Original subtitles

THE DRESS REHEARSAL

The truth remains inexhaustible and unconquerable.

These last few days I spoke to him often about his illness.

But he didn't want to hear it.

He lived as if he wasn't sick at all.

With his attitude he was always saying:

"Life is more important than death."

We must detach ourselves from nostalgia.

The man abandoned by himself exists but only once.

By now the persons, the objects, the architectures...

... the consumption and these same human relations...

... have been transferred without uncertainty into the body of images.

But they are deprived of truth.

My reasons, however, remain always snared by doubts.

Inside I still tremble, like when I walked along those old streets of misery.

My heart knows nothing yet of the reclamation that has been performed.

I am an ephemeral...

... and not at all too discontented citizen of a metropolis which is believed to be modern...

... because every known taste has been avoided...

... in the furnishing and the exteriors of the houses...

... as well as in the layout of the city.

Here you cannot point out the trace of a single monument to the past.

Morals and language have been reduced to their simplest expression...

... in short!

These millions of people who have no need to know each other...

... carry on their education, their work, and their old age so similarly...

... that the course of their lives must be several times shorter...

... than the findings of absurd statistics allow the peoples of the continent.

Thus, from my window, I see new apparitions...

... roaming through the thick and endless coal-smoke.

Our woodland shade.

Our summer's night!

New Erinnyes, in front of my cottage...

... which is my country and my whole heart...

... since everything here is like this:

Death without tears, our active daughter and servant...

... a desperate Love...

... and a pretty Crime whimpering in the mud of the street.

Are you happy?

Yes, happy enough.

How happy, exactly?

I'm just happy, that's all.

Why?

There's no reason why.

There are people that aren't happy, and I'm sure that they know why.

I wouldn't know about that.

You don't care, more like.

- Call it what you will. - I'm not calling it what I will.

I'm giving it substance, trying to give it a name, a reason.

What means do you go on?

Statistics, for example.

Consider the most simple problem: that of survival.

2 billion people are hungry.

500 million are roughly nourished.

Another 500 million suffer from the lack of essential vitamins.

Soon, from 3 billion there will be 6 billion people crawling across the Earth.

70 million more are born every year.

24 million per year in China alone, 12 in India.

In 1980 in Latin America there will be 400 million on top of the 220 of today.

There will be 600 million before the year 2000.

500 million westerners that consume more and more meat, milk, fish...

... while billions of people go hungry.

The rich steal a million tons of protein a year from the underprivileged...

... just to fatten their animals.

And you don't know why you're happy.

Or what this happiness consists of.

- But, I didn't know about all those things. - Of course you knew!

It's useless to maintain that you aren't aware of such things.

But I don't have all these problems.

This doesn't justify it.

I want to know why you're happy.

Have you never asked yourself why there people who are fighting?

Why there are people who die during this fighting?

Why there are people who are protesting?

Why there are people shouting on the street? Crying on the street? Selling themselves on the street?

We search for poetry in our universe without knowing what it looks like.

Without even knowing how to love.

And all of this just because we don't ask ourselves questions.

If you don't ask yourself, I will do it for you.

I demand that you justify yourself...

... or act before it's too late.

But why am I asking you all of this?

I don't know.

So, let's start over.

Are you happy?

And he is there, inside his own skin.

How can he ignore this responsibility without risking alienating others?

How can he hide from himself?

How can he exist without basing his existence on the false, the aggression, the violence, the escape?

Conflict constitutes his only means of escape.

Conflict against the system, against exploitation and repression.

It is a conflict without hope if not collective, in the broadest sense.

Were you prepared?

For what?

War.

But anyway, what do these difficulties consist of?

Thank you.

Only the privileged Negroes may attempt to identify themselves with their white master.

But their attempt suddenly becomes subject in this very defeat.

To begin to free yourself it is necessary in some way to actually be free.

This future is not abstract. I belong to my age.

And it is for her that I must live.

The man that we should be saving is the Negro torn from his village.

Treated like an object. Beaten and despised.

It is that Senegalese rifleman forced to fight in Vietnam.

It is that detained politician in Madagascar.

It is all those existences that are under discussion.

Each of which is unique...

... irreplaceable...

... living without hope.

I must reorganize my existence.

I'll call you tomorrow.

We've never once said anything important.

Where were the government when they sent their ultimatums?

Where was the house of representatives?

What was Wall Street scheming when the US dollar was in crisis...

... and China waiting to be born in the United Nations bureaucracy?

Were they listening to our ravings inside employment offices?

No.

They were fighting fiery offices, screaming and bargaining with swords...

... muskets, bucked teeth, bombs, whoredoms and rockets!

Millions of agitated fanatics in bug-houses for the sake of industry!

Toothpaste apes in the TV sets!

Owners, owners, owners...

... obsessed by property and their long editorials attacking the Negroes!

Machinery, a mass electrical dream!

Money, money, money...

... mad celestial dream-money! Money of hunger and suicide!

Money of failure! Money of death!

They're unloaded, though they do give a certain effect.

See? Beautiful.

8.7. Caliber. English.

A single bullet can reach 1,000 metres.

... and shooting from close distances will send the bullet through a body.

It's a beautiful gun, but it has one inconvenience.

The bullet passes right through.

So the person hit may also live.

It's too powerful.

So they decided to use an Italian model...

... that doesn't have the long barrel and is less powerful than this...

... yet it kills.

I have enough to kit out an entire army.

I'm kidding!

You won't be capable of killing.

But I can lend it to you, if you like.

According to Bordiet a projectile propelled at the velocity of 375 metres a second...

... will drop by around 14 centimetres by the time it reaches 40 metres.

Varchant gives the following figures:

A drop of 2-3 centimetres at a distance of 2 metres...

... 5-7 at 30, 9-15 at 40, 17-26 at 50...

... 26-41 at 60, 56-95 at 80, 1.04-1.40 at 100 metres.

Trial readings:

Index of density, index of regularity, and index of concentration.

Irregular shots, empty shots at the centre or in one area.

Frequency of empty shots, influenced by the positioning of the barrel.

Reports with extreme readings, simple discharge, probably discharge.

In the dark, humiliated, without alternative.

No. It wasn't just a gesture.

And yet it's true.

It was already an impossible life.

What did you need him for?

You did everything to get him. Then you threw him out like trash.

Idiot, you can't even justify yourself.

It's true.

It seemed so important in principle.

Then I found out that it wasn't.

Because he couldn't help me.

I didn't need him at all.

I couldn't even explain what he really meant to himself.

I had to think of myself.

Or at least trade his presence for all the other people in my life.

Leaving him was the simplest solution.

Don't ask me if I understand.

You can't understand, I know. But that's not important.

We're so far away from the real problems.

That we only feel sweetly irresponsible.

Then... you don't even need hope.

We had the chance to experience something new...

... that would have forced us...

... to think...

... to live...

... justly.

Now that you've lost the chance, do you feel somehow excluded?

You're there, embarrassed, confused...

... thinking you've lost who knows what.

Instead we'll have to start again from the beginning.

Once again, after we risked losing each other altogether.

You look for clarity in everything.

When clarity is often just a perspective.

Now you're trying to justify yourself, to save face with ambiguity.

No. I'm trying to tell you that I can't justify anything.

And I don't understand that which is ambiguous, and that which is clear.

I don't know how to investigate it, I don't know how to understand it.

It is what it is.

We must carry on. So I carry on.

It was nothing to do with us. Don't you see?

We could have at least informed someone.

Why?

They'll find him.

Let them deal with it.

- How horrible! - That's enough!

- Don't think about it, come on. Let's go. - No.

Take me to the bus stop.

Suppress this protesting in your heart.

Suppress this need for history.

And you will be nothing more than a ridiculous dummy following a cause that is already lost.

Allow the sun that shines in my eyes...

... to illuminate the dark corners of my existence.

He who looks for answers in my eyes...

... should be blinded.

A coffee, please!

Good afternoon.

Good afternoon.

- Is my coffee here yet? - No, not yet.

This person is young, I can tell from the voice.

- And the others? - The same, like me.

- Want to buy a scratch-card? - No.

- You have no money, then? - No.

20 minutes past 4. But I don't know if that's right.

Yes, that sounds right.

Thank goodness.

Is my coffee here yet?

- Let's go, he's scaring me. - No...

Did you say something to me?

No, nothing. We were speaking among ourselves.

You know, I do imitations of sounds.

My world is a world of sound.

For example, I don't know. A car on the street.

Listen, listen...

Or even... even a train!

A train entering the station. Listen, listen!

Another one, listen! A plane dropping bombs:

Listen...

You know that, in the second world war, I was on the front line in Russia...

Cannons, bombings...

All over the place!

We had to stop all this stuff... Stop these Russians shooting like crazy...

We have to defend against this attack... Stop them getting through...

And so this sergeant... An idiot, an asshole...

He wants to throw us into this hell...

A horrible, horrible man...

You think, during this that Russia stops shooting... shooting, no!

There's... there's a machine gun that seems so close...

But it's not close, it's miles and miles away, you know...

But feels like it's inside your head.

This damn bastard, this sergeant says:

"Forward, men! Forward!"

And two or three of us throw ourselves in the bunker...

Forward! Forward! This son of a bitch... forward...

So I ran forward as well...

And there was this explosion...

There's... there's all the light in my eyes and they are dying...

My brain... Stop!

They didn't even leave me...

... tears to cry with, you know?

And I say...

You're too smart to know these things, I say, about war...

Anyway, it doesn't matter because there's always something to earn....

A bit of money, some scratch-cards to sell...

But these manners, who sells these... Who knows what they sell...

What I do... I'm just here...

What if I don't believe that you've ever been involved in a war?

Well, that doesn't matter.

Bring me a coffee.

Don't tickle me!

No, don't tickle me!

Elia!

I didn't think it could be this strong.

Everything's over, now.

Relax.

Come on, let's go.

You had to do it. Now you needn't worry about anything.

If all this was just a failure.

The important thing is that you take responsibility.

Of course I feel responsible.

But what about later?

This stomach is going to swell. To swell...

It's already a future.

A space at his disposal.

That's not true. The problems arise when trying to organize our future lives.

In relation to the future lives of others.

Everyone becomes responsible only when a newborn comes along.

Those who are not born may represent a failure or even a choice...

But never are they lives that are lived.

The kind that...

You seem to spend so much time obsessing over.

I eliminate myself from a responsibility.

And it's like I should be making two decisions at the same time.

One for the present.

And one for the future.

Without these two things coinciding.

See, when you refuse motherhood...

... you can't continue thinking what might have become of your child...

... if you had given birth.

You can't live on thinking about being with a child you didn't want.

Millions of agitated fanatics...

Owners, owners, owners!

Yesterday, I saw God.

He has a house in the country.

He was an old man, alone with his beard all white.

I made him dinner.

He sat. He ate. He was sad.

Look at that war down there. All that massacre.

I told him "Make them cease."

"Make it stop."

He said: "I'll try."

But he couldn't do anything.

He was so very tired.

And had been alone for so long.

But he liked the lentil soup.

Who are you? Who sent you?

Luis?

Who are you?

Did Luis send you?

Luis is a spy.

You're a spy!

Who are you? Who sent you, Luis?

Luis is a spy!

Who are you?

Are you Luis?

You're a spy!

Who sent you?

Did Luis send you?

Who are you? Who sent you?

Did Luis send you? Did Luis send you?

You're a spy! Did Luis send you? You're a spy!

You're a spy! Who sent you, Luis?

Who sent you? You're a spy. Who sent you?

You're a spy...

Every time I go to see my mother...

... I go back over my entire life, from birth until today.

Like a life not lived.

Because she's there waiting for some unknown messenger.

She looks at me without recognition.

She doesn't see me. She doesn't feel that I'm alive.

I've never been born!

I was never given birth to!

My existence up until this very day has been forgotten.

And yet, I am forced to accept the responsibility of my existence.

She aborted me!

Disposing of my entire future!

So what?

You're not responsible for a child that you never give birth to.

But you are responsible for the conditions under which he was supposed to live.

But it's still a failure.

No. No!

Yes.

You can't say: "I want a son!"

First you look inside yourself.

And then...

Who sent you? Luis? Who sent you?

You're a spy. You're a spy.

You're a spy. You're a spy.

Luis? Luis?

Instead... when...

When you're next to me...

I touch you.

And I look at you...

... like I'm looking at you now.

I kiss you.

And we make love.

So, all these things...

... they integrate.

My entire existence...

Is spread across a uniform surface.

I never get lost anymore.

I never disintegrate.

Every gesture, every word...

Every... Every movement towards you...

And the things inside...

... take on a global significance.

It's impossible...

... that any outside influence, or even something inside myself...

... can... can... can shatter...

... this unity.

Binding.

Deep.

Real.

So it is the movement of life...

... that becomes the protagonist in life itself...

... and with his way of working...

Picks... in a single essence...

A single moment of meaning...

The fragments...

Not the fragments...

The images...

The daily... wonders...

To join them in a single moment of meaning.

This dynamic...

... assumes a time and space...

... in relation to your time and my space.

Like a kiss.

Like a kiss that...

That in the act of being performed...

... brings our bodies so close together until we are touching.

Where I can identify with every living being.

Returning home and knowing that you will be there...

... like something that's mine.

From which I'll never be apart.

To have you there, close to me.

To increase the duration...

... of this time.

The fear...

The fear...

... that this unity...

... might become torn...

... by your sudden absence.

All it takes is the breaking of one single element...

If all the elements are important...

Then the mosaic opens up...

... and the unity is destroyed.

So the gestures...

... the words...

... the facts of life...

... the feelings...

And all... all return to their isolation.

Time... this element...

This element that we've chosen like...

Like the unity... of our existence.

It escapes me every time...

... that I think I've stopped it.

So...

So...

So I return every day to a world without hope.

In... in my daily disorder...

Like being in an empty bed...

Like being in an empty bed...

In the dark.

Defeated.

Without alternative.

Well?

Art can only be created when the mind is fresh, young, innocent.

When it's not distracted by the usual noises...

... or by the monotony of normal life.

Have you never found yourself facing a mathematical or psychological problem?

You grab hold of it in your teeth, just like a dog with a bone.

And you try to resolve it.

But you can't.

Because you're not a mathematician, you're not a psychologist.

So you decide to just drop it, and to go for a walk.

Then suddenly, from this availability, from this space...

The answer arises.

How did that happen?

Your mind has been freed of all those murky things...

... and from this release, from this recovered quiet...

That's what allows the solution to arise.

That's what happens when we extinguish...

... the memories, inhibitions, and compromises inside ourselves.

In our mind we have created an immense, empty, open space.

And it's only under these conditions that an answer or something new can be found.

The coming of a new world... and therefore a new humankind...

... of a different world, depends entirely on the end of suffering.

Though I'm happy.

What time is it?

You'll have to lend me some money.

The contempt!

It's already night time.

I knew where it was hidden.

But I wouldn't have told anyone.

Only if you had tortured me.

His live was not worth more than mine.

I would have put a man against the wall.

And I'd have shot at him.

If he wasn't already dead.

What will become of China?

We'll find a solution, don't you worry.

The important thing is that you don't feel abandoned.

The initial idea was to move away...

... to where nobody could reach me.

But I discarded this idea, too.

I wouldn't... I wouldn't be able to live with these things around me.

That move around me, observe me.

That in some way judge me.

That way I'm always present.

You have to be careful.

Some problems are so urgent that they become impossible to hide.

Every time, for whatever reason, I moved away from it...

... then afterwards I realised how important it was to feel united...

... together.

I'm with you.

I've lived my life feeling protected.

Now life requires you to be hostile.

And yet I was there.

Blaming him, and saving my skin.

But I didn't want to.

They come to get me.

They torture me.

I don't speak.

In the end I say: "It's hidden in the cemetery."

It wasn't true.

They find out.

There.

He shoots.

And they kill him.

When I find out...

... I laugh so hard that I have tears in my eyes.

Enough!

Come away.

No.

Realism is the only mortal way of celebrating life.

But when this experience needs to be verified.

Because it's there...

... that we are presented with the opportunity to clear it up.

And if need be to overcome it.

So you can't not be united.

In this sense I felt as though my absence was like...

Like... a mistake...

Like a...

No, like a... humiliation.

"Hey, open up!"

"We're not here to hurt you."

Everything goes silent.

Then the same voice says:

"You know you can't escape!"'

I put the barrel of the gun in my mouth.

And I bite down.

But I couldn't shoot, I couldn't pull the trigger.

Everything goes silent once more.

So I throw the gun away.

And I open the door.

I don't believe in any one of these things.

- Last night I emptied everything. - I know.

Like a saucepan.

Poured everything out.

I don't know what to say anymore.

I don't know what to say anymore.

And I found him in the bath, dead.

It was New Year's Day, 1965.

All these words are useless.

I have to reorganize my existence.

I think I already said that.

I ask myself what we are waiting for.

It's been 10,000 years...

... that we've been doing the same dress rehearsal.

Continually interrupted only because one of us dies.

Perhaps there was something that we forgot to do.

Words, events, situations... that we have no way of stopping.

All this seems absurd to me now.

This word: "revolution" abandoned by itself or written on a wall...

... always in the act of being committed.

Perhaps we're unable to express ourselves.

We cannot continue to lie like this.

Don't you think?

This is the year in which our elders have abandoned us on the street...

... and we have lost the ability to understand reality.

That's the problem.

It's the air...

It's the air...

They're just things and that's it.

This is a hard, dark, empty place.

Dry.

Where... no one moves.

Nothing... nothing moves.

No one even speaks....

Like a beast. Like a beast...

... born in a cage, from beasts born in a cage...

... that die in a cage.

From beasts born in a cage.

From beasts born in a cage.

Hear that?

I say "like a beast"...

You say "like a beast"...

But one that is born and dies in a cage.

Like a beast.

Sit!

Sit!

With my poor means...

Like a kind of beast...

Like a beast that only has fear left.

Nothing else!

The fear multiplies.

From everything that is mine, all that is left is just multiplied fear.

Fear of sounds, fear of beasts, fear of men.

And yet... yet there is a continuous noise...

Day and night...

Day and night... Day...

They are footsteps that approach, they are footsteps that leave.

They are bodies that turn in the street... Stop there!

Have mercy! Only out of mercy!

Here, a beast, with my poor means...

Pigs...

It's the air...

They're just things, and that's all.

That's all.

It's the air...

What are you thinking?

What are you thinking?

They dragged a paralytic through the splendors of nature...

... and now that there's nothing left to admire...

... he can stand up and say:

"Here's another one who lived."

Where were the government when they sent their ultimatums?

Where was the house of representatives?

What was Wall Street scheming when the US dollar was in crisis...

... and China waiting to be born in the United Nations bureaucracy?

Were they listening to our ravings inside employment offices?

No.

They were fighting fiery offices, screaming and bargaining with swords...

... muskets, bucked teeth, bombs, whoredoms and rockets!

Millions of agitated fanatics in bug-houses for the sake of industry!

Toothpaste apes in the TV sets!

Owners, owners, owners...

... obsessed by property and their long editorials attacking the Negroes!

Machinery, a mass electrical dream!

Money, money, money...

... mad celestial dream-money! Money of hunger and suicide!

Money of failure! Money of death!

When will I be able to die with my means?