All language subtitles for La Flor (2018) - Mariano Llinás (Parte 3)

Episode III
(Act III)

IN BRUSSELS

What happened?

Schneider...

What happened?

What do you know?

Everything, I think.

They don't have him.

They don't have him yet.
The professor is safe, but...

They don't have him, Casterman.

No.

That was your job, Casterman.

The professor...
That was what we had agreed.

What went wrong?

What is it that went wrong?

Here we go. Pay attention.

We are doing everything wrong,
It's too early.

We will mess it all up.

There it is. That's the van.

Here we come. Stay alert.

Did you see him?

Yes...

- Did you see him or not?
- I think I did.

You think? Did you, or didn't you?

I don't know... I thought I saw him.
You went by too fast.

What do you mean too fast?
Did you see him or not?

Was he there or not?

I don't know.

I thought I saw the girl alone,
but maybe there was someone else.

What do you mean "maybe"?

Did you see him or not?

The only thing you had to do
was to tell if he was there or not.

The only thing you had to do.

I don't know.
I think it was just the girl...

You went by too fast...

What are you doing?

I'm going back. Can't you see?

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

What am I doing?

I'm doing your job.

Have you lost your mind?
They told us not to go back!

They told us not to go back
under any circumstances!

You will screw it all up!

You've already screwed it all up.

You just had to say
if he was there or not.

That was all we had to do.

I won't go back without knowing
if he was there or not.

I will not look like an idiot.

They told us not to go back.
"Whatever happens, don't go back."

I can't believe it.

They told us "whatever happens,
don't go back." I can't believe it.

My God. This is a mistake.

Tell me, Casterman. What went wrong?

I don't know.

I need the professor, Casterman.

The professor is safe.
I can assure you that...

I will send my man.

I will send my man, Casterman.

I'm really sorry.

Schneider.

That's all. Please,
don't let your women intervene.

Good bye.

Tell Kurt to get ready.

Hello?

IN SOUTH AMERICA

It's fine. Don't worry...

I told you not to worry.

We won't go...
We won't go...

We will stay here until you tell us...
Right here...

Yes, I promise.

We're leaving. Now.

Where?

To work.

Come on, we have little time.

Something unexpected has come up.

Hurry up!

Are you okay, Fox?

Yes.

Are you sure you are okay?

Yes. I'm fine...

Hurry up, then.

THREE HOURS BEFORE

THEY COME

TO KILL THEM

You don't sleep?

I'm asking why you don't sleep.

You don't sleep?

And why are they after you so badly?

What have you done?

Why are they after you?

Are you one of the good guys
or the bad ones?

I mean, why are they after you.

Why are they after you?

And are you married?

If you have a wife.

Is she pretty?

Is she pretty?

Me? If I am married?

No, my friend...

Me, married?

No, no, no...

THE ASSASSINS

He was scrawny, tall and silent,

and he always seemed quiet,

and he was always attentive.

When she saw his photo in the file,
she thought he was attractive.

One of the girls in Personnel
told him:

Think of James Bond.
A sort of James Bond.

But it wasn't true,
he was not like James Bond.

James Bond attracted attention
everywhere he went,

on the contrary,
he liked being invisible.

He was a subtle, even elegant person

and she never heard him
raise his voice,

or curse, or insult anyone.

James Bond speeded around
in sports cars

and did skiing and drove motorboats.

He could do all those things too,
but always as an obligation.

He would've never thought
of running a race

with a girl in the Monte Carlo bends,
for example.

In everything he did he was sober,

and it was always clear that for him
all that nonsense was just work.

James Bond was all the time
drinking his famous Martinis,

or popping open bottles
of French champagne,

or stuff like that.
He, on the contrary,

had been seen having
a drink only a few times,

and when he drank,
he always stopped in time,

never continued.

The same with women. Nothing.

He was shy and distant, almost a monk.

He was a tad melancholic,
and it always seemed like

he was thinking of something else,
reflecting,

and if there was something
you could not say about Bond,

was that he was a thinker.

In all the time they shared,
only at the end could she see

that in fact
he was a loving and sweet guy,

and that he was not a holy man,

or a robot remotely controlled
by some NASA expert.

When she discovered it, it was late,
there was nothing that could be done,

and her head had a price
in half of the countries in Europe,

and he was dead.

In that time,
the world was divided in two,

and the two sides claimed to be right,

and said that if they won,
everything would be better,

and everyone
would be happier and freer.

And both sides had their assassins.

They had fallen in with the good ones.

The famous "Free World";
the decent half of the world.

They both killed Communists
so that people in the old Europe

could keep wearing blue jeans
and Mickey Mouse t-shirts,

so that they could keep seeing
naked women in the Playboy magazine,

so they could go dancing to discos
and chew bubble-gum

and, above all, so that some
could become millionaires

selling cigarettes, or tyres, or soap,
or screws.

They both killed people for that.

That was, in the end,
their free world.

But none of them thought about that,
and neither should we,

because this is not the time
to discuss politics

but a love story
between two assassins.

One of those stories
in which two colleagues,

or two friends spend
all their time together,

and the whole world thinks
they are in love, but them.

That sort of story,
but with assassins.

That sort of story where you see
the two of them and think:

Sooner or later
they will end up together.

Sooner or later, they will realize.

But time goes by, and life goes on,
and they act like nothing happened,

and little by little,
without noticing,

they start drifting apart,

and it's getting too late,
and suddenly they lose it,

and maybe, later in time one of them
starts thinking and realizes,

or maybe not even that
and the matter is lost,

inevitably,
as if it had never existed,

and the world turns the page,
and on to something else.

That, but with assassins.

The first time they worked together
was in Bulgaria, in 1975 or 1976.

The 301 was Amanda and he was Angel.

The job was to get rid
of a Lebanese banker

who financed some sort
of nationalist movement.

The first scene is in an airport,

and there will be many more
in airports.

Never big airports,
crammed with agents,

with people watching and informing.

Always minor airports,
in small cities,

where nobody cares too much
about anything.

In one of those provincial airports,

they saw each other
for the first time.

She arrived first
and went to wait for him.

She had never seen a picture of him,
or anything.

"There's no need," they told her.

"He will be wearing a raincoat,
you'll recognize him."

Aeroflot announces the arrival of its
flight 222 from Sarajevo through door 3.

Aeroflot announces the arrival of its
flight 222 from Sarajevo through door 3.

VOLGOGRAD PRAVDA

IN THE CENTRAL COMMITTEE OF THE CPSU
AND THE COUNCIL OF MINISTERS OF THE USSR

They were supposed
to be a couple of newlyweds,

and he was an international
insurance broker,

or something of the sort.

They spent the whole day
all lovey-dovey,

kissing, touring around

until the spies got bored
of following them.

They went to see the Black Sea,
they went to the history museum,

to the Revolution museum,

visited the antique shops
and the old market.

They spent a long while looking
at the street musicians

at the Cathedral's entrance

and they took a picture
with the gypsy organ player

and his monkey,

who gave him a lucky card
and a flower for her.

When the sun set, a horse carriage
took them to the hotel

where they had booked their rooms.

The concierge told them
the rooms were not ready,

that they could wait downstairs

and that the hotel would gladly
take care of their luggage

while they finished cleaning them.

They did as told,

and while the spies
searched their suitcases,

they got drunk with cheap champagne
in the dining hall,

where they had prepared
a warm welcome for them.

They stayed there
until past midnight,

sharing secrets, short poems,

risqué verses
and intimate confessions.

When they noticed the spies
were more tired than them,

they went upstairs.

BRIDAL SUITES

DO NOT DISTURB
RECENTLY MARRIED

I'm wiped...

I want to take a shower.

Are you coming?

No, honey... I'm too tired...

JULIUS CAESAR
HOTEL

I really needed this.

It will be good for you, love.

I can't believe that this very morning

I was in that filthy office
in Istanbul

and that now I'm here with you.

Yes, love... We have a whole
long week for ourselves.

Did you check
our reservations in Varna?

I asked Pavel to do it.

He told me not to worry.

I don't trust Pavel.

He thinks he does everything right,
and he does everything wrong.

But, honey,
he said everything was right.

301 played along for several minutes.

When the comedy was about to end,
he came back.

They looked at each other.

Everything had gone smoothly.

I'm wiped... I need to lie down...

He threw himself onto the bed
and fell asleep on the spot.

She couldn't sleep a wink.

She just lied there, still,

watching him sleep
as if nothing had happened.

The following morning,
they left the room,

he took her to a little harbor
where her contact was waiting,

kissed her on the cheek
and disappeared.

From that day on,
they always worked together.

Once or twice a year, not more,
three times at the most.

In 1978 they killed
a communist diplomat in Stockholm.

In 1980, in the Alps,

they blew up the vehicle
of a couple from the ETA.

In 1981 they strangled
another one in Budapest.

That same year, in Kiev,
they shot an English man in the head

because he had defected,
or was about to defect,

or someone thought
was about to defect.

It was always the same number:
the happy newlywed couple.

The provincial airport,
the cuddling, the hotel room.

301 kept getting her name changed,
but he was always "Angel".

Neither of them clearly remembered
how many people they had killed.

There were many,
and all of them different,

so that they became muddled

like the women
in the memory of a Don Juan.

They knew each other by heart,

and sometimes one uttered
what the other was about to say,

using the same words.

They didn't allow themselves
to be affectionate,

and neither of them thought
there could be something between them.

There simply was no space for that.

It was something
confined to that first night.

Those were the rules:

romance during the day,
nothing during the night.

She had understood that
from the very first moment,

from the first kiss,
and even from the first airport.

The man beside her was no Casanova.

He was rather an accountant,
a clerical worker.

Land, kiss, kill and go back home.

Once, at the beginning,

she thought,
"does he find me attractive?

"Does he have blood in his veins,
this damn android?"

But right away,
she thought "Watch it, girl.

"Get that nonsense out of your head.

"You are not sixteen anymore,
and this is a dangerous game.

"So, you'd better roll over
and start counting sheep."

With time, those questions vanished,

and she often fell asleep before he did.

Actually, they fell asleep together,

like little siblings

or like two old people.

But there was a year, 1980 or '81,
when everything changed.

She arrived several days ahead,

and there was no one
waiting for her at the airport.

She spent several days by herself,
gathering intel.

This was not Eastern Europe either,
it was in the tropics,

in an old French colony
in the Caribbean.

And when her partner finally arrived,

it was not Angel,

it was Mac the Knife.

Mac the Knife was a star.

He was German or French,
from Alsace or Lorraine, who knows.

He was one of the most famous
assassins in the world.

Haughty, arrogant, full of himself.

He had an unparalleled reputation.

Extremely expensive.

And he was also a famous heartbreaker

of whom it was said had slept
with presidents' wives

and no less than five queens.

He was a legend.

The girls in Personnel
pined for him like teenagers.

And were it
not classified information,

they would have kept a picture of him
on their desks,

as if he were Julio Iglesias.

And now they had assigned him to her.

She was the envy of all the girls.

She had been assigned Mac the Knife.

The script
was different too this time.

There were no newlyweds.

They had to kill a man named Bobó,

an African revolutionary
who prided himself

on killing more blacks than Mobuto
and more Europeans than Amin.

301 was a journalist
from France Press.

Bobó had seen her at a party
and had wanted to meet her.

They had arranged
an interview at the embassy

where Bobó had been granted asylum.

And he was anxiously expecting her,
all perfumed up,

wearing his best dress suit.

That night they slept together,
and of course Mac the Knife,

offered a performance
for the annals of history.

But the following morning,

301 looked at that stupid blond

with whom she had had sex for hours

and found him repulsive.

She thought, "What am I doing here?

"I don't want to be here.

"I don't want to be with this clown.

"I wish the earth would swallow him,

"I wish the Russians would kidnap him
and take him to the Moscow Circus,

"to caper with the acrobats
and the dancing bears.

"I want to get out of here.
I just want to get out of here."

That's what she thought.

But what she didn't think,
or didn't dare to think was:

"I don't want to be here.
I want to be with him.

"I want to be with Angel.

"Where are you, you apathetic sissy?
Why have you ditched me?

"We were supposed to be a duo.

"What is this superhero
they have sent in your place?

"Where are you?
I want to see you, partner.

"I miss you."

The next time was awkward.

When she got to the airport,
she was wondering:

"Who's gonna come? Will he come?"

When she saw him, she felt
like smiling at him and hugging him

but she didn't.

Everything was different,
from the get-go.

They didn't have to pretend
being husband and wife.

This time they were colleagues,
they didn't sleep together.

So they spent the whole day together,
waiting, pretending

to be two decent
well-thinking Europeans.

She noticed there was something off
about him,

something was happening to him.

He was nervous, made jokes,
couldn't look her in the eye.

At one point,
she would even have sworn he blushed.

Something,
something imperceptible had changed.

"Is it possible that he also...?"

she thought,
but stopped herself there,

as if before a door.

The night was almost unbearable.
They barely spoke.

She wanted to tell him something,
to do something, anything,

but she remained silent once again.

They went to sleep,
each to their room,

and once again,
she couldn't sleep a wink.

Once again, after all those years.

The next day they did the job.

They had to kill a Palestinian,

some kind of Islamic leader
who was now all the rage in Europe

and who the magazines
compared to Che Guevara

due to his young, sexy style.

They were now pretending
to be journalists.

Journalists working for Life,
or Paris Match,

or something of the sort.

During that time
they did those things.

Guerrilla leaders
liked being on the magazine covers,

with great headlines,

talking and ranting
about the Western world.

She watched Angel and thought,

"He's nervous.
He's thinking about something else."

But she soon stopped herself.

"Stop it, you silly girl.

"If you don't focus, you'll end up
floating in the Dead Sea."

One hour later, they killed the guy
with a bullet to the head,

And end of the story.

I'll be right back.

I'll be right back.

End of the story.

She saw him hide the body,

spray it with some kind of flammable
liquid and get back to the jeep.

He then stood there for a while, still,

and finally turned towards her
and waved at her.

She waved back at him.

He raised his hand,
and though he couldn't see her,

she smiled. She smiled at him.

Then she turned her back on him
and started to walk.

She walked for an hour
across the desert

until an army helicopter picked her up
and took her to a base in Israel.

Then a plane to Istanbul,
a week in Istanbul,

and another plane to Paris.

They never saw each other again.

From then on,
everything became clearer.

She smelled it
from the very beginning.

She waited several months
before showing her face.

After all, the business
with the sexy Palestinian

had been something very big,

something the newspapers from all
over the world had talked about,

and in fact, they kept putting bombs
in coffee shops to avenge his death.

So she thought of it as a holiday.

She read magazines,
studied English, practiced aerobics.

She went to a museum once.

But when a year later
she still hadn't heard from them,

she knew it was all over.

She didn't quite know what to do.

All of a sudden, she was a free woman.

Free and unemployed.

What does an international assassin
do when she is out of work?

Most surely, she doesn't do anything.
Where does she begin?

Even so, little by little,
she rearranged her life.

She had quite a lot of money,
she could do whatever she wanted.

She could buy a house in Portugal,
or in Greece, or in the Dolomites,

or a sail boat,
or an Alfa Romeo sports car,

or travel to Nepal and wash away
her sins in a Lama monastery.

But she didn't do any of that.

She didn't do anything at all.

She just stayed home,
waiting for something.

Until one day something happened.

One day, the phone rang.
A number no one had.

Not even the people
from her previous job,

not even the Personnel girls.

A voice, maybe a man, maybe a woman,
said some words to her.

Those words meant a place and a time
in the outskirts of the city.

And when she got there,
she received another call,

and then they gave her another place
and another date.

There is a children's game
that consists in exactly this,

you all must surely know it.

It's called treasure hunt.

Well, she kept playing treasure hunt
for several days,

going from one place to another,
from one phone to another,

following the indications like a fool.

Until the hunt came to an end.

The last place was too romantic,

of a romanticism
that was almost tacky.

The ideal place for a date
in a 19th century novel.

She thought it was a joke he was
playing on her, and laughed a bit,

but then she stopped laughing
because she found a letter.

It was a letter from him, handwritten,

and at that moment,
she, who had killed dozens of people,

who had strangled people,
who had stabbed people in cold blood,

who had poisoned people,

who had shot people
in the head at point blank range,

felt a knot in her stomach
and thought that she was scared

and that she could not read it
and that she could not go on.

The letter was addressed to her,
had her name, her real name,

that name she hadn't heard
since school

and that nobody
in her previous job knew,

least of all him.

And what followed was a love letter.

That is, it didn't say things

like "I love you", or "I've always
loved you, I'll always love you"

or "I now see you were
the love of my life",

or anything of the sort.

Nothing like that, but the person
who had written the letter

had thought about her
like nobody else,

and had watched her like nobody else,

and knew her like nobody else
had known her until that moment.

In that letter was her.

Not like an adventuress, or a heroine,

nor driving across the desert
with a turban wrapping her hair,

nor jumping from a moving train,

nor letting bullets whistle
above her head impassively,

nor hanging from a rope
over a precipice, nor skydiving,

nor walking across a marsh,
soiled with sweat and mud.

She was there getting dressed
with her back modestly turned to him,

in hundreds of different hotels,

all identical, all equally sad.

Getting dressed with her back
turned to him, or wearing pajamas,

or freshly bathed.

And she was there in airports,
waiting for him,

in hundreds of airports strewn
across the world.

Waiting for him, standing, lonely,
nailed there like a little girl.

She was there having fun,
cracking jokes,

funny jokes she didn't remember
having said,

or being moved by something,

by a dawn in the mountains,
or over the ocean,

being moved
without telling him anything,

or stroking a dog, and a lot of things
she did without noticing,

things a woman who looked like her
did, a woman who apparently was her.

And in that letter was him, too.

Him beside her, always watching her,

silently watching, watching her walk
and watching her sleep

and watching her talk.

And he was there without her too,
thinking about her,

remembering her in the endless months
they didn't see each other,

speeding in some car,

or swimming in the sea,
or visiting a distant country

to see if he could get a little bit
of her back,

to see if that whole wide
and fascinating world

could give her back a little,

and if something of her turned up
in one of those places.

And she read the whole letter,
and read it again,

and thought about destroying it,
but in the end she kept it,

and spent a whole week
without talking to anyone,

and she felt like crying,
and in the end, she cried.

He was always there, she thought.

Much more than me.
Much more than anyone.

And only three weeks later,
or a month,

she realized
the letter was a farewell,

or rather, a testament,
or rather, a warning.

That he was saying goodbye
and he was also saying "Watch out!"

That the people from the previous job
knew everything,

knew that letter by heart
even before he wrote it.

That like that,
they were both useless to them.

That he was going to get killed,
or had already been killed,

and that she would get killed as well.

Always by my side, partner,
she thought.

Always with me.

She thought she would have liked
to kiss him, at least once.

She made a couple of phone calls,
she got a Swiss passport,

or Swedish, and disappeared.

Good morning.
My name is Casterman.

And you are...?

Don't worry...
There's no need. I apologize.

Casterman had a hard time finding her.

When she finally turned up,
they talked for a long while.

They talked business, made small talk,
until they reached an agreement.

After a while she had
the nerve to ask.

"What about him?"
She asked, almost with fear.

"How is he?"

Casterman, though cold-blooded
and short-tempered,

didn't know what to answer.

Finally, he looked at her with all
the tenderness he was capable of.

Don't worry about him",
he told her. "He's doing well".

IN SOUTH AMERICA

TO KILL THEM

THEY COME TO KILL THEM

SOME MINUTES BEFORE
THEY COME TO KILL THEM

Come on... Up...

It's good.

Turn off the radio.

Do you know what it says there?

In that light?

In that lamp.

Do you know what it says?

"The night sun".

Isn't that funny?

"The night sun".

It reminds me of something
and I don't know what...

To the "iron horse".

And what's that?

The car?

The train...

And the submarine?

The iron fish...

And the plane,

the iron bird...

That's enough.

And the iron arrow?

The SA 18!

And the bomb?

Do you know what the bomb would be?

I said it's enough...

Then there's the "iron lady".

And the "iron curtain".

The plane?
Already?

Shut up!

Stay here...

THE MOLE

First, there's the land.

That before anything else:
the white, infinite plains,

semi-deserted miles and miles,
spreading like a sea or like a galaxy,

boundless, hopeless, like an abyss.

Miles and miles
where there's nothing, or nearly:

where there are no men, or nearly.

Sometimes, in the distance,
some light, some house,

some chemical plant,

some barn, some windmill.

Even worse, even lonelier.

And that goes on for hundreds
of thousands of miles,

for almost one third of the world.

Before anything else:
that sad and filthy expanse of land.

The sad and filthy
factories in Moscow,

the sad and filthy farms in Ukraine,

the sad and filthy Urals.

Sad and filthy are the Volga lowlands
and the lonely Caspian, and the Altai,

appearing in the distance
as if they were towers.

And then,
like an infinite cry, Siberia,

distant like a wolf's howl,

distant even if you are there,
distant and lonely,

like those scary hermits
who live in caves.

Siberia, spreading out like
a disease across the whole continent,

through miles and miles,
through a third of the world,

spreading so much that there
are mountains in the south

and frozen seas in the north,

and you think that they are there
to stop it,

to curb so much filth and sadness.

Siberia, white as ghosts
are white,

white as the paper
on which a will is written,

or a death sentence;
white as a blind man's eyes;

white as a dead man's skin;

white as a skeleton
abandoned for centuries;

white as the snow that falls

and kills what little
is left of spring;

white as a wedding dress
forgotten inside a closet;

white as the marble of a pagan temple
to which no one will ever return;

white as the glass of milk

someone uses
to poison a beautiful woman;

white as the gravestone of a man
powerful and unjust;

white as the moon reflected
in the eyes of a wolf

that howls with hunger
and despair and sadness.

Before anything else, that.
In one corner of the ring, that.

Then there's her.
In the other corner of the ring.

She was Agent 50.

That meant she was one of the fifteen
most important people

in the Party's Intelligence;

one of the thirty most powerful
spies in the world.

Her life actually resembled that
of a regular clerk.

She had her office, stark and grey,
on the fifth floor of the "Centre",

which was the name
they gave in Moscow

to the organization
that gathered snitches,

spies and assassins.

Except for one or two weeks
every year,

her life was always the same.

She would arrive, sit at her desk,

her secretary would bring her tea
and the first reports.

- Excuse me, comrade...
- You may come in...

Well, let's see what we've got today...

- Vienna.
- Here.

- Kiev.
- Here.

- Belgrade.
- Sixth floor.

- Prague.
- Here.

- Stockholm.
- Tenth.

- Stockholm.
- First.

- Rio de Janeiro.
- Seventh.

- Bucharest.
- Twelfth.

She read. "Agent 741,
destination Angola Embassy,

reports bank transactions."

She ordered: "To the 4th floor."

She read: "Agent 112, in Bern,

reports having gathered
important information

and requests
safe communication channel."

She decided: "Second floor."

That was all.

Four-hundred and fifty men lived
under her control,

hidden, scattered across the world,

living under fake names
and telling lies,

not knowing their luck
was decided on that desk in Moscow.

That was the game.

They called it "Networks"
and the fun was

that no one knew
very well what they were doing.

Each one did a part.
Poisoned someone,

took a picture, took a package,
stole some documents.

But nobody ever wholly understood

what each of those single
acts was for.

A hundred years earlier,
Karl Marx had talked

about that and had said
all that was very wrong.

It doesn't matter.
Karl Marx could be Karl Marx,

but he knew nothing about espionage.

Espionage, or following orders,

or doing as told without
asking questions.

In contrast, her army of robots
understood it very clearly.

Someone gave the orders.

She gave the orders.

If she made a mistake,
if she said "Third floor"

instead of "Fifth floor",
they were dead.

"There's your Cold War there,"
thought Casterman.

"A war fought by bureaucrats,
receptionists,

file clerks, translators.

A war fought by writers.

That's where everything's decided.

That's where it's decided
if someone wins or loses".

She knew it well.

She knew that was her war

and that she was
a soldier in that war.

She had military training,
she had Colonel rank,

she had been in the field
in Afghanistan and Lapland:

fuck all that.

It wasn't a boy scouts war
they were fighting.

Her place was that desk,
that secretary,

that routine:
Fourth floor, third floor.

She was a guard, a sentinel:
her battlefield was the whole world

and she just had to ensure
that nothing went off course;

that everything was fine.

Let others jump with parachutes
or steal microfilms.

I, from this little room,
will put up a fight."

Comrade,

I think you should see this.

Until one day everything went rotten.

- A lot are arriving.
- A lot, really...

She arrived, as always,

the secretary brought her everything,
as always,

but instead of the routine reports,

she read something else.

What she read, what she saw was
the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

being humiliated,

turned into the laughingstock
of all the spies in the world;

she saw, in a matter of seconds,

how the whole
counter-espionage strategy sunk,

shattered, spinning down
the Western world toilet,

amidst hideous and triumphant laughs.

In less than an hour,
forty reports came in,

all confidential, all very serious.

Murdered agents, spoiled networks,
aborted missions, missing documents.

What had happened?

How come the voodoo curse
was sticking its pins all at once,

in one single blow?

It was a disaster, a masterstroke:

THE USA EMBASSY

those weren't
the lesser agents speaking.

It was the elite,
the cream of the crop in the Service,

scared like little children.

The moles from Washington, Paris,
London, United Nations,

Geneva were writing.

They were no longer
the usual laconic reports;

they were requests for help,

desperate cries
in the middle of a collapse.

The collapse:

that's how that day was called
in the annals of the Moscow centre.

The day of the collapse,
the day everything went to hell,

the day the party was over for us;
the day we lost the war.

Those were the days
of the Minsk Protocol.

That was the order that suddenly
began to appear in every embassy,

in every Russian House of Culture,

in every Franco-Soviet
or German-Soviet

or British-Soviet cooperation office.

And in every other spy nest
all over the world.

Minsk Protocol.
And that meant it was over.

Disappear Don't leave any trace.
Set everything on fire.

Leave everything you are doing.

Nothing matters anymore.
We are all dead.

Minsk Protocol. Minsk Protocol.

Sorry, comrade.
Minsk Protocol.

What do I do?

What do I do?
What floor do I send them to?

Comrade. May I leave?

The following scene
takes place a month,

month and a half after the Collapse.

The place:
the office of Admiral Ratnikov,

the major authority
in counter-intelligence

within the Supreme Soviet.

Agent 50 is waiting.

She knows the Collapse
has caused the worst crisis

within the highest echelons
in the party

since the cotton scandal
in the mid seventies.

She knows many have gone
to the other side,

and that this meeting
might be her death sentence.

Ratnikov has not arrived yet;
he keeps her waiting.

Only his Admiral cap and coat
can be seen on a nearby armchair.

The office looks fancy,

different to all the offices
in the regime,

no picture of Lenin,
no picture of Gagarin,

no picture of Molotov,
no picture of Breznev,

and on the desk there are
no French pens, or Swiss watches,

or English tobacco.

Just some bust of some Russian naval
hero: Makarov, or some other one.

And a picture of Ratnikov himself,

in sailor clothes
as if he were a crewman

in the Potemkin Battleship.

That's all;
that and that immense Neptune behind,

as if saying: the owner of this desk
is a sea man, a man of action,

someone who knows danger
and who has seen death in the eye.

He is not a shitty clerk like you,
be careful.

Agent 50 knows it.

Agent 50 is more impatient
than scared, but she is a bit scared.

Finally, Ratnikov appears.

At first, he is kind.

He calls her by her name,
which he mysteriously knows.

He asks her not to call him Admiral,
or Comrade

but to call him by his name.

"Call me Raiko," he tells her.

Ratnikov is Estonian;
he is one of the first Estonians

to reach an important position
in the Presidium,

and he seems to want to show
that he is a simple guy,

that he still is a friendly
good-natured man from the Baltic,

that Moscow hasn't changed him.

They make small talk for a while,
about his family,

his sail boat outings with his family.

"He is torturing me", she thinks.

"He knows he is going to kill me
and talks to me about sailing.

Sadistic dwarf."

After a while, nonchalantly,
he broaches the subject.

"Well," he tells her,

"you know this matter
has given us quite a few headaches."

Agent 50 is shivering inside.

Well... You know this matter
has given us quite a few headaches...

In the Navy, we have an expression,
you know?

"Start the day with clams on the keel."
Do you get it?

Well, it's a bit confusing to explain,

but let me assure
it guarantees quite a headache,

a day of the most annoying job
you could ever imagine.

Well, I think that from that day
onwards, every morning,

we start the day with clams
on the keel.

Well... We also have another
saying in the Navy.

"Too many feathers
for the poor albatross."

Do you understand?

Too many feathers, comrade,

so that, sooner or later, something
like this was bound to happen.

We have nearly a thousand
men out there, in the field.

We cannot know them all, right?

We cannot be sure that one of them
wasn't lying to us from the very start.

There are too many evil minds
at work at the same time.

"Too many feathers
for the poor albatross!"

It is only then
that Agent 50 discovers

where the other one is going.
Ratnikov, sly as a fox, notices it.

I can see you understand me.

Well, yes...

Everything seems to indicate that
some wolf has slipped into our flock.

That he has been among us
and that he has finally bitten us,

while we were sleeping.

At some point you need to sleep.

We all need to sleep at some point.
Isn't that right, Colonel?

Two hours later,

Agent 50 stepped out into the street,
into the cold fall weather.

She had gone in around noon
and it was already getting dark.

Nights were getting longer,

and a couple of days before
it had already started to snow.

But she thought not of the snow,
or of the cold, or of the nights.

She thought about just one thing.
One word. One name. Boris.

Tell me something, Colonel.

Does the name Podgorov
mean anything to you?

Andrei Stepanovich Podgorov?

Boris, maybe?

Of course,
it's such a common name, right?

ASSIGNMENT

Very well... Let me see...
Andrei Stepanovich Podgorov.

Captain of the tenth Airborne Corps.

Graduated in military intelligence
at the Grozny training centre

in '81 and my, oh my!

Recruited for active service
at the Centre, in Minsk,

on March 2nd, 1982.

By yourself, Colonel.

Assigned name: Boris.

We cannot remember them all,
can we?

So that was it. Some Boris fellow,

someone nobody
had ever seemed to notice,

had crept into the Centre
like a ghost,

like a silent reptile,
and no one had suspected him.

He had been there, invisible,
for three years,

accessing all the information
right under their noses,

quiet, sleeping, waiting.

Boris!

She had not seen him more than once,
of which time she could recall nothing.

A tall, blond fellow,
Ratnikov had told her.

You talked for some half an hour
at a train station.

That was all.

It's all very clear here,
this is your signature, Colonel.

"That was all," she thought.
"There were hundreds like him;

hundreds of tall blond fellows
at train stations."

In those days, her life consisted
of meetings with those types

at stations,
so that they became spies.

Which one of them was Boris?

Which one of all those blonds
was the one

who had stuck a dagger in the back
of the Cause of the People?

"That, Colonel, is for you
to find out," Ratnikov had said.

"Yes, Colonel.
We want you to find him."

But... Admiral...

We want you to find Boris.

It would be good for us
to ask him some questions.

You have seen him.

Nobody else but you appears
to have seen him.

We have been looking for him
for a month, and nothing.

I'm sorry, Colonel.

We don't have many options.

- Do we have any kind of...?
- Yes.

We are certain he has not left.
He is still here.

Here in Moscow?

Here in Russia.

Then the fantastic part
of this story begins.

She, who until then was a bureaucrat,
has been ordered to find a man,

hidden in some corner
of an infinite territory.

She walks a few feet in the afternoon
that is already turning into evening.

"Where do I begin?"
She asks herself. "This way? That way?"

And she knows that,
wherever she looks,

she has 8 million miles ahead;

more than
three hundred million people.

Only one of them is Boris.

At first, the thing still makes sense.

She is still an agent
on a secret mission.

She does things
in an orderly and logical fashion.

She produces a list of people,
of contacts,

and decides to interview them
one by one.

For months, she travels
from one place to another,

from Leningrad to Vladivostok,

from the dirty piers in Odessa
to the ports in the north.

She is a detective.

Someone going from house to house

finding out, sniffing around,
asking questions.

She works restlessly,
not missing a day.

But a few months later
her list of suspects is exhausted,

and she still has nothing.

Nobody has seen Boris.

Nobody knows who he is
or has heard of him.

She moves on.

She prepares another list
and continues travelling.

She travels
to more remote places each time.

She travels to the Caucasus, to Baku,

she visits the lost towns
in Ossetia and Bessarabia.

She travels through mountains,
windy and rocky roads,

almost medieval villages

the Revolution
does not seem to have reached.

And Boris is nowhere to be found.

When she runs out of names,
she makes a new list,

with even more unlikely people,
even more faraway.

Deep down, she knows that those names
are becoming less important,

and that what really matters
is to keep looking.

After eight or nine months of search,
she starts with the trains.

Agent 50, the girl who, years later,

would become Agent 50
had learned at school

that the network of railway lines
in the Soviet Union was so vast

that if you placed one track
after the other,

you could circle the earth five times.

The truth is that when she has
no more cities to check,

Agent 50 starts
to look for the mole on trains,

and little by little,
trains become her life.

Maybe she thinks:

"If the only time
I saw him was at a train station,

perhaps that's where I will find him."

But maybe she doesn't think that,

and she just gets on the first train
on a hunch,

or because
someone tells her something,

or just because. Just because,

and she doesn't suspect
that that railway landscape

will quickly become her life.

And the first year goes by,

and then another one,
and another one, and her manhunt

becomes more and more unreal.

The mole is somewhere;

he's still there, and she knows it,

and chasing him up

across the endless steppes
is all she has left,

as if nothing
from before had ever existed.

Nothing from before:
just the Soviet landscape

stretching out endlessly
across the train window.

The snow, the frozen rivers,

the little wooden houses
as in Bruegel the Elder's paintings.

The housing complexes
sleeping motionless

as if they were mean hibernating bears
who shouldn't be bothered.

The stations at night, empty,

spots you only see
for a couple of seconds,

between waking up
and falling back asleep,

and which get mixed with dreams.

And the factories, the chimneys,
and the nuclear power plants,

and the smoke, always in the distance,
like a ghost.

What are those years like?

What does she think about
all that time?

Sometimes she thinks of Boris.

She thinks
"Does he know I'm looking for him?

Does he know there is nothing else
but him in my life,

and this succession of fields
and deserts

and trees bare like splinters?"

In time, those train cars,

that cabin and that window
become her house.

They become her refuge.

As if the whole train
was a provincial hotel,

and she was there hiding, waiting,

looking through the window,
safe from everything.

Until one day, the train stops
at a random station and, distracted,

she will look through the window
expecting the usual landscape:

the snow-covered platforms,
the conductors,

the passengers about to get on.

What she ignores is that one of those
waiting for the train is Boris,

and that when she sees him,
she will recognize him

as if she had seen him a week ago.

The scene takes place
in a lonely station,

whose name we ignore
and which barely matters

and which not even Agent 50,

if she's still alive, must remember.

The only thing that matters
is that at that station,

the Mole is waiting for her.

At first, she does nothing.

She sits still for miles and miles,
unable to move.

At some point, Boris stands up,

opens the door to her cabin,
looks at her in the eye

and sits in front of her.

Enter.

Boris' look is not threatening.

It's rather kind,
as if they were old friends,

or old lovers who meet again
after a very long time.

Boris, without any formality,
called her by her name.

"How are you, Nastasja Alexandrovna?"
he says.

"You have been looking for me
all this time, isn't that right?

Well, here I am. Here you have me."

I'm the one you're looking for.
You hate me? I don't think so.

I don't think you have any feelings
towards me anymore.

But let me tell you something
just in case.

You don't need to hate me.

You don't need that, Natalia.

D'you know why?

'Cause even if you don't believe me,
we're the same.

Identical.

We don't exist anymore.

Neither of us.

We don't exist anymore.

And there's something else:

none of this exists any longer.

Neither the Cold War
nor the reason you fight for

or the nation you've given
your life to.

Everything will disappear, Natalia.

So fast you won't believe it
when it happens.

They have won.

Before you know it,

the world will be covered
in their posters and their noises.

Everyone will dance to their songs
and eat their food.

D'you know what?

They'll be happy.

They won't feel pain,
humiliation or sorrow.

They won't miss us, Natalia.

They'll forget about us.

And not in one hundred years,
or fifty, or ten...

but tomorrow.

By tomorrow we'll have disappeared.

Nobody will remember

that we fought them for the world
for an entire century,

that peasants and workers
fought them as equals

with their own weapons.

With their own weapons.

That for a century, the flag
that waved over half the world

wasn't that of an imperial house,
or an eagle, or some swords,

but a sickle and a hammer...

from the factories and farm lands.

We could have won, Natalia.

We were so close.
But we lost.

And no one will
ever think of us again.

Get off the train.

Your trip is pointless.

Game's over.

Soon after, a month or even less,

Agent 50 leaves the Soviet Union
and never comes back.

Somewhere in the world, at some point

that is now pointless to say,
Casterman appears.

IN SOUTH AMERICA

AT THE PRECISE MOMENT

THEY COME TO KILL THEM

IN BRUSSELS

Hello.

Casterman, my man is in position.
He's coming in in a couple of seconds.

You are the customer, Schneider.
The customer is always right.

Your women are not there, are they?

- No.
- Are we sure about that, Casterman?

There's something worrying me,
Casterman.

Something in your group of women
worries me.

There is one of them.
One of them, Casterman.

She is a little mystery,
isn't that so?

I don't know what you're
talking about, Schneider.

Well, there aren't many options,
are there, my friend?

The Polish girl and the girl
from the Tropic we know quite well.

And our poor Bárbara...
Well, we will miss her here.

I am really sorry, Schneider.

I don't mean them, Casterman.

I mean the other one,

the Blonde.

Fox.

Fox.

Fox, yes...

Well, she's new in this business,
right, Casterman?

Well... She has done other jobs.

Not like this one, Casterman.

Not killing other agents.
Not doing the dirty work.

She has been involved
in difficult operations.

What you call "dirty work".

Not as dirty as this, Casterman.

Maybe not as much...

What do we know about her, Casterman?

She was born in a military base,
in Pakistan, in the sixties.

Her father was an F-15 pilot.

Her mother, a Muslim,
converted to Christianity.

She was raised on the base.

She piloted her first Bell
at the age of 12.

At age 13 she was trained
in Afghanistan to pilot the enemy MIGs.

She was the first woman ever
to pilot an MIG, and the youngest.

Among soviet pilots, she was
some sort of a myth, a girl that...!

And what about '75?

What about '75?

February 10,1975.

The Chinook incident, Casterman.

What about it?

It was her, right?

It's unknown.

It was her, Casterman.
She disobeyed the orders.

She fired against her own men.

She's a traitor...
A traitor!

It was never proved it was her.

What is she doing there, Casterman?
Why her?

She is a good pilot.
We needed someone who could fly.

We needed...

This is insane, Casterman.

I'm sorry.

There wasn't much time.
We needed to find a pilot.

It was a mistake, Casterman.

A mistake.

I am really sorry.

In any case, they are not there,
are they?

They will not interfere.

No.

Nobody will interfere
with my man's job, right?

No.

Not them, not anyone.

I hope so, Casterman.

I hope so.

There's that idiot.

He will ruin it all.

He doesn't know who he's messing with.

What do we do?

Leave him.

Let the other women take care of him.

I'd say it even works to our favour.

Very well. This is what we'll do.

Listen to me carefully.

Schneider's man will strike any time now.

That's when we split in two.

Understood?

Lena and I will go through the front.

When they have finished
with Schneider's man, we open fire.

They won't see it coming.
Is it clear, Lena?

It's clear, Ma'am...

Meanwhile, Bethania and Fox
will circle the airfield from the back.

Bethania will take
care of the scientist.

Fox will finish them off from behind.

They won't see it coming, I assure you.

Is it clear?

Crystal clear.

Fox?

What's wrong, Fox?
Have you understood the plan or not?

I won't do it, Ma'am.

What the hell are you
talking about, Fox?

I will not do it. I will not kill
those women from behind.

What the hell is wrong wtih you, Fox?
Are you crazy?

No, Ma'am. I'm not crazy.
Those women are brave.

And Fox does not consent
to the crime of murdering

four brave ones that way.

To Hugo...

Episode IV

They are there.
They've always been.

Long before we came.

They saw us arrive.

They saw each and every one of
our advancements and mistakes.

Like a nosy old woman.

Or a couple of old people, who
observe the new neighbors arrive,

full of illusion,
doing for the first time

the same things they've
done for centuries.

Mean old people.

Those are them.

Mean old people.

Looking out the window and thinking:

you'll see.

You'll see.

Chapter 1
Spring

Tuesday, September 13.

Today it's five years
since we started shooting.

Six...

Six years.

Today it's six years
since we started shooting.

A small celebration is expected,

but things...

No.

A small celebration is expec...

A small celebration is expected,

but things with the girls are a bit awkward.

- Wait. I can't remember what it says...
- To make things worse...

To make things worse, I invited
the new producer so she can meet them.

Could meet them.

So she could meet them.

"So she could meet them."
Grammatical concordance.

To make things worse,
I invited the new producer...

To make things worse, I
invited the new co-producer...

to meet them.

But...

But...

I'm not sure it was a good idea.

I hope that nothing bad happens.

That things turn out fine.

I hope things turn out fine.

That nothing bad happens.

That we keep the peace.

Cut.

Is it necessary for the
musicians to rehearse now?

- I had in mind to record ambient sounds.
- I don't know.

No, come on. I mean...
Why is it...

- I don't know!
- Can I ask him...

I don't know, I don't know,
I don't know...

I'm writing this thing.

- Then what should I do?
- I don't know.

"I don't know, I don't know"...
That's all he's been saying for a week.

Same with me... "I don't know"...
Mr. I-don't-know.

That's funny... Mr. I-don't-know.
Or "Joe I-don't-know"...

It isn't much to ask...
Just an ounce of precision,

a range to see things,
assess the situation, gauge...

- Is that the word? "Gauge"?
- I guess.

I "guess" "gauge” is right.
It's a tongue twister.

I guess I gauge I gauge I guess.

What's that? Cider or champagne?

There it says cider.

If I have to be honest, I prefer cider.

I don't know why it
has such a bad reputation.

We could have brought some glasses...

It tastes like water.

Champagne or cider, it's the same.

Lowering the standards
What's up? No budget?

Tell the man.

- What's up with me!?
- This looks like an amateur production.

I tell you.

No preparation, all of a sudden.

And now with this Canada thing
they caught me by surprise.

I didn't know what to do.
I had to look it up...

in a children's encyclopedia
I had at home. "I Know It All".

The musicians are rehearsing
on the second floor.

Right there.
Through that stairway.

- Do you know "I Know It All"?
- He wrote it.

Very funny.

Right! The Know-it-all!

The Know-it-all knows nothing. I know it all,
except what we have to do in a week's time.

"I Know Nothing", that should
be the encyclopedia's title.

- That's funny. I know nothing, and
then he'd be a "Know-nothing".

"I Know Nothing" by
"Joe I-don't-know".

- Could you knock it off?
- I don't know.

- But listen here... It wasn't like this in the other episodes...
- No, no, no, don't talk to me about the other episodes.

- ...there was a script.

- How long have we been at this?
- More than four years.

- Today it's six years...
- Here we have a series of more modern ideas!

- Exactly!
- Modernity!

- We're going backwards, from bad to worse.
- Modernity!

Accordeon man, could you go upstairs
with the other musicians, please?

Tell the Mr. here...

Yes, just a second.

- What's he gonna say? "I don't know".
- Again with the script...

I've told you there's something written!

There's something written?

- Yes... vaguely...
- Vaguely?

There are drafts... These things take
time... And lately I've been...

...always abroad.

- Yeah, lately... what's wrong?
- Lately?

Lately. Weren't we going
to play natives in the sixth part?

No... In the sixth you play captive women. This is
something else, it's a native. A Canadian redskin.

- Two native women is too much.
- I'm telling you, it's not two natives.

One is a native,
the other one, a captive.

This went like this...

- One is a native, the other one is a white woman...
- It's too much.

- What does she have? A bow and arrow?
- Bow and arrow?

I don't know yet...

"I don't know yet"?
Bow and arrow?

I don't know yet!

Sorry... Does this go like this?

I don't know... Is it like this?

It should have some more straps...

That's right... Needs more straps.

We are not asking you about straps.

We look like mother and daughter...

Come on, don't exaggerate...

We could put something else so
that you look more similar.

- That's right... Something similar.
- Something like what?

I don't know, a step, something...
An apple box...

- I don't know.
- A what?

They are walking in the scene...

- We're still not sure if they are walking.
- We'll look like the two Star Wars robots...

R2D2.

Hev, sorry... Is this for real?

- Yes, it's an idea...
- An idea?

Yes, it's an idea
An experiment...

The costume is quite spot-on.

It's a man's costume..
Do I play a man?

It's an idea!

The idea is that I play a man.

I don't know yet... I thought it was fun...
It's an idea... An experiment.

I feel we don't share the
same humor anymore...

I'm sorry... Do we
have scenes with her?

I don't know,
it's not defined yet...

Do we have to talk to her, interact?
She says she doesn't know...

Me neither. I'm still defining...

At least tell us, is she a native
or just dressed up as one?

I'm a native, right?

How come you're a native?
Weren't we all natives in the sixth?

I'm deciding.

Is she a native or just dressed up?

- I don't know... What's the difference?
- What's the difference?

It's not the same speaking to a native woman
as to one who's dressed up as a native.

I'm a native woman...

She doesn't look too native.

Is there dialogue?
Do we have to speak?

Yeah... What do I speak in?
In "native"?

No... What is it?
Canadian? French?

- French again?
- No, no, not French, please!

Is there dialogue? Will there be dialogue?
Will it be written down?

I don't know.

I'm sorry... What's the script situation?

There are "drafts".

I need to know something... If we have
to learn French, I really don't know.

- I don't think it'll be in French!
- "I don't think" is no good... No good for me.

- All right, if you don't want French, then it won't be French!
- I'm sorry, it's a simple question. Will we ever have a script?

- Again with the script!
- This is exhausting...

Let's slow down... Can we all get together tomorrow,
for a while at least, to define the bare...

I can't tomorrow.

And why not?

I have a trip..

Always traveling!

No, no, hang on, hang on!
Can't you leave some other day?

- We need a script.
- A script...

I'm sorry... It's not ill will. I'm not
traveling for pleasure... I've got to work...

For what?

- For this...
- Doing what?

What do you mean,
doing what? Shooting...

Shooting what?

Trees.

Shooting... things for the movie...

- Trees!
- Among which, there are trees...

Don't you see that all you've been doing
for an entire year is shooting trees?

But why trees?

Can you please explain instead of
staring at that phone, please...?

- Trumpet trees!
- Trumpet trees?

And is it necessary to shoot
the trumpet trees now?

Right... Can't that wait, you shoot with
us and then you leave to shoot the trees...?

No, that's not possible.

It's very simple... It's spring time.
Spring time!

They are blossoming.
Now 's the time.

They don't wait! We need to shoot them
in full bloom. They cannot wait...

Well, I cannot wait either.

You can wait more than a trumpet tree.

Are you serious?

Do you realize you're telling us
you'd rather shoot a tree than us?

That's not what I'm saying.
I'm talking about spring!

I don't give a fuck about spring!

Can't you see it's a bit
shocking for us to feel

that you clearly prefer
shooting a tree than us?

- Don't be ridiculous.
- A tree!

I find it ridiculous
to have to explain this...

It is during spring that the phenomenon known as
blossoming occurs. Trees and plants generate...

We know what blossoming is. We don't need you
to explain to us what blossoming or spring are.

We need to talk about "The Spider".

Let's talk about "The Spider".
What's with "The Spider"?

What do you mean,
"what's with "The Spider""?

We need you to take care of "The Spider".
We've been with "The Spider" for five years.

More than five!

Today it's exactly six years.

Six?

Six.

Six!

Happy birthday.

Let's see if you get it... It's not
a lack of commitment with "The Spider".

This is a fantastic episode.

It's a fantastic plot.

It's a fantastic plot that includes trees.

And trees blossom in spri...

Again with the spring! Right?

Someone rang the door.

I'm coming.

- Wait...
- Who is it?

Should I get it?

Wait. First I want to explain to you...

What? You haven't told them?

Tell us what?

Are you insane
or just an idiot?

There was no time. I was
about to explain it to them and...

Explain what to us?

Can you explain to us
what's going on?

Yes. Calm down.
First I need you to calm down.

To calm down we need you
to explain to us what's going on.

Take it easy. The person coming now
is someone who is joining the project...

- "Joining the project"?
- What?

"Joining the project".

- Speak!
- Well, her name is Violeta, and she...

- she is joining...
- Violeta?

What is she?
A producer?

She is some sort of...

Producer...

Who is going to help
us with some funds...

- Funds?
- With some...

This is weird.

There's nothing weird about this!

It's just someone who is
selflessly joining the project...

with the best of intentions!

The only thing I ask of you is that
you don't create any tension.

That you don't make a scene.

- Treat her right.
- This is outrageous...

Don't give her a hard time!

Hello...

- Hello, hello, hello...
- How are you?

- Hi, I'm Violeta...
- Yes, they told us...

- What did they tell you?
- That you are Violeta.

- Yes... Why? Is there something wrong?
- No, no, no...

Is this a bad time?

- No, not at all.
- I can come back some other time...

- No, really!
- Were you in the middle of something?

- Yes, of a conversation.
- Of an inconsequential conversation.

About the film...

- "The Spider".
- Yeah, I know that...

Violeta is joining the project...

No, I don't know. It's a possibility...

In what capacity?

- Well, in the capacity of...
- In the capacity of producer...

- Producer?
- What kind of producer?

Well, that's a very broad term.

Main producer?

Yes. Main producer. To take the project
to fruition. You haven't told them anything?

- Well, I told them the basics.
- No. He hasn't told us anything.

Ah... That's weird.

- I was about to tell them the moment you...
- And tell me... It's Violeta, right?

Right, Violeta... And you?
Who would you be?

- Me?
- Yes.

I'm one of the people who's been
shooting "The Spider", for six years now.

Today it's six years...

Wow... Six years. That's a lot...

And tell me, Violeta...
What exactly would your role be?

Yeah... Because I don't quite see...

Well... You don't need to worry because most
of what I'd do if I finally decided to join...

- Oh... It's not certain.
- It's highly likely...

I might not feel comfortable
with the project...

They might not feel
comfortable with me...

- Why wouldn't they feel comfortable...?
- It could very easily happen.

I don't see that happening...

I'm sorry. We interrupted you.

You were saying that
"most of what you'd do is..."

..."if you finally decided to join..."

Right... You were telling
us about your role...

If you finally decided to join...

I was going to say that my role
would be rather invisible for you.

"Invisible"?

What's an invisible role like?

I mean that we wouldn't meet...

Well, it wouldn't be
quite like that either...

- We wouldn't meet?
- We wouldn't need to...

Wait, I don't follow... You'd be working
in the film but you wouldn't meet us...

I don't know how you'd do that.
I don't know if you know that...

What, tell me...

No. It's just that we appear
in quite a lot of this film...

- In all the scenes, basically...
- All of them?

Excuse me?

Yeah... I'm asking...
In all of them?

- Yes, most of them.
- All of them.

I see...

What's up?

No, I thought that...

That what?

That there were some scenes
in which you didn't appear...

Oh, sorry.

That in fact there were
quite a lot lately...

That's what I heard, at least...

What did you hear?

That... That the script was not that...

- Girls.
- That what?

- "That the script was not that..."
- "That" nothing.

That it was not that
focused on you...

- That's what you heard...
- You told me about it.

No, they appear in almost the entire...

- What else did he tell you?
- He told me part of the story...

He told you the story...?

He told me a fantastic plot
which I found very interesting...

- She had to read the famous drafts...
- A fantastic plot...

- A plot with trees...
- Trees?

- He didn't mention you girls, but...
- Hang on...

- They were merely drafts!
- Maybe you told me another part...

Hey, Rosa, can I ask you a question?

- Are you talking to me?
- Yes, you're here to do what precisely?

Well, at this point
it's not very clear...

- To help!
- To help what...?

What's certain is
that I'm not here to...

Rosa, are you aware that we've been
putting up with this for six years?

If you call me Rosa again.

- Easy, girls...
- What happens?

- I'm here to do my job.
- Which would be what?

Well, in any case, I'm not sure it is
something I should discuss with you...

I'm not used to giving
explanations to my actresses...

- Your actresses?
- We would be "your actresses"?

It is usually the other way around.

Yes, the other way around...
I don't give explanations to you...

Can we calm down?

You're the one who gives
explanations to me...

Oh, I see.

Yes. It's you who
asks for my permission...

- No joke?
- That's right.

No, no. Please don't...

- Listen, I don't need to be here...
- We all agree about that...

I don't need to be here or
explain anything to you,

or you... or you...

All right, all right.

Come on, point your
finger at me again...

- Do you want me to point my finger at you?
- No, no, no...

Point your finger at
me again, come on...

Point it at me.
You missed me.

Oh, do you want me
to point at you like this?

- Touch me again
- Do you want me to touch you?

- Do it again.
- Don't you like it?

Girls, no, no, no!
Girls, girls!

Hang on, hang on, hang on...

Girls, come on. Please!
Come on... Please! Stop!

- What's this cunt doing here?
- Get out of here!

Get over there, for God's sake...

We'll talk it over!
Everything will turn out just fine!

I'm so sorry. This is a mistake.

This is no mistake.

This is fine.

You go shoot your trees.

I'll take care of them.

THE SPIDER

Shooting Journal

Notebook #2

Travel Diary

Thursday, September 15

Yesterday, early in the morning,

we finally set out

with the crew

in search of the trees.

We were all filled
with a vital feeling...

of relief,

of euphoria,

of freedom.

Finally,

again on the roads,

on the road.

Without obligations.

Without bureaucracy.

Without attachments.

Without them.

The problem's not them;

the problem is the inflexibility,

the routine,

the permanent tension they generate.

The feeling of being
always off base.

Always wrong.

Always going astray.

I insist:

The problem's not them.

Or are they?

And what if they were right?

What if it's true
that I prefer the trees?

- And why not?
- No, it's a...

For both.

- But it's against...
- No, it's dark there... The, the tree.

But it's against the light. I have to
choose for what I'm exposing.

What do you mean "choose"?

Right, it's a shot against the light.

If I choose to expose for the sun,
I only get the tree's silhouette.

If I expose for the tree,
the sun gets overexposed.

Damn it.

- That one?
- Yes.

Okay.

Shoot the tree, and the car
that drives by behind it.

Pan from right to left.

No, no.

No, without pan.

Shoot the tree.

And the car that
drives by behind it.

With pan, right?

No, no. Without pan.

- But...
- No, without pan.

All right, but I can't fit
them both in one shot.

How come? Yes, you can.

The car in the back, and
the tree in the front.

As if it were a tree, and
a car that drives by behind it.

But you're talking about
that big tree to the right.

The tree to... Yes. The tree, the tree.
The tree we are shooting.

But I can't get it in the same...

Yeah... No, but...

Why are you doing
that with the focus?

I'm seeing...

No, but the focus needs to be...

Can't both the background
and the front be in focus?

No, everything is
out of focus there.

No, no... The background and the ..

Are you shooting?

Yes, I'm trying this thing because
it makes a strange effect with the...

But are you shooting?

Hmm, yes...
It's shooting, but...

But I was trying something.
No, no, no.

Okay, go ahead. Camera.

Go.

Mark!

Move to the right,
to the right...

Your left!

Your left.

Come on!

Mark!

Planetrees, zero, two.

Get out.

Move over, move over!

Are you shooting?

- Yes, but he's still in shot.
- Get off the shot!

Action!

To the tree?

What?

Did you just say
"action" to the tree?

To that oak.

Which oak?

That oak right there... The one...
there. How come which oak?

Not the one that has the...
The one behind.

No, but that's not an oak.

What do you mean that's not an oak?
That's an oak. As clear as day, it's an oak.

It looks like a eucalyptus.

It's an oak!

That's it!

Caldén Tree

Silver Wattle

Black Poplar

Monkey Puzzle Tree

Eucalyptus

Now!

Oaks, one, second.

Oaks, Jacaranda,
Cockspur, Coral Trees, Trumpet Trees

Stone Pines, Cypresses, Willows, Planetrees,
Elderberrys, Walnut Trees, Patagonian Cypresses

Ombúes, Desert Hackberrys, Palo Verde, Tipa Trees,
Oaks, Jacaranda, Cockspur Coral Trees, Trumpet Trees

Carob Trees, Caldén Trees, Silver Wattle,
Black Poplar, Monkey Puzzle Trees, Eucalyptus

September 20.

A strange episode.

Today, early in the afternoon,

we stopped in a small town to
shoot the trees in the square.

I thought they could be of use
for the invasion sequence.

The trunks went
up like tentacles.

As if they were the legs
of some giant squid.

Suddenly, on a trunk, we
noticed a strange shape,

which seemed to be
coming out of the tree.

A shape that, for some reason,

reminded me of a barfly in some
intergalactic pub from some space movie.

I get a shot of it.

Suddenly, on another nearby tree,

I see another head...

which seemed to belong
to a howling monkey...

with something of the guy screaming
in that famous Munch painting.

I get a shot of it.

Suddenly, we start feeling observed.

We look around and
we discover faces,

eyes,

human shapes in all
the trees around us.

They were there, silent,
secretly watching us.

At first, the whole
thing terrified us.

But right away, we understood
that the trees were not bad.

That their faces were
kind, wise and peaceful.

One could even say:
melancholic.

Tired of always being there,
watching the world go by.

We filmed for a couple of hours,

we said good-bye
to the human trees...

and went back on the road.

Your message.

Dear Violeta,
things are going very well.

We already have shots
of a lot of trees.

Even human trees!

Sending message.

The message was sent to Violeta.

Great!

And the trumpet trees?

Are you seizing the blooming period?

September 21,

Spring Day.

Today we set off to find
the famous trumpet trees.

We travelled north, to the river
area, where they abound.

However, at first,
we didn't find much.

Some isolated ones, in
the distance, in a field.

Another one in some town square.

But every time, for some reason,
they turned out disappointing.

It was as if they did not
give themselves completely.

One would see them, majestic,

but later, through the
camera, it was something else.

Something worse.

Do you like it like this? I have
tree crowns and a bit of river.

No, but...
It doesn't look like the...

Finally, we arrived at a city

on the riverside

which had been referred to as the
"Trumpet Trees Capital"

No, no, not that bridge.

Shall I take out the bridge?

Yes. Yes. But still there is
something like... in the tree that...

I will shoot it anyway
and we have it.

It feels like failure.

No, but that green tree...

But the green brings out
the color of the trumpet tree...

It's not, no...

I discover that filming trees is hard.

Cacho, Cacho!

No.

The images are never as powerful
as the same tree seen in the flesh.

- Okay.
- I like this one.

There is always something missing.

The green contrasts well with
the red of the trumpet tree.

Oh... Let's see.

Hmm, no.

No, what?

There is always something missing.

Something that is not given away,

that remains elusive.

No, no.

What do I do?

Let's see... That's it! That's it!
Right, this is how it should be.

I was just moving the
camera, I wasn't...

No, but... That's it, yes!
There! That's it! There!

We are moving the camera...

There! That's it!

The thing is that
later you will see it...

They are treacherous,
as if they didn't want to be filmed.

No.

What bothers you
the cars or the angle?

No, everything.

Wary, cunning, petty

- Hey, this one...
- No.

No, no.

Capricious like TV starlets.

No.

Miserable.

These close-ups work for me,
it's cool. The color looks good.

No, let's see. Excuse me, excuse me,
excuse me. Let's see. Down, that.

There, excuse me. This...
Can I touch this?

Yes.

Yes but no, no.

The thing is that there...
It's true that the flower is the best,

but the green in the
background looks ugly...

No, no, no.

No!

Mean old people

- Maybe it contrasts better.
- No, let's see.

Let's see, hold on.
I'll try a pan.

No, let's see...

No, no, no, no, no. No, no.
No, no, no. You do it.

No, no, but... Let's see.

No, no, no, no, no. No.

No.

And suddenly...

I like this one, we'd have to wait for
those guys to leave, or ask them to leave.

Let's see, let's see.
Can I see?

The question is whether to
include that trash can or not.

- Do you want me to move those guys?
- No, no, no.

- Dude!
- No no, shh shh shh...

The solution

But are you sure they'll leave?

No, no, no, no, wait, wait, wait.
Get the trash can out.

Get the trash can out.
That's it!

The one in the orange jacket looks
as if he was there on purpose...

I'll tell them, no problem.

That's it...

Standing under some trees, we saw
some guys wearing work clothes.

They had probably been hired to
prune the trees or cut the grass.

Or something.

They were on a break.

Doing nothing.

And then, yes.

The trumpet trees appeared.

There they were.

And then something
terrible happened to me.

I had a revelation.

I had a revelation, and you
have to be careful there.

If you're not careful, you start
thinking and thinking

and write just about anything and end up
turning into a lunatic or a pest.

And this is not about being a bore.

Least about embarking on some
sort of cinematographic treatise

stating that the human figure this,
and the landscape that.

All I can say is that if you
film someone next to a tree,

something happens that
doesn't if you film the tree alone.

Some will tell me:

"you reinvented the wheel".

"Yes", I will say.

"I reinvented the wheel".

Kashwakamak Lake

Kashwakamak Lake
Quebec. Canada territory.

FEDERAL INSTITUTE FOR FOREST SCIENCES
NO TRESPASSING

Let me do the talking.
I know how to treat her.

ACCESS FORBIDDEN
TO ALL NON-EMPLOYEES

Chief Investigator
Knock before entering

It would seem they no longer
learn to read in the academy.

It says very clearly:
Knock before entering.

Or don't you speak French, officers?

Come in.

Excuse us, we thought there
was nobody in here.

There's almost nobody.

Everyone has left.

They have taken everything.

I'm all that's left.

- Doctor, we are the agents...
- I know who you are.

I was expecting you.

I guess you've come to see
me about the Codes Two.

You mean the cases...

I mean the cases of Mr St.
Hillaire and the Air Queen.

Last week's two episodes.

Two Codes Two in
one week is too much.

We've never seen
anything like this.

We are still investigating them.

The woodcutter is an untrustworthy
character, he drinks too much,

and this isn't the first time
he's come up with these stories.

- As for the little Shaman...
- Air Queen.

- As for the Air Queen...
- Agents!

These are not stories.

This is happening.

Two Codes Two in
one week is too much.

It's an activity level we
have never registered before.

Sorry, Doctor, when you say activity,
what exactly do you mean?

Code Two:

wandering activity and
even aggression.

Until recently, it didn't happen
more than once a year. Once!

And always in birches or fir trees.

Until now, we had
never dealt with pines.

If the rebellion reaches the
big pine woods, we are lost.

Doctor, are you serious?
Are you talking about...?

We are very serious.

They've always been there.

Long before we came.

They saw us arrive.

They saw each and every one of
our advancements and mistakes.

Like a nosy old woman.

Or a couple of old people, who observe
the neighbors arrive full of enthusiasm,

doing for the first time the same
things they've done for centuries.

Mean old people.

Those are them.

Mean old people. Looking out
the window and thinking:

"you'll see... you'll see".

You speak as if it were...

A war...

It is a war...

and we're losing.

And?

I'm not sure.

Let's see...

I don't know if it works
or if it's a load of crap...

A load of crap...

Then what?

It's a fantastic plot.
It belongs to the fantasy genre.

It's not about whether
it's fantastic or not.

The problem is that at that point
in the story, the plants thing is...

"too much".

Exactly. At this point, the viewer
has already watched too many scenes

in which the same procedure
has been repeated "ad nauseam".

The fantastic element loses strength
because it becomes exposed as a trick.

It all becomes a boast.

A mask.

Any solution?

Let's see...

Let's see...

Up until now, we have been working
with a double scheme... right?

- Yes.
- Like this.

Yes, the spider, we all
know the spider already.

- What happens with the spider?
- Let him talk.

We are here.

That means that we are still
missing three legs of the spider.

I wouldn't say three.
Two and a half!

Since yesterday, I think we've made
quite a lot of progress on the scene.

- Stop that!
- Three.

- Three, and you're out of ideas.
- Let him talk and develop his plan.

- Or at least nothing related to this.
- It's not quite like that!

- Done.
- No, it's not...

The relationship is
completely worn out.

You're exaggerating.

But even if it were so, how can
I make those witches understand?

- Easy.
- That's the problem.

- Exactly.
- The witches?

- Yes.
- The witches.

The situation doesn't hold any longer.

It does not hold any longer.

Hold on.

I wouldn't say it does
not hold any longer.

The four actresses
became a problem.

Let's see: if I asked you,
out of the blue,

what would you
really like to shoot?

There is no single
answer to that...

Yes, there is.

What do you want me to tell you?

The truth...

- Tell me what you want me to tell you, and I will!
- We want you to tell the truth.

What you want me to say is...

- Trees.
- Don't be ridiculous, please.

Well, alright... Trees.

But between the trees and you
stand the witches.

The witches.

Who force you to keep inventing
plots for them to act...

Exactly.

Superfluous plots nobody
cares about anymore.

"That no viewer can put up with...

At this point".

Always the same thing.

Then?

- Now I understand.
- Three parts? - Three.

It's a three part structure.

I don't understand...

- It's two parts.
- Wait.

- Spiders have...
- Forget about the spiders for a moment.

Now there are three.
Write down...

Three parts

It's no longer looking
like a spider.

Excuse me, but that thing you're drawing
there dangerously resembles an ant.

An ant!

Yes, he's right,
it's exactly an ant.

- Then change the
name to "The Ant".

- How will I name it "The Ant"?
- No ant, three parts. I'll explain.

If we have only two parts,

supposedly the stories that make up
each must have their coherence.

Do we agree?
Okay, "Coherence".

Coherence, go on.

There has to be a link
to the previous stories.

Be different, but similar.

For instance, if the first story
is about vampires

and the second one
is about classical ballerinas,

the third one has to be
equidistant to the others.

- Vampiresses.
- For example, bank robbers...

...or about con women.
And so on and so forth.

- Ballerinas.
- That takes us to the situation we are in now.

Inventing stupid scenes nobody cares about
anymore with wandering trees in Canada.

It's a mortal trap that
doesn't work anymore.

Oh, is that bad?

It seems like it
won't work in the end.

Oh. Okay.

However, if we divide
the spider in three parts,

that gives us the possibility
to find a way...

to escape...

- the witches.
- Escape from the witches...

It's good, right?

How?

Tricking them.

Tricking them.

We come up with some excuse
to tell them.

We tell them we found out that spiders
in fact have three parts.

Right. Like an ant.

Forget about the ant.

That forces the movie to
have three parts as well.

Write it down.

Three parts. Oh, no.
I already have "three parts".

That implies there is a third part, and
then you tell them the important thing.

That third part must be
conceptually different.

Conceptually.

Conceptually, yes.

Stories can no longer be similar
to the previous ones.

They need to have a twist.

Conceptual.

I already wrote conceptual.

Write "interesting".

Interesting.

Okay.

For example, a movie about them
where they don't appear.

That is interesting.

- It's... interesting.
- Interesting.

I think it's a good idea.

- No.
- No?

It's madness. They'd never accept to do
something where they don't appear.

It's a completely infeasible plan.

- It's madness.
- Unimaginable.

- Well... Let them appear, but briefly.
- That might work.

They can be outside the field of action. They
can be permanently evoked, but not appear.

E-vo-ked.

Permanently.

Alluded to.

A-llu-ded to.

- Also permanently.
- Right.

And what did you say before?

- Something about the field?
- Outside the field of action.

Oh... Outside the field of action.

Outside the field of action.

- Outside or away?
- Outside.

Okay, outside.

So we do this. You invent a
story, no matter the subject.

The only thing we need is that
the witches don't appear in that story.

Or that they appear evoked,
alluded outside the field of action.

That: away from the field.

That makes room for the trees
universe or whatever you want.

Trees away from the field.

Do we agree?

I got lost. I have to invent a story?

Yes, a random story.

- Anything?
- A story.

Anything, something from a
B movie of the fantasy genre.

Corman.

- Robert Corman.
- Richard.

- Richard Corman.
- Right, the thing is that lately it's not coming to me very easily...

Try harder.

Storytelling.

That's cinema.
The art of storytelling.

Well, it's not that easy.

A story you take from a book.

Right. Much better if
it comes from a book.

From a book?

Yes, any book.

- From a book?
- A good book.

- The adaptation of a good book.
- The important thing is a good book.

But where do I take the book from?

- Go on the Internet.
- The Internet?

Go online and you'll see,
there's everything.

I've never used those
things on the Internet.

- It's great, they've got everything.
- You'll be surprised.

Books on the Internet.

Okay.

Internet.

Books on the Internet.

Fantastic story, books on the Internet, outside
the field of action and farewell to the witches.

- It's not bad
- Impeccable.

I'm not sure
I understand the plan.

You do as we tell you
and you'll start getting it.

- It's a decoy
- A decoy.

- A red herring.
- Something red.

We win the witches' trust...

That's the important thing.
And then we betray them.

The enemy thinks it's winning and,
in fact, it's being deceived.

Well, I wouldn't put
it in those terms.

That's bad.

Those terms are the terms.

No, this is not a war.

Yes, it's a war.
And we are losing.

Your message:

Violeta, we have made some
decisions regarding the movie.

I think you were right about the actresses.

I need to think.

For now, we will make some
changes to the structure.

It will be even more
like a real spider!

Sending message

Saturn Hotel

Good afternoon.

Have you got any rooms?

I do, yes.

Twelve cabins,

all twelve available.

There are five of us.
One for five, please.

The five of us together?

You can go ahead.

From what I see,
there's not many people.

The roads have changed.

Here you go.

Could you make some coffee,
if it's not too much trouble?

Of course.

Thank you. Excuse me.

They've arrived.

I like it.

The less those witches
appear, the better!!

Hehehehe

- Yes?
- I've brought you coffee.

Okay, thanks.

Your message.

Hehehe. The witches to the bonfire!!

Sending message

Message sent to Violeta

Hehehe. The witches to the bonfire!!!

Let's go.

Let's go!

Come on. Let's go!

I'll leave now.

What time is it?

Nine thirty.

There's little time.

Let's go.

We don't know what to do?

Check the spark plug.

The spark plug.

It's the last time I get in this car!

Can't you fix the spark plug?

If you can't fix a car,
then why do we go by car?

- That spark plug cannot be fixed.
- I seriously doubt it's the spark plug.

A car's coming.

That's a relief.

We are saved.

Gatto, you are two hundred eighteen
yards front the indicated point.

Las Casuarinas Ranch
Adj. Road to Route 3321.5 miles. Right

Gatto, you are one hundred sixty four
yards from the indicated point.

Gatto, you are one hundred ten
yards from the indicated point.

Gatto, you are fifty-four
yards from the indicated point.

Gatto, you are ten...

Gatto, the indicated point is on your right.

Gatto, you have moved ten yards
away from the indicated point.

Gatto, you have moved fifty-four yards
away from the indicated point.

Gatto, you have moved one hundred ten
yards away from the indicated point.

Gatto, you are fifty-four
yards from the indicated point.

Gatto, you are ten yards
from the indicated point.

Gatto, the indicated point is on your right.

Gatto, the indicated point is on your right.

Gatto, the indicated point is on your right.

Left, not right.

Stop!

I will ask you to leave.
You can't be here.

They sent me from the Institute.

I'm Gatto.

I've come to investigate
the phenomenon.

I will ask you to leave.
You can't be here.

I've just told you they specifically sent me
from the Institute to imestigate the phenomenon.

I am Professor Gatto.

Nobody can come in here.

Let's see... You probably work
for the Foundation, right?

I don't need to give
explanations to any one.

You work for the Foundation,

you work for Guasco.

You are from Guasco's team.
Is that right?

Yes.

And Guasco told you not to let me in.

He told me not to let anyone in.

Call Guasco.

Tell him the Professor Gatto is here.

He will tell you to let me in.
Do it now, please.

You don't tell me what to do.

Number one:

we are not on familiar terms.

Number two:

I do tell you what to do.

Unless you take responsibility
for a serious conflict

between the Institute and
the Foundation, you do as I told you.

I've just travelled 5,000 miles
to study the phenomenon.

And I'm not going until I
study the phenomenon.

Do we agree?

Yes, Cuaho.

Mr. Gatto has arrived.

Fine, go in...

Gatto.

Gatto...

How are vou, Guasco...

You had a difficult entrance?

Cachito is a tough one.

He doesn't let anyone in.

How are you, man, long time?

We have a nice mess here, don't we?

Look, Guasco.
I want to be honest with you.

Honest and direct.

- I don't like you.
- Okay.

I don't like you. I don't think
you are trustworthy. I don't like you.

Okay, okay.

So if we are to work together, let it be
in the most respectful way possible.

Respectful, comfortable and clear.

Okay, man, okay.

Let me give you an example:

drop the "man".

- Okay...
- I'm not "man"...

- Gatto.
- Gattoman?

- Guasco, I mean it...
- I'm messing with you...

Come, let me introduce you
to the guys... James!

This is Gatto, an old friend.
This one was sent from above.

- The name's Nash.
- James Nash?

The famous James Nash?

- That's correct.
- I am a huge fan of your work.

Hello.

- Engineer Rojo, another friend.
- Of course... It 's an honour.

- Gatto.
- Rodolfo Rojo.

Where's Pichuco. Pichuco!

- I'm coming.
- Here he comes.

Very well, what do
we have here?

Well, we're working on it...
There are a few things.

- There's nothing so far.
- Who discovered the phenomenon?

A guy from town who
rents the field next by.

He saw it and
called on the radio.

You can only go in on horseback;
there's no road.

Epiphenomena?

No... Just hearsay.
Nothing solid.

Where's the nearest sensor?

Coronel Velázquez.
120 miles away.

- Pretty far.
- Too far.

It won't show anything.

The specimen, what species is it?

Eucaliptus Obliqua.

The report said an oak.

Well, you know they tell you one thing,
then it turns out to be another...

- It's a eucalyptus.
- Look!

You know Pichuco, don't you?

Yes.

How are you. Gatto?

Fine...

You look well, Gatto.

- How was it in Washington DC?
- You, did you do the measurements?

- Ah, I did.
- And?

Everything fine...

Everything fine...

The Engineer has the values...

And would you be
so kind as to tell me?

Which ones do you need?
There are a lot of values...

Well, we could start
with the radiation values...

Pretty high...

What do you call high?

Above the curve.
Almost reaching the second one.

And no ectoplasmic residue.

No. It's not a poltergeist incident.

- That we are certain of.
- How can you be so sure?

Once you see it, you'll get it.

We are really sure, Gatto.

And how was it filed?

"Thaumaturgic incident of imprecise...

...or unknown nature".

- T.I.I.
- T.I.I.

E.T.

Let's see, fellows.

Based on what you are describing
it seems we are facing a Code Three.

If this is a Code Three, we need to
report it immediately to the Institute,

because it's the Institute
that must give...

Easy. It's not a Code Three, Gatto.

- It's not a Code Three, Gatto.
- Not even close to a Code Three.

You've never seen
one like this, Gatto.

Take me to see it.

You can go, go ahead.
It's one of those eucalyptus.

Good luck.

Gatto.

A Code Three!
Poor Gatto...

TO BE CONTINUED