convinced his father,
proprietor of the Liberty,
Kansas Evening Sun,

to fund his transatlantic
passage as an educational
opportunity

to learn the family business

through the production of
a series of travelogue columns

to be published for
local readers in
the Sunday Picnic magazine.

Over the next
ten years, he assembled a team

of the best expatriate
journalists of his time

and transformed Picnic
into The French Dispatch,

a factual weekly report
on the subjects
of world politics,

the arts,
high and low, fashion,

fancy cuisine, fine drink,

and diverse stories
of human interests

set in faraway quartiers.

He brought the world
to Kansas.

His writers line the spines
of every good American
library.

Berensen,

Sazerac,

Krementz,

Roebuck Wright.

One reporter known
as the best living writer

in quality of sentences
per minute.

One who never completed
a single article,

but haunted the halls
cheerily for three decades.

One privately blind writer
who wrote keenly

through the eyes of others.

FEMALE NARRATOR:
The uncontested crackerjack

of grammatical expertise.

Cover illustrations
by Hermes Jones.

Famously gracious
with his writers,

Arthur Jr. was less courteous

with the rest of
the magazine's staff.

Oh, no, what's that?

I need a turkey.

Stuffed and roasted
on a table

with all the trimmings
and pilgrims!

FEMALE NARRATOR:
His fiscal management system

was convoluted but functional.

Give her 150 francs
a week for the next 15 years

against five American cents
per word, minus expenses.

FEMALE NARRATOR:
His most repeated
literary advice,

perhaps apocryphal,
was simply this...

Just try to
make it sound like

you wrote it that
way on purpose.

FEMALE NARRATOR:
His return to Liberty

comes precisely 50 years
after his departure,

on the occasion
of his funeral,

by which time the magazine's
circulation exceeds

half a million subscribers
in 50 countries.

A willow hamper
containing umpteen pins,

plaques,
and official citations

of the highest order
is buried at his side,

along with
an Andretti Ribbon-mate

and a ream of triple bond,
Egyptian cotton typing stock.

He received
an Editor's burial.

In his will,
he stipulated that

immediately upon his death,
quote...

The presses will be
dismantled

and liquefied.

The editorial offices will be
vacated and sold.

The staff will be paid
ample bonuses

and released
from their contracts,

and the publication
of the magazine

will permanently cease.

Thus,

the publisher's obituary
will also serve

as that of this publication.

All home delivery readers
will, of course,

be refunded, pro rata

for the unfulfilled portion
of their subscriptions.

His epitaph will be taken
verbatim from the stenciled
shingle

fixed above the door
of his inner office.

Berensen's article.
The Concrete Masterpiece.

Three dangling participles,
two split infinitives

and nine spelling
errors in the first
sentence alone.

Some of those
are intentional.

The Krementz story,
Revisions to a Manifesto.

We asked for
2,500 words,

and she came in
at 14,000,

plus footnotes,
endnotes, a glossary,
and two epilogues.

ARTHUR:
It's one of her best.

Sazerac?
Impossible to fact-check.

He changes all the names
and only writes about

hobos, pimps,
and junkies.

These are his people.

How about
Roebuck Wright?

His door's locked,
but I could hear
the keys clacking.

Don't rush him.

The question is,
who gets killed?

There's one piece
too many

even if we print
another double-issue,

which we can't afford
under any circumstances.

A message from the foreman.
One hour to press.

You're fired.

Really?

Don't cry
in my office.

Shrink the masthead,
cut some ads,

and tell the foreman
to buy more paper.

I'm not killing anybody.

Good writers.
He coddled them.

He coaxed them.
He ferociously
protected them.

What do you think?

For myself?

I would start with
Mr. Sazerac.

FEMALE NARRATOR:
These were his people.

Ennui rises suddenly
on a Monday.

Through the time machine
of poetic license,

let us take
a sight-seeing tour.

A day in Ennui over
the course of 250 years.

The great city
began as a cluster

of tradesmen's villages.

Only the names
remain unchanged.

The Bootblack District.

The Bricklayer's Quarter.

The Butcher's Arcade.

Pick-pocket Cul-de-Sac.

On this site,
a fabled market,

vending all forms of
victuals and comestibles

under a single vast,

glass-and-cast-iron
canopy,

later demolished,
as you can see,

in favor of a multi-level
shopping center

and parking structure.

Like every living city,

Ennui supports a menagerie
of vermin and scavengers.

The rats which colonized

its subterranean railroad.

The cats which colonized

its slanty rooftops.

The anguillettes
which colonized

its shallow drainage canals.

After receiving the Host,
marauding choirboys,

half-drunk on
the Blood of Christ,

stalk unwary pensioners

and seek havoc.

In the Flop Quarter, students.

Hungry, restless, reckless.

In the Hovel District,

old people.

Old people who have failed.

The automobile.

A mixed blessing.
On the one hand,

the honking,
skidding, speeding,

sputtering, and backfiring.

The emission of toxic fumes
and filthy exhaust-pollution,

the dangerous accidents,

the constant traffic,
the high...

Fuck!

Department of
Local Statistics.

Average rainfall,
750 millimeters.

Average snowfall,
190,000 flakes.

Eight-point-two-five
bodies are pulled

from the Blase river
each week.

A figure which
remains consistent

despite population growth

and advances in
health and hygiene.

As the sun sets, a medley of
unregistered streetwalkers

and gigolos replaces the day's
delivery boys and shopkeepers,

and an air of promiscuous calm
saturates the hour.

What sounds will
punctuate the night?

And what mysteries
will they foretell?

Perhaps the doubtful
old maxim speaks true.

All grand beauties

withhold their
deepest secrets.

"Rats, vermin, gigolos,
streetwalkers."

You don't think
it's almost too seedy
this time?

No, I don't.
For decent people.

It's supposed
to be charming.

"Pick-pockets, dead bodies,
prisons, urinals..."

You don't want to
add a flower shop

or an art museum?
No, I don't.

A pretty place
of some kind?

I hate flowers.

You could cut
the second half

of the second paragraph,
by the way.

You already
repeat it later.

Okay.

We take
as the subject of
tonight's lecture,

the great painter
at the vanguard

and heart of the French
Splatter-school Action-group,

Mr. Moses Rosenthaler.

Widely celebrated,
as you know,

for the bold
dramatic style,

and colossal scale
of his middle-period,

in particular,
of course,

the polyptych-tableaux
known as...

Ten Reinforced Cement
Aggregate Load-Bearing
Murals.

He remains, in my opinion,
the most eloquent

and certainly,
the loudest
artistic voice

of his rowdy generation.

How does this pivotal
piece come to find
its way

into its unique position
as a permanent installation
here

at the Clampette Collection?

The story begins
in a mess hall.

The exhibition,
Ashtrays, Pots,
and Macrame,

a group show of handicrafts
by amateur artisans

incarcerated in
the lunatic section

of the Ennui Prison-Asylum,

might, perhaps,
have been omitted

from the annals
of art history,

had it not been
for the inclusion

in its number
of a small painting

by Mr. Rosenthaler,
who was, at that time,

serving a 50-year sentence

for the crime of
double homicide,

and the observation of that
work by a fellow inmate,

the Levantine art dealer
Mr. Julian Cadazio,

who, by fateful coincidence,
happened to be imprisoned

in the adjoining annex
on a charge

of second-degree
sales tax evasion.

Guard.

Who painted this picture?

Citizen 7524.

I believe that unit
designates maximum
security

for the demented
and deranged.

Are you able to
provide me an escort

and a Friendly Visit Stamp

for immediate use?

Simone, Naked.
Cell Block J. Hobby Room.

I wanna buy it.

Why?

Because I like it.

It's not for sale.

Yes, it is.

No, it isn't.
Yes, it is.

No, it isn't.
Yes, it is.

No, it isn't.
It is, yes. It is.

All artists sell
all their work.

It's what makes you
an artist.

Selling it. If you don't wish
to sell it, don't paint it.

Question is,
what's your price?

50 cigarettes.

Actually, make it 75.

Why do you keep
looking at that guard?

She's Simone.

Ah.

I don't want to buy
this important piece
for 50 cigarettes.

ROSENTHALER: 75.
Or 75 of prison currency.

I want to pay you
250,000 francs

in legal French tender.

Do we agree on the sale?

Uh-huh.

I can only offer
a deposit of, uh...

83 centimes,
one candied chestnut,

and four cigarettes.

Everything I have at this
present moment in time.

However, if you'll accept
my signatory voucher,
I assure you

a check for
the outstanding balance

will be remitted to your
account within 90 days.

Where do you bank?

Never mind.

How'd you learn to
do it, by the way?

Paint this kind of picture.

Also, who'd you murder,
and how crazy are you,
really?

I need background
information

so that we can do
a book about you.

It makes you
more important.

Who are you...

Moses Rosenthaler?

Born rich,

the son of
a Jewish-Mexican
horse rancher,

Miguel Sebastian Maria
Moises de Rosenthaler

trained at
the Ecole des Antiquites

at significant
family expense.

But, by the end
of his youth,

he had shed
all the luxuries

of his comfortable
background and replaced
them with...

Squalor.

Hunger.

Loneliness.

Physical danger.

Mental illness.

And, of course...

Criminal violence.

He did not
pick up a brush

during the first decade

of his long prison sentence.

Permission
to sign up for activity
privileges, gardienne.

This thing?

Citizen 7524,
address the class.

What do you mean?

Tell the group
about yourself.

I don't wanna do that.
It's mandatory.

They know me already.
That's not the point.

I haven't even
prepared a speech.
Say something.

Well, I've been here
3,647 days and nights.

Another 14,603 to go.

I drink 14 pints
of mouthwash rations
per week.

At that rate,

I think I'm going to
poison myself to death

before I ever get to see
the world again,

which makes me feel

very sad.

I gotta change my program.

I gotta go in a new direction.

Anything I can do to keep
my hands busy, I'm gonna do.

Otherwise,

I think maybe it's
gonna be a suicide.

And that's why
I signed up

for clay pottery
and basket weaving.

My name is Moses.

Take a pew.

What's your name,
gardienne?

Simone.

Certain women
do gravitate toward
incarcerated men.

It's a recognized condition.

Something about
the captivity of others

enhances the experience
of their own freedom.

I assure you,
it's erotic.

Look at her,
by the way.

Born into
quasi-serfdom,

16 brothers
and sisters.

Illiterate until
she was 20.

Now, a woman of
considerable property.

Radiant.

Good God.

Wrong slide.
That's me.

Simone, of course,
refused all

Rosenthaler's
entreaties
of marriage,

which, we are told,
were frequent

and marvelously
enthusiastic.

I wanna say it
as simple as I can.

To try to shape it into words.

The feelings in my heart.

I don't love you.
I love you.

What?
I don't love you.

Already?

Already what?

Already how do
you know that?

How can you be sure?
It's so quick.

I'm sure.

Ouch.

That hurts me.

The cruelty of it.
The cold-bloodedness.

You said what
you wanted to say.

I tried to stop you.
That's it.

I said part of what
I wanted to say.

I was in the middle
of it. There's more.

No.

No what? Will you...
No.

Will you marry me?
No.

I'm gonna need art supplies.

Canvas, stretchers,
brushes, turpentine.

What do you want to paint?

The future.

Which is you.

Widely not considered
a great connoisseur,

Julian Cadazio, nevertheless,
had an eye for something,

and he did us all
a very good turn

when the hour he was
released from prison...

We're done with flowers
and fruit bowls.

We're finished with
beaches and seascapes.

We're getting out of armor,
rugs, and tapestries, too.

I found something new.

Modern art?

Modern art.
Our specialty,
starting now.

I don't get it.
Of course you don't.

Am I too old?
Of course you are.

Why is this good?
It isn't good.
Wrong idea.

That's no answer.

My point. You see
the girl in it?

No.

Trust me,
she's there.

One way to tell if
a modern artist actually
knows what he's doing

is to get him to
paint you a horse

or a flower or
a sinking battleship,

or something that's actually
supposed to look like

the thing that it's actually
supposed to look like.

Can he do it?
Look at this.

Drawn in 45 seconds
right in front of me
with a burnt matchstick.

A perfect sparrow.
That's excellent.

May I keep it?

Don't be stupid.
Of course not.

The point is, he could
paint this beautifully
if he wanted,

but he thinks
this is better.

And I think I sort of
agree with him.

Simone, Naked.
Cell Block J. Hobby Room
is probably a masterpiece

worth a significant,
even exorbitant,
sum of money.

But not yet.

Hmm. The desire
must be created.

Mmm.

How long is he in for?

CHIEF MAGISTRATE:
Mr. Rosenthaler,

why should we put you
back on the street?

Because it was
an accident,
Your Honor.

I didn't intend
to kill anybody.

You decapitated
two bartenders
with a meat saw.

The first
bartender was an accident.

The second one
was self-defense.

Well, be that as it may,

what demonstration
of genuine remorse,

or, at the very least,

regret can you offer
for beheading these men?

They had it coming.

I beg your pardon?
Forgive me. Uh...

Is there a part of this
ritual where you ask

if anybody has something
to say before it's too late?

Like, at a wedding.

No.
I'll be brief.

We all know this man
is a murderer.

Totally guilty of
first-degree homicide,

any way you slice it.

That's a given.

However, he's also that rare
once-in-a-generation guy

that you hear about,

but never get the chance
to discover for yourself.

An artistic genius.

Surely, there ought
to be a double standard

for this sort of
predicament.

Supposedly,
he's a psychotic,
by the way.

That's not his fault.

Respectfully, I submit...

maybe we could think up
some other way to
punish him?

Rosenthaler's right
to petition for parole

was permanently revoked

for the duration
of his sentence.

No further questions.

Nevertheless,
Cadazio and his uncles

were unanimous
in their decision

to promote the artist
as his exclusive brokers

throughout the free world.

Simone travelled far and wide.

The Ennui Salon.

The Royal Exposition.

The International Pavilion
at the Liberty, Kansas
State Fair,

which was very nearly
burned to the ground.

In short, the picture
was a sensation.

Even the artist's all but
forgotten earlier work

inspired wildly robust sales
on the secondary market.

Meanwhile, Rosenthaler
continued to work
in confinement.

Strikingly, the artist
favored raw materials
sourced

exclusively from within
the prison-asylum domain.

Powdered eggs.

Pigeon blood.

Shackle grease.

Coal, cork, and dung.

Fire, of course.

Bright yellow scullery soap.

And fresh cream of millet
as a binding agent.

Simone liked to stand still.

Indeed, she was Olympian
in her ability to hold

extremely challenging
positions

for extended
periods of time.

She exhibited
very little vulnerability

to extremes of heat or cold.

After even the most adverse
forms of exposure,

her skin remained unburned,
unblemished, un-goose-pimpled.

Another tidbit.

She genuinely enjoyed
the smell of turpentine

and in later years
actually wore it

in the application
of her toilet.

She was more than a muse.

Throw the switch.

Throw the switch,
you cocksucker.

What's wrong with you?
Go back to work.

I can't.

I won't. It's too hard.

It's torture.

I'm literally
a tortured artist.

Poor baby.

Get out.

Is that what you want?

What's your problem?

I don't know what to paint.

The French
Splatter-school
Action-group.

A dynamic, talented,
lusty, slovenly,
alcoholic,

violent pack of
creative savages.

They inspired
and very often

personally attacked
each other for
two decades and more.

I'll have my drink now.

Remember, in those days,
as you know,

it was much more
socially acceptable

for a painter or a sculptor

to hit another fellow
with a chair
or even a brick

or walk around
with a black eye

or a broken tooth
and so on.

Indeed, I'm jumping ahead,
but in my own experience,

Rosenthaler could be quite
unpredictably impulsive.

Uh, meaning, I refer to
the, uh, pigment locker

beneath his studio in
the Boulevard des Plombiers,

on one occasion,
he grabbed me
and put me in there,

and inappropriately,
sort of, tried to fuck me

against the wall
in the corner of
that pigment locker.

He was crazy.
Officially certified.

The Cadazios, of course,
represented them all.

It's three years later.

We've made you the most
famous painter alive

based on one small,
scribbly,
overrated picture.

You're an art school course.

You're an encyclopedia entry.

Even your disciples
have won and squandered
multiple fortunes,

yet you refuse to show us
so much as a sketch or a study

for a single new piece
during this entire,
protracted period.

How long are
we meant to wait?

Well, don't answer,
because we're not asking.

We already printed
the invitations.

We're coming in.

All of us.
The collectors.
The critics.

Even your second-rate
imitators we represent
who suck up to you

and smuggle you goodies
and probably turn out to be
better than you are.

The bribes alone
are going to be
outrageous,

as these guards
can assure you.

But we're gonna pay 'em.

So, finish it,
whatever it is.

The show is in two weeks.

She thinks it's ready,
by the way.

It's ready.

I could use another year.

My employer,
at that time,

received the intriguing
summons

by rapid-priority wire.

I refer, of course,
to Upshur "Maw" Clampette.

Astute collector
of antiquities.

Great friend
to the avant-garde.

Her collection,
even in its infancy,

was well-known
and important,

as was her residence,

Ingo Steen's first
American commission

informally known as
the Doorstop House.

It was my duty,
and I may say,

my privilege
to catalogue,

archive, and advise,

although she did
whatever the hell
she wanted,

no matter what you
told her, anyway.

Thus, we began
the long journey

from Liberty to Ennui.

My dear
Mrs. Clampette,
Maw, if I may,

please join us
for the first display

of Mr. Moses Rosenthaler's
extremely exciting new work,

which I, myself, have not yet
been permitted to see.

In order to facilitate
the viewing in
a timely fashion,

it may prove necessary for us

to surreptitiously gain
access to the facility

where the artist
currently resides.

Please rely on my operatives

to organize any
and all details

and preparations
for your visit.

Caution, do not bring
matches, lighters,

or sharp objects of any kind.

We await your confirmation
with cheerful anticipation.

Yours most truly,
Cadazio Uncles

and Nephew Galerie concern.

The paddy wagon
collected us

directly after the night's
final round of working girls
and revelers

were delivered
to the drunk tank at 3:00 a.m.

Moses, are you here?

Mmm-hmm.

Any words
of introduction?

Or perhaps, a welcome
to our wonderful guests,
some of whom

have traveled a great distance
to come see your work, I hope?

Or, alternatively,
just, I don't know.

Hello?

Quiet, please!

Quiet, please!

I did it. It's good!
This is historic.

Open the champagne!
I did it.

Music!

Why are you sitting
in a wheelchair
like an invalid?

You should be dancing
on the tables!
It's a triumph!

Do you like it?

Do I like it?

Yes.

Look at Maw,
she's mesmerized.

This here's a fresco,
t'weren't it?

Precisely. He's a Renaissance
master of the highest order.

He mines the same vein
as Piperno Pierluigi
when he illuminated

The Christ Before God's
Heavenly Altar in 1565.

Maw, nobody has an eye
for things nobody has
ever seen

like Maw Clampette
of Liberty, Kansas.

We should be ashamed
to even gather
in her presence.

Why the fuck
did she say fresco?

Are they painted
into the walls?

Oh, no. What has he done?

You fucking asshole.

Are you seeing this?
Look at this!

Well, I think it's
utterly wonderful.
It's crucial!

It's probably a turning point
in the evolution
of human pictography.

Scratched and plastered

into a reinforced cement
aggregate gymnasium.

He even painted
onto the radiators!

Maybe one of them
restoration fellers

out at the Fondazione
dell'Arte Classico

could figure a way to
rustle them pictures loose.

We're in
a maximum-security
prison, Maw.

It's federal property.

Even to begin
the bureaucratic nightmare
would require years

of negotiation with
a team of highly-paid,

arrogant,
obnoxious advocates.

I don't even know how
you'd peel them off.
It's a fresco.

Hey! It's a fresco!

So what?

Can you even begin
to fathom the shit-ton
of money

my uncles and I have
squandered to get to
this point of no return?

Look at them!

You've ruined us!

Does it mean nothing to you?

I thought you liked it.

I think it stinks!

Get out of that wheelchair!

I'm going to kick your ass
up and down this hobby room!

Don't growl at me,
you convicted murderer.

You homicidal, suicidal,

psychopathic,
no-talent drunk!

Why didn't you
tell me, gardienne?

Because you would've
stopped him.

We have to accept it.

His need to fail
is more powerful

than our strongest desires
to help him succeed.

I give up.
He's defeated us.

He's defeated us.
Sad, but there it is.

Anyway, at least,
he finished
the motherfucker.

It is, perhaps,
the most interesting

contemplation of
peripheral vision

I've ever seen.

Well done, Moses.

Well done, Moses.
This has a greatness to it.

If you plastered it
deep enough, it may last.

We'll come and see it
again one day.

God willing.

You'll already still
be here, of course.

It's all Simone.

At that moment,

they were both aware
of Simone's intention

to leave her position

at the Ennui Prison-Asylum
the following day,

endowed with funds
provided by the Cadazios

as compensation for her work

as Rosenthaler's model
and muse.

She was reunited with
the estranged child to whom

she had given birth
in her youth,

and the two never again
lived apart.

She and Rosenthaler maintained
a regular correspondence

for the rest
of the artist's life.

Mrs. Clampette would like
to put the piece on hold.

The half-sticker?

Yes, please.

Should she choose
to finalize the sale,

will this amount be acceptable
to you and your uncles?

Can we get a deposit?

Maw? An advance against
the total sum?

Tell them stingy Frenchmen
I ain't making no promises.

BERENSEN:
Ten Reinforced Cement

Aggregate Load-Bearing Murals

was to remain on hold under
the name Upshur Clampette

for the subsequent 20 years.

Monsieur Cadazio?

Which prisoners?

Tell them
we don't bribe

rapists and pickpockets.
It's unethical.

Besides, I didn't bring
an additional 6,000,000
francs in small bills.

How'd you get out there?

What do we do?

Lock the door.

In the aftermath,
72 prisoners

and six members of
the French Splatter-school

lay dead or mortally wounded.

Moses Rosenthaler,
for acts of extreme valor,

which saved the lives
of nine guards,

22 distinguished visitors,

and the Ministers
of Culture and Urbanity,

received his freedom
with probation for life.

And was decorated in
the Order of the Caged Lion.

One score later,

as per Maw Clampette's
detailed instructions,

Cadazio and his own nephews

arranged for the entirety
of the hobby room

to be relocated onboard
a Goliath aviation

12-engine artillery transport

directly from
Ennui to Liberty.

In this form,
the avant-garde
assumed its place

upon the plains
of Central Kansas.

"Pencils, pens,
erasers, thumbtacks,

"pushpins, typewriter
repairman."

Why am I paying for
a hotel room at
a beach club

on the North Atlantic coast?

Because I had
to go there to write it.

"Breakfast, lunch, dinner,
laundry, nightcap, midnight
snack."

What is wrong
with the desk

right here
in your office?

Courtesy of
this magazine.

Don't ask me
to be indiscreet

about what happened
between me and Moses

at a seaside inn
20 years ago.
We were lovers.

I went back
to remember.

On my dime.

Yes, please.

Add it up.

March 1st.

Negotiations between
undergraduates

and the university
administration

break down abruptly
in early morning hours

after clamorous debate,
angry name-calling

and, finally,
outright gambling over

the right of free access
to the girls' dormitory

for all male students.

The protest which
ended in a stalemate...

...gave
the superficial appearance
of a vanity exercise

for the pimple-cream
and wet-dream contingent.

But, in fact, the sexes were
equally represented.

Young lady,

shoes!

And all participants
emphasized the basis
of their frustration,

a desire, more,
a biological need

for freedom. Full stop.

It has exploded into symbolism

and everybody's
talking about it.

March 5th.

Late supper at the B's.

Eldest boy, 19, not home
since yesterday morning.

Father chanced upon him
midday,

marching alongside
his comrades.

Their slogan...

"The children are grumpy."

Thank you.

An additional dinner guest,
thus far, fails to appear.

For this, I am grateful.

Had not been informed of
his invitation in first place.

We didn't mean
to offend you.

We're sorry.

We thought
you might decline
the invitation

if we warned you.

You were right.
Yeah.

Local news reports
aggressive crowd-control
methods...

...in use on street
today. Quote...

Just give him
a chance.

He's very intelligent.

So,
how long has it been
since what's-his-name?

I know you mean well.

"It begins with a prickly
tingling of the exposed skin."

I'm not an old maid.

We don't think that.

Of course you're not.

"Then,
a reddening and swelling
of the orbital muscles."

Take me at my word.

I live by myself on purpose.

I prefer relationships
that end.

I deliberately choose to have
neither husband nor children.

The two greatest deterrents
to any woman's attempt

to live by and for writing.

Why are we crying?

Because it's sad.

We don't want
you to be alone.

Loneliness
is a kind of poverty.

I'm not sad.
My eyes hurt.

There's something wrong

with your apartment.

"Finally, a barrage of
searing pain as snot
pours from the nostrils

"and the throat spasms
and constricts."

MR. B.: Don't breathe.

I'm naked,
Mrs. Krementz.

I can see that.

Why are you crying?
Tear gas.

Also,

I suppose I'm sad.

Please turn away.
I feel shy about
my new muscles.

Go tell your parents
you're home.
They're worried.

I'm expected
back on the barricades.

I didn't see any barricades.

Well, we're still
constructing them.

Uh-huh.

What are you writing?

A manifesto.

I told them not to
invite Paul, by the way.

Maybe you're sad,
but you don't seem
lonely to me.

Exactly!

I saw you at the protest
on top of a bookcase
taking notes.

Is there a story in us?
For the people of Kansas.

Maybe.

Then you should study
our resolutions.

Or, anyway,
will you proofread it?

My parents think
you're a good writer.

Give it to me.

It's a little damp.

Physically
or metaphorically?

Both. Based on the cover
and the first four sentences.

Don't criticize
my manifesto.

Oh, you don't want remarks?

I don't need remarks,
do I?

I only asked you to
proofread it 'cause
I thought you'd be

even more impressed
by how good it already is.

Let's start with the typos.

Can the faculty succeed
if the students fail?

It remains to be seen.

MR. B.: Ah. Paul Duval.
Lucinda Krementz.

How do you do?

Your beard
is scratching me.

Unexpected guest finally
arrives. Looks like hell.

Describes odyssey across city.

Stalled trains, stalled buses,

broken windows, paving stones
flying in all directions.

Anyway, we're here.

The famous Lucinda.
Hello.

I did not know you were
coming. They did not tell me.

This is not
an official meeting.

Good evening.

KREMENTZ:
Start without me.

March 10th.

City services at a halt,
one week and counting.

Public transportation,
suspended.

Piles of garbage, uncollected.
Schools on strike.

No mail, no milk.

It's me again.

KREMENTZ:
What will normal reality be?

Next week, next month,
whenever, if ever,

we get the chance
to experience it again.

Anyone's guess.

What's this part?

I added an appendix.

You're joking.
No, I'm not.

You finished my manifesto
without me.

I made it sound
like you, I think.

Just more clear,
more concise,

a bit less poetic.

Put it this way,
this isn't the first
manifesto I've proofread.

Impossible to imagine
these students,

exhilarated, naive,
brave in the extreme...

...returning to their
obedient classrooms.

Who was that?

Your mother.
My mother.

My mother?

What did she want?
Did you tell her
I was here?

Yes.
Why?

Because she asked.
I don't lie.

Was she upset?

I don't think so.

What did she say?
She nodded.

What did you say?

I told her I was working
on an article about you
and your friends.

So, you are.

I've already written
1,000 words.

I asked to interview her.

Did she agree?
Yes, of course.

Well, I am upset!

I don't know how to feel.

Am I in trouble? Why would
my mother be so calm?

Is this proper?

This is all off-the-record.
Everything. My whole life.

What am I supposed
to do now?

I should maintain
journalistic neutrality.

Ooh.

I like how
ruthless you are.

It's part of
your beauty, I think.

So, you've got
1,000 words already, huh?

The kids did this.

Obliterated 1,000 years
of Republican authority

in less than a fortnight.

How and why?

Before it began,
where did it begin?

ZEFFIRELLI:
It was another time.
It was another Ennui.

Must be nearly six months ago,
I guess. My sisters
were still 12, anyway.

You danced to the Craze
and the Lait Chaud.

You wore your hairdo
in the Pompidou,

the Crouton,
or the Fruits-de-Mer.

Your slang mixed
bits of Latin

with philosophy jargon
and manual signaling.

Devil's advocates bickered
and debated perpetually,
ad nauseam,

only for the sake of argument.

Every clique had a rival.

The Nuts had the Bolts.
The Sticks had the Stones.

The Jocks had us,
the Bookworms,

until Mitch-Mitch failed
the baccalaureate

and got sent down
to National Duty-obligation.

Three months
in the Mustard Region.

He was sent
to the Mustard Region

for National Duty-obligation.

I'm sorry?

How dare you?

Who gave you permission
to besmirch our friend?

Does it occur to you
he's very probably
somewhere marching

in the middle of
the night right now,

carrying a 50-pound
sack of gunpowder
and peeling stale potatoes

while he digs a latrine trench
in the rain with a tin cup?

He doesn't want
to be in the military.

Easy for you to say

from the comfort
of the Sans Blague.

Mitch-Mitch,
what are you doing here?

You're supposed to be
in the Mustard Region

for another two months.

Five years later,
I, myself, translated

Mitch-Mitch Simca's
poetic interpretation

of his National
Duty-obligation service.

The flashback scene
in Act Two
of Goodbye, Zeffirelli.

In North Africa,
I caught a bullet
in the tail.

In South America,
I caught a chunk of

high-explosive shrapnel
in the left wing.

In East Asia,
I picked up a rare,

microbial,
infectious gut-parasite

in the lower
abdominal cavity,

and I've got them
all with me right now,

still in my body,

but I don't regret
my choice to wear
this uniform.

And in 16 years,
I'll get my pension.

Well, that's your bedtime
story, ladies. Lights out!

Hup! Ho! Hut!
Lights out!

Covers tucked! Blankets on!

-Pray your prayers!
-Sir!

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Psst.

Psst, Mitch-Mitch. Psst.

Psst, Mitch-Mitch.
What do you wanna be?

MITCH-MITCH: What?

What do you want
to be, Mitch-Mitch?

With my grades,
I'll be an assistant
pharmacist.

Will that make you
be satisfied?

It won't depress me.
I should have studied
harder.

And you, Robouchon?

Oh, I have no choice.

I'll work for my father's
glass factory.

Someone has to take over.
It's normal.

Vaugirard.
What's your plan?

I suppose I'll continue
to be an attractive wastrel

like my cousins on
both sides of the family.

Your cousins are the best.
I love your cousins.

Yeah.
What about you, Morisot?

Morisot, what do
you want to be?

A protestor.

What'd he say?
He said, "A protestor."

What does he mean?
I don't know.

I thought Morisot
was supposed to be

a professor of
geological chemistry.

Morisot's crying.

Shh!
Who said "shh"?

I won't do it.

It's only eight more weeks,
Morisot,

before we complete
the program.

I don't mean the program.

I mean from when we go home
until retirement age.

That 48-year period
of my life, I mean.

That's what I won't do.

I can no longer
envision myself

as a grown-up man
in our parents' world.

Morisot! He went
out the window!

Is he dead?
I don't know.

How far did he fall?

Five floors
with high ceilings.

It rained last night.
Maybe the mud's
still soft.

He's not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

He's still not moving.

The next morning,

Mitch-Mitch was arrested
for Desertion and Desecration,

and the Sans Blague
became headquarters

for the Movement
of Young Idealists

for the Revolutionary
Overthrow

of Reactionary
Neo-liberal Society.

What are you doing?

They can live together.

Tip-top with Charvet.

There followed,
a brisk, unpredictable
tit-for-tat.

between Ennui's elders
and its youngers.

August.

Community Whisper Campaign
denounces student movement.

September.

Sans Blague coffee license
revoked by official decree.

October.

Propaganda Committee
erects pirate radio tower

on Physics Department rooftop.

November.

Meal plan blockade of
the undergraduate cafeteria.

December.

Check-out protest at
the Bibliotheque Principale.

Entire library circulation
legally removed

until five minutes before
incur of massive overdue
book fines.

January.

Mitch-Mitch released
to parental custody.

February.

The girls' dormitory uprising.

It all, in the end,
leads to...

March.

The chessboard revolution.

What page you on?

I think so.
By definition.

In spite of the purity
of their cause,

to create a free, borderless,
utopian civilization,

the students, nevertheless,

split into factions
before fully uniting
in first place.

One thing is now
finally clear,

they are answering
their parents.

What do they want?
To defend their illusions.

A luminous abstraction.

I am convinced they are better
than we were.

Mrs. Krementz
suggested it, actually.
The appendix.

Polished it.
Certain passages.

I inscribed it to you.

Oh.

Remind myself,

"You are a guest
at this manifestation.

"Not my fight.
Stay out of it, Lucinda.
Keep your mouth shut."

I have to say something.

You're a very
bright girl, Juliette.

If you put away
your powder puff for
one minute, forgive me,

and think for yourself
for one minute, forgive me,

you might realize
you're all in this together.

Even the riot police.

Our move.

That was impolite. Of me.

I withdraw the remark.

I beg your pardon.

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

You're sure?

Sure you're not a child?

Then learn
to accept an apology.
That's important.

Grown-ups.

Our move.
The mayor's waiting.

Kindly leave me my dignity.

She's not an old maid.
She's not in love with me.

She's our friend.
I'm her friend.

She's confused.
She wants to help us.

She's angry.
She's a very good writer.

It's a lonely life,
isn't it?

Sometimes.

It's true. I should maintain
journalistic neutrality,

if it exists.

Please excuse me,
Mrs. Krementz.

It's just fireworks.

She's the best of them.

Stop bickering.
Go make love.

Me, too.
Except for Mrs. Krementz.

I thought so.

March 15th.

Discover on flyleaf of
my composition book
a hasty paragraph.

Not sure when Zeffirelli
had the chance to write it.

Late that night while I slept?

Poetic, not necessarily
in a bad way.

Reads as follows...

Post script
to a burst appendix.

An invincible comet speeds
on its guided arc

toward the outer reaches
of the galaxy in cosmic
space-time.

What was our cause?

Recollection of two memories.

You. Soap scent of
drugstore shampoo,

ashtray of stale cigarettes,
burnt toast.

Her. Perfume of
cheap gasoline,

coffee on the breath,
too much sugar,
cocoa butter skin.

Where does she
spend her summers?

They say it's the smells
you finally don't forget.

The brain works that way.

I've never read
my mother's books.

I'm told my father was
really quite remarkable
during the last war.

Best parents I know.

The girls' dormitory.

First time I've come inside,

except to vandalize it
during demonstrations.

I said, "Don't criticize
my manifesto." She said...

I feel shy about
my new muscles.

Her large, stupid eyes
watched me pee.

A thousand kisses later,

will she still remember
the taste of my tool on
the tip of her tongue?

Apologies, Mrs. Krementz.
I know you despise
crude language.

Additional sentence
at bottom of page

completely indecipherable
due to poor penmanship.

"Revisions to a Manifesto.
Page four, asterisk one.

"The promotion of..."

I'll be right back.

Zeffirelli!

He is not an invincible comet

speeding on its guided arc

toward the outer reaches
of the galaxy in cosmic
space-time.

Rather, he is a boy
who will die young.

He will drown on this planet

in the steady current
of the deep, dirty,
magnificent river

that flows night and day
through the veins and arteries

of his own ancient city.

His parents will receive
a telephone call at midnight,

dress briskly, mechanically,

and hold hands
in the silent taxi

as they go to identify
the body of their cold son.

His likeness, mass-produced
and shrink-wrap packaged,

will be sold like bubblegum
to the hero-inspired

who hope to see
themselves like this.

The touching narcissism
of the young.

March 30th.

Across the street,
a glaring metaphor.

Bell rings,
pupils scamper inside

back to their
obedient classrooms.

A creaky swing sways
in the deserted schoolyard.

Come in!

Someone told me you have
a photographic memory.

Is that true?
That is false.

I have
a typographic memory.

I recollect
the written word

with considerable
accuracy and detail.

In other spheres,
my powers of retention

are distinctly
impressionistic.

I'm known to my intimates
as a most forgetful man.

Yet you remember

every word you ever wrote.
Hmm.

The novels, the essays,
the poems, the plays...

The unrequited valentines.
Sadly, I do.

May I test you?

If you must.

Unless we try the patience
of your viewership,

or the esteemed spokesmen
for Gemini tooth powder?

My favorite piece
is the one about the cook,

where the kidnappers
get poisoned.

"Do students of the table
dream in flavors?

"That was the first of
the questions a reporter
for this magazine

"had diligently prepared
in advance of his encounter

"with Lieutenant Nescaffier,

"ranking chef at
District Headquarters on
the narrow river-peninsula

"known as
the Rognure d'Ongle.

"All such queries
were to remain unanswered

"in the course of
that eventful evening."

Shall I carry on?

Please.

I'd arrived
insufficiently early.

Though the suite of rooms
on the penultimate floor

of the grand edifice was
hypothetically indicated
on a floorplan

provided on the back
of the carte de degustation...

it was nigh impossible
to locate,

at least for this reporter.

A weakness in cartography.

The curse of the homosexual.

Monsieur Nescaffier made
his name and reputation.

He is fanatically celebrated
among cooks, cops,
and capitaines,

not to mention squealers,
stoolies, and snitches,

as the great exemplar
of the mode of cuisine

known as
Gastronomie Gendarmique.

"Police cooking" began

with the stake-out picnic
and paddy-wagon snack,

but has evolved and codified
into something refined,

intensely nourishing,
and, if executed properly,

marvelously flavorful.

Fundamentals...

highly portable,
rich in protein,

eaten with the non-dominant
hand only,

the other being reserved
for firearms and paperwork.

Most dishes are served
pre-cut. Nothing crunchy.

Quiet food.

Sauces are dehydrated
and ground to a powder
to avoid spillage

and the risk of
the tainting of
a crime scene.

Diners are expected
to provide their own
fourchettes de poche,

often engraved with
the arcane mottoes

and off-color sayings of
their respective precincts.

How are you planning
to kill me?

I believe this to be

a case of mistaken identity.

Have you been
in the chicken coop
for a very long while?

I beg your pardon.

Monsieur Nescaffier,
even during his apprenticeship

in a provincial
fire department,

aspired to a lofty perch,

and there can be
no higher position
in the metier than that of

Chef Cuisinier
for the private dining room

of the Commissaire
de la Police Municipale.

Forgive my tardiness.

No, not at all.
Not at all.

Mr. Wright,
may I present my mother

Louise de la Villatte.
You can call her Maman.

We all do.
Bonsoir, monsieur.

THE COMMISSAIRE:
This is my oldest friend,
Chou-fleur.

When I met him,
he was a girlish
little schoolboy

with ringlets
and a full set of teeth.

Now, he looks like a corpse.

In the corner,
Patrolman Maupassant.

He'll be serving.

Cocktails.
Oui, monsieur.

THE COMMISSAIRE:
And this is my son, Gigi,

in the crime-lab smock.

What are you stealing
from my personal records?

Unsolved cases.

THE COMMISSAIRE:
Well, say hello to Mr. Wright.

Hello, Mr. Wright.

Hello, Gigi.

Full name,
Isadore Sharif de la Villatte.

The Commissaire
and his only son,

widowered and motherless,
left the colony where
the boy was born,

cemented together
by their shared grief.

Gigi was six.

His schoolrooms

were the station house
and the squad car.

He was educated
by forensic tutors

in the traditions
of law enforcement.

His first drawings
were facial composites

based on eyewitness testimony.

His first words
were in Morse code.

It was, I suppose,
wonderfully obvious.

He was brought up to succeed
the Commissaire himself.

Yes, I've read you.
In the magazine.

To your satisfaction?

Of course. Of course.

Good writer.

I trust you are already
familiar with this genius.

At least by reputation.

Lieutenant Nescaffier.

I surely am.

The drink, a milky,
purplish aperitif,

ferociously fragrant,
overtly medicinal,

ever so faintly anesthetizing

and cooled
to a glacial viscosity
in a miniature version

of the type of vacuum-flask

normally associated with
campsites and schoolrooms,

cast a spell,

which, during the subsequent
60-second interval,

was to be mortally broken.

On three overlapping
dramatic timelines,

the following events
came to pass.

One.

Monsieur Nescaffier began
his mysterious ritual.

I can neither comprehend
nor describe

what occurs behind
a kitchen door.

I have always been content
to enjoy the issue

of an artist's talent
without unveiling
the secrets of the chisel

or the turpentine.

Two.

Patrolman Maupassant,

responding to an infrequently
illuminated signal,

delivered a telephone
to his superior.

Go ahead.

As you know by now,

we have kidnapped your son

and absconded
to a secure location

which you will never discover.

Release or execute the Abacus

and the little boy
will be safely returned
to your custody.

Failure to do so by sun-up
will result in your son's
violent death.

Three.

The skylight window
of the makeshift nursery

which occupies the attic
quarters jimmied ajar.

The getaway
and eventual motor pursuit
was rendered vividly,

if, perhaps, a bit fancifully,
in a comic strip

published the following week.

Though the infamous
Ennui gang war

"Winter Crimewave"
had eradicated

a healthy number of
thugs and hooligans,

it had also claimed the lives

of a disgraceful proportion
of innocent citizens.

Due to the surprise capture
of the racketeering accountant

Albert "the Abacus",

in possession of a valise
containing payroll stubs

for all three of
the city's major syndicates,

the law-abiding community's
hopes for an accelerated
resolution

to the crisis
had been renewed.

However, this turn of events
had forcefully rattled
the cages

of the denizens
of the criminal underworld.

For myself, I had failed
to recognize the Abacus,

but as it happened,
I knew the chicken coop.

This is not in the article,
by the way.

If I refer to Mr. Howitzer,
do you know who I mean?

Of course.
Arthur Howitzer, Jr.

Founder and editor
of The French Dispatch.

It was my first week
in Ennui when I suffered
the misfortune

of being arrested in
a drinking establishment

on the fringes of
the Flop Quarter

along with a number of
newly-found companions.

What was the charge?

Love.

You see, people may
or may not be
mildly threatened

by your anger,
your hatred, your pride,

but love the wrong way

and you will find yourself
in great jeopardy.

In this case,
a chicken coop jail cell
for six days straight.

I had no one who cared
to rescue me, and no one
who cared to scold me.

And the only local number
committed to my typographic
memory was

Printer's District 9-2211.

While I regret
we are unable

to publish either
of these specific pieces,

I would be very pleased
to consider other submissions
in the future.

Or if you find yourself
in Ennui...

I'd never
met the man.

I knew how to reach him
only because I wanted a job.

Let's see here.

High school newspaper,
poetry club, drama society.

Wrote the school song.
Words and music.

Junior researcher,
cub reporter,
assistant editor.

Fires and murders.

That's how I started.

My father owned
the paper, of course.

Bit of sports, bit of crime,
bit of politics.

Shortlisted twice,
Best Essays.

Deep South, Midwest,
East Coast.

Vast country.

Haven't been there
in 20 years.

Not now. I'm conducting
a job interview.

Your writing samples are good.
I re-read them in the taxi.

Have you ever done
any book reviews?

Never.

You're gonna be in there
another few hours before
they process you out.

Read this.
Give me 300 words.

I'll pay you 500 francs
minus the 250 I advanced
for your bail,

but I'll re-advance that
against cost of living.

Bring me a first draft
tomorrow morning

and however you go
about it, Mr. Wright,

try to make it sound like
you wrote it that way
on purpose.

Thank you.

No crying.

It came to be known
as the "Night of
a Thousand Slugs."

I'm reciting again.

How the Commissaire
and his elite team of
experts and analysts

succeeded so swiftly
in determining the location
of the kidnappers' lair...

Well...

I just don't know.

The tools of the trade,
I suppose.

But succeed they did.

Who were they?

It was later revealed.

A hired crew of
bandits and gunmen

imported by the ranking bosses
of the Ennui rackets

and their network
of underworld middlemen.

Chauffeur Joe Lefevre,
a once almost promising
instrumentalist.

Stetson, Spinster,
and Hieronymus Von Altman,

Dutch masterminds.

Marconi Brutelli,
the Mediterranean anarchist.

A pair of hooligans,
estranged cousins.

A trio of showgirls,
all junkies.

Plus one small,
resourceful prisoner,

determined to free himself
and reduce taxpayer expense.

What's that noise?

Uh, air bubbles
in the radiator pipes.
It's pressurized.

Sounds like Morse code.

Vaguely, maybe.

I'm Gigi, by the way.
What's your name?

I'm not gonna tell you that.
This is a felony.

You're not a criminal.
You're just a mixed-up
showgirl.

Ha.
Ha, yourself.

Shut up.

What color eyes
do you have?

Blue?

Hello.

Hello.

Sing me a lullaby.

I'm scared.

Are you asleep?

Uh-huh.

The Commissaire
adored Gigi with all his
voluminous heart.

However, his mind,

that exceptional machine
for the detection

and investigation
of criminal activity,

had been whirring
since dinnertime.

Diner.
Diner.

And he was in a condition
of dire calorific depletion.

Nescaffier, back in the field

for the first time
in six years,

came prepared to dazzle.

Diner.

The change was instantaneous.

Mmm.

Nescaffier.

Even as
the faintest hints

of the aromas of
the great chef's kitchen

ribboned into
the Commissaire's nostrils,

he began to
envision and formulate

a multi-pronged battle-plan.

To start...

Deviled eggs of
the precinct canary

served in shells of
its own meringue.

Next...

Kidneys.

Poached with plums from
the mayor's rooftop arbor.

Then...

minced lamb bon-bons
in pastry wrappers.

Blase oyster soup.

A magnificent
city-park pigeon hash.

Finally...

...tabac pudding
with quadruple cream.

May I interrupt
with a question?

Please.
Forgive me.

Just permit me to dog-ear
the page. Mentally.

I beg your pardon.

You've written about
the American negro,

the French intellectual,

the Southern romantic...
And the anti-negro.

The anti-negro.

Scripture, mythology,
folklore,

true crime, false crime,

the ghost story,
the picaresque,
the bildungsroman.

But more than anything,
over all these years,

you've written about food.

Why?

Who? What? Where? When?
How? Valid questions,

but I learned
as a cub stringer,

never, under any circumstance,

if it is remotely
within your power
to resist the impulse,

never ask a man why.

It... It tightens a fellow up.

I apologize,
but I'm gonna

hold you to it...
Torture.

...if you'll agree.

Self-reflection is a vice
best conducted in private
or not at all.

Well,

I'll answer your question
out of sheer weariness,

but I truly don't know
what I'm about to say.

There is a particular
sad beauty

well-known to
the companionless
foreigner

as he walks
the streets
of his adopted,

preferably moonlit,
city. In my case,
Ennui, France.

I have so often...

I have so often shared
the day's glittering
discoveries with

no one at all.

But always, somewhere along
the avenue or the boulevard,

there was a table
set for me.

A cook, a waiter, a bottle,
a glass, a fire.

I chose this life.

It is the solitary feast
that has been very much
like a comrade,

my great comfort
and fortification.

TALK SHOW HOST:
Do you remember where
you placed the bookmark?

Of course, silly goose.
"Meanwhile."

"Meanwhile,
across the street..."

Hold your fire!
Hold your fire!

During a lull
in the skirmish,
an ancient concierge,

veteran of two wars,
limped across the street

to deliver
an enigmatic message.

I'm speaking to the leader
of the gang of kidnappers
on the top floor.

Do you have a working
kitchen in your lair?

My son needs a snack.

Allow us to send in
our precinct cook

along with some supplies
and provisions.

He will prepare a supper
of sufficient proportions

to feed you
and all your accomplices.

We already ate.

THE CHAUFFEUR:
Is it an underling

or Nescaffier himself?

Blackbird pie.

Required, of course,
to sample each item,

the chef ate
the deathly poison.

For the little boy.

Stop.

Write down the recipe.

Help...

ROEBUCK:
But Nescaffier survived,

thanks to
the extreme fortitude,

bolstered and braced,
season upon season,

by the richest,
most potent plates,

pans, and sauce pots

of his almost
superhuman stomach.

He knew well, of course,

Gigi loathed and despised
the radish in all its forms

with a deep,
unbridled passion,

and had never
so much as touched one

or even spoken the word,

during his entire
young lifetime.

However, as it happened,

the chauffeur
hated radishes, too.

Take the wheel!

Perhaps the most
stirring and startling
phenomenon

witnessed over the trajectory
of that protracted dinner date
was this...

A delicious irony.

Monsieur Albert,
accountant to the demi-monde

and remote cause of the entire
spectacular contretemps,

had been forgotten
in the chicken coop

from Thursday dinner
to Monday breakfast

and had very nearly
starved in his cell.

It was only the convalescent
Monsieur Nescaffier himself

who retained
the presence of mind

to prepare the prisoner
an omelette a la policier,

which he delivered warm,

wrapped in a day-old
search warrant.

The Abacus ate well
that morning.

A word from
Gemini tooth powder.

It was supposed to be
an article about
a great chef.

It is in part.

For the Tastes
and Smells section...

I understand.
The assignment was
perfectly clear.

Perhaps,
you fail to grasp

that I was shot at
and hand-grenaded
against my will.

I only asked to be fed,

and was, marvelously,
as I described
in some detail.

Nescaffier only gets
one line of dialogue.

Well, I did cut something
he told me.
It made me too sad.

I could stick it
back in, if you like.

What did he say?

Martin... Martin...

Guillaume Martin.

They had a flavor.

I beg your pardon?

The toxic salts
in the radishes...

they had a flavor.

Totally unfamiliar to me.

Like a bitter,
moldy, peppery,

spicy, oily kind of

earth.

I never tasted
that taste in my life.

Not entirely pleasant,

extremely poisonous,

but still, a new flavor.

That's a rare thing
at my age.

I admire your bravery,
Lieutenant.

I'm not brave.

I just wasn't

in the mood to be

a disappointment
to everybody.

I'm a foreigner, you know.

This city is full
of us, isn't it?

I'm one myself.

Seeking something missing.

Missing something
left behind.

Maybe with good luck,

we'll find
what eluded us

in the places
we once called home.

That's the best part
of the whole thing.

That's the reason
for it to be written.

I couldn't agree less.

Well, anyway,
don't cut it.

Are we all here?

I guess you know.
It was a heart attack.

Excusez-moi.

No crying.

Is somebody coming
to take him away?

There's a strike
at the morgue.

Who was with him?

He was alone.

Reading birthday telegrams.

Psst.

Don't light the candles.
He's dead.

I'll have a slice.

Me, too.

We need to draft something.
Who wants it?

We've got a file.

I'm working on the art.

That's him.

Let's write it together.

Hmm, write what?
The obituary.

Arthur Howitzer, Jr.
Born in North Kansas,

10 miles from the geographical
center of the United States.

Mother died
when he was five.

Son of a newspaper publisher,
founder of this magazine.

The French Dispatch,
previously known
as Picnic.

A largely unread
Sunday supplement

to the Liberty,
Kansas Evening Sun.

It began as a holiday.

Is that true?

Sort of.

What happens next?