All language subtitles for The.Artist.S01E04.Chapter.Four.The.Jealous.Fucks.1080p.NTWK.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-BLOOM_track3_[eng]

Once upon a time
in Paris, not long ago,

there lived two very
different artists.

One was well respected,
but now old and nearly blind.

The other lived an
entirely different life...

one of both hope and despair.

Un, deux, trois.

She was young,
invisible,

and had nothing to lose.

You see, Edgar Degas had built a name for himself

off the likes of aspiring
young women,

just like this one.

Degas was a sensation.

In fact, men everywhere were
desperate to have their hands...

on a Degas ballerina.

But he wouldn't sell
to just anyone.

Edgar Degas would
waste his creative capital

lambasting and isolating.

Some would say it was because

he was terrified of true
human connection.

Others believed it was,
in fact,

because he hated the Jews.

Are you a Jew?

But this particular young lady

knew nothing of Degas
or his ballerinas.

She knew only the
story of hope.

The story of
perseverance

that her mother would recite
day after day.

The girl and
her mother had nothing.

Nothing but a story, a story
about hope and perseverance

at all costs.

Et un, deux, trois.

The girl would
spin day and night.

And the artist would
paint and paint and paint.

Alors, le main là,
la tête, comme ça.

As time passed,

both artists would age
in different ways.

Degas would
exchange oils for clay.

The girl would stand tall
and spin on.

In the hopes
that one day,

someone might see
the beauty in her

that she saw in the world.

Sadly, not many were
able to find the beauty

in Degas clay.

It would embarrass him
to his very core.

And he would spend his last
pennies on a voyage to America,

so that he might live out
his final days in obscurity.

His passions had all
but faded to dust.

You're doing good.

The girl would find
new hope in our country house,

with promises of grandeur.

Here you are.

Welcome home.

That's my wife, Marian.

My husband
would have me believe

that she was nothing more
than a mechanism

to assert status with his peer.

I could not help but
see myself in her.

A reminder that I, too, had trusted far too easily.

I have never felt
hatred toward the ballerina.

Only hatred toward myself
for not warning her sooner.

But she, too,
would become a prisoner

in this house.

Imagine your perfect little
dancer girl on the stage

in Paris for all
the world to see.

Meanwhile, in New Orleans...

Despite his best efforts,

Edgar Degas could not
escape his own shadow.

Edgar, I would like
to introduce you

to Norman Rockefeller.

I'd sure love for
you to paint something for me.

And even though he was
but blind and talentless...

Monsieur, I am all but blind

and, uh, currently talentless.

I assure you, there is
nothing you want from me.

He would still paint.

But you are Degas.

Ah, oui.

He painted Laura and the kids.

Degas?

- THE Degas?
- Yes, yes.

I must have him do my boys.

I hear he's a bit terse.

I shall take an
introduction as well.

If you wouldn't mind, John.

He's not cheap, Norman.

Until finally,

he would accept a commission
for two poodles.

Two fidgety poodles who would
stare so deeply into his soul,

he would have a
singular revelation

that he was no longer
an artist.

Just like the
ballerinas

he had once painted,

he, too was now merely a whore.

A prostitute.

A marionette on strings,
dancing for dollar bills,

just like the rest of us.

Ma Jean d'Arc.

Marvelous, isn't she?

Brought her over from Paris.

You dirty hound.

Show us your tits, girl.

Oh.

What have they done to you?

The world is cruel to old men.

I love you.

What have
they done to you?

The world is cruel to old men.

No, no.

Oh, oh, oh.

Madame.

You have such a passion.

I feel great, great...

secrets.

It is enclosed
in a glass tube.

Why do you diminish
yourself to him?

I love you.

Forgive me.

Oh.

Oh.

Monsieur Degas.

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

What... what... what are you doing?

Why did you do that,
what are you doing?

Why would you do that?

Oh, my God, that was a
beautiful moment

of truth and beauty for once.

With Degas, the great artist,
the passionate genius.

Which clearly doesn't
make you respectful

of the vows of marriage,
does it?

I mean, well, neither
is my husband,

but that's beside the...

Oh, my God, what was I thinking?

Oh, my God, you're just
a fucking French punk.

You are a
complicated flower.

I'm a flower, is that
what you think of me?

Great, thank you.

What am I, a fucking
giant fucking wallflower

standing at the back?

Van Gogh's already done it.

You're just like all of
the rest of them.

Oh, my God, you're the
same as all of the rest.

You're just a fucking
blind punk.

- Oh, my Lord.
- Oh, mon dieu.

Oh, yeah.

Oh.

- Oh, lord.
- Oh, mon dieu.

Oh, mon dieu.

What are you looking at?

What?

What are you doing?

Let me paint you.

Absolutely not.

I think perhaps
my visit is over.

No, you don't.

I need to paint you.

I have never been so
inspired in years.

Please, I beg you,
let me paint you.

- Is this a joke?
- This is not a joke.

This is the truth, madame.

You must not be ashamed
of your truth.

And it was at this very moment

that I had come to the
realization.

Have you commissioned
something, have you?

No, nothing major.

I want to paint again.

My husband
had accidentally

created an opportunity
like none other.

An opportunity that actually
had the wherewithal to save us.

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

Step away, step away from me,
you step away from me.

Step away from me.

But I would need
to convince him

to see it my way for once.

Absolutely not, absolutely not.

What game are you playing at?

You, you hussy, you
manipulative cockle.

Are you done yet, because
I'll have you thanking me

before the end.

Threaten to kill me and
you shall have him stay

another week, another month?

What do you want from me,
Marian?

Want me to relent
all power to you,

to bow down to these games?

Could you just,
just for once,

not assume that everything I do
is to spite you, Norman?

Lilith is a human girl
with feelings still.

She's not a monkey.

She's fragile.

Now more than ever,
she is very fragile.

Something like this?

Break her... just.

Do you know that I'm
also a human girl?

Do you?

Yes, you are.

You think I don't walk these
halls with shame every day...

for unkept promises
I have made you?

Single painting of a
ballerina, a dog, a child.

It's not gonna resurrect us
from the grave, Marian.

I am sorry.

But what if it could, Norman?

What if just once you
trusted your wife,

and what if it could?

Now, before you
judge me for using

love or infatuation or
whatever you want to call it,

to manipulate poor old
Edgar Degas into painting

one last ballerina...

Perhaps us women might
remind ourselves

of all the men in our lives

who have done the
exact... same... thing.

All right.

Invite...

You to...

That is perfect.

It won't stop bleeding.

I believe it might be infected.

What do I do?

Not much.

- What does that mean?
- Hello, boys.

I'm here to invite you all
to my dress rehearsal

for the crime of the century.

Don't you read the papers?

I mean, it's the biggest
event since...

I don't know, ever.

So I'm going to give you
all invitations.

And trust me,

you're gonna want to be there
if you're anyone.

Don't wear this
when you come, okay?

Bye bye, now, have fun.

Wake up.

More light.

Silence.

Oh, I'm liking this already.

More light.

I opened this thing.

Away, away.

Beatrice, please.

- Un blob?
- Oui.

Happy day, servants.

Crime of the century.

Here's your invitation.

Crime of the century
dress rehearsal, ladies.

Good morning, chef.

That means it's fake,
it's not real yet.

Knock, knock.

You should serve oysters.

They're very good.

You're not gonna wanna miss it.

Right, ding, ding, ding, hello.

So for those of you
who cannot read,

this is the dress rehearsal
for the crime of the century.

It's a mock trial.

Mock means fake, not real.

You're all invited by me,
Evelyn Nesbit.

And I may suggest one thing.

Wear perfume before you come

because it's smells like
death out here.

All right, love you all,
good day.

It's at 4:00 p.m. as well.

Bye.

No.

Seems like quite a bit of
pomp and circumstance

for one meeting with a lawyer.

When did she
even find time

to make such extravagant
invitations?

She's one of a kind,
I'll give her that.

What's that?

I said she's... never mind,
hang on.

I said, when did she
even find the time

to make these invitations?

What's the matter?

Nothing.

You having a stroke?

No, I'm not having a stroke.

Who the fuck are you, huh?

She will need to undress.

- Completely?
- Ah, oui.

- Completely.
- Suck my cock.

- Cock?
- Bitte.

Bitte?

Here's another room I thought might be very good

for your rehearsal tomorrow.

Ah, you are right.

There is wondrous
bright light in this room.

A breath of fresh air in this
house, let me tell you.

Lily, darling.

I do not take off my clothes
for painters.

We can put a few more
chairs in here

and an elevated
podium right there.

- This is my room.
- My room.

Actually, it's Mr. Henry's room.

Oh, don't worry,
you're all invited.

To what exactly?

To my dress rehearsal for
the crime of the century.

It's tomorrow at 4:00.

There's this great lawyer
who's coming up from the city.

- It's going to be splendid.
- Who are you again?

Oh, I'm Evelyn Nesbit.

The girl on the swing, whee.

Lily, don't be difficult.

This comes from Mrs. Henry.

Mrs. Henry wants me to disrobe?

Did you say you've
seen me disrobed?

God, it must have been
an old picture.

Mrs. Henry wants you painted...

- Naked.
- Naked.

God, is there a painting
going on here?

- I had no idea.
- He can ask me himself.

I would be entirely
open to stepping in...

I believe she'd
like some clarity.

She's a model,
this is clear to me.

I don't think she
actually is a model.

- Correct.
- She's a dancer.

- A whore!
- Are you a whore?

What did you say, swinging girl?

Lily?

Let's all take a breath.

Tea, anyone?

No?

Actually, I'd like some tea.

I'd happily undress
for a session.

You're a coward asking
Marius to ask me

to strip my clothes for you.

- Did I?
- He's a faggot.

I hardly believe he'd ask me
to undress on his own accord.

- Faggot?
- I've fucked a faggot before.

- Very gentle.
- Lucky you.

I'd like to know why
I should undress.

But this is what you do.

It is your fucking
currency in your life.

You whore.

It seems to me,
you're the one

willing to do anything
for anyone.

Why are you so desperate to
impress that witch anyway, huh?

Are you in love with her?

My inspiration is
none of your business.

Take off your fucking clothes.

For heaven's sakes.

I shall undress for you,
but only for today,

so strike while the iron's hot.

I'm testifying on behalf of
my husband Harry tomorrow,

so I really shouldn't
be doing this.

It's all right.

You know, you are a lucky man.

No, no, enfant, you
should not be doing this.

Miss Nesbit.

No, no, mademoiselle.

I know how this works.

You reek of desperate... ah ha!

Was that me?

I'll go get the doctor.

Mon dieu.

The doctor?

Peter, really?

I'm sorry.

Get out of here.

Service!

I do believe
this is destiny.

- You and I here.
- Is it?

Blind artist in his
twilight years

being inches from an
up and comer like me.

- Where's the twat?
- Which twat?

The doctor twat.

Twat, twot.

Is it twat or twot?

Marius is off to find him.

I'm sure they'll be
along shortly.

Merci.

I prefer chilled, froid.

- We don't have ice.
- Who does not have ice?

The Henrys, they don't have ice.

Pourquoi?

You know, Stanny used to tell
me... that's Stanford White.

That the true mark of
a poor rich man

was always the ice.

This Stanford man,
he rape you?

No, I'm not as black and white
as your ballerina.

Do not pretend to understand
my situation, artist.

Choke on a cock, swinger.

I've been there, darling.

I merely ask if he rape you.

Men are such simpletons.

I do not dance to be seen.

Never mind.

No, go on, I'd love
to hear this.

My dancing is not
a concern of yours.

No, it isn't, but...

I mean, I'm a little baffled.

A painter and a ballerina
stuck in the country

in the middle of winter.

I guess I'm just a
little curious

as to what you've been promised.

Are you a Jew?

- I don't think so.
- You ask a lot of questions.

You can't be entirely unaware

of the Henry's state
of affairs, surely?

Come now, we had
white wine with beef.

Are you that blind, artist?

No ice, my darlings.

They've got no ice.

Now, don't be embarrassed.

There's nothing to be
ashamed of.

I've been conned more times
than I'd like to admit.

You get over it and you move on.

You pack up your act and youmove it to the next benefactor,

because they're all the same.

It was at this
very moment

that Edgar and Lilith came
to the realization

that perhaps my husband
was, in fact,

not a benefactor of their art,

but instead a master
manipulator.

A man of empty status
and unfulfilled promises.

I should like to use this room
tomorrow for my dress rehearsal.

There's something magical here.

Humbling.

I do hope the world
falls in love with me.

To be loved unconditionally.

I'd like that.

I suppose perhaps
we start without them.

I'm sure that Evelyn
is preparing for her trial.

I imagine she has
a lot to study.

Yes, I believe there's
a lawyer coming

to walk her through the process.

A bit of a... I forget
what you call it.

Mock... mock trial.

Mock trial,
that's right.

Do you think this might be
the one that finally saves us?

Hmm?

Un, deux, trois.

Un, deux, trois.

Un, deux.

And just like that,
a plan had been set

between a painter
and a ballerina.

Trapped like the rest of us,

desperate for a way home.

You see, there was not one
member of our household

that would not kill
for the last few bills

in my husband's possession.

But they were all
blissfully ignorant

of the realities of
our situation.

Marian!

Where's my... where's
my chamber pot?

And where's my urinal?

Why can't it be in the
same place every time?

Fire her.

We're so fucking dependent
on her all the time,

it's like a game.

I wake up four or five times
in the night.

- An entitled man...
- I shit the bed.

...who can't find his pot
to piss in.

Let her clean it up.

I don't find it funny.

But the ballerina
and the painter

had a plan to escape
this madness.

A plan that would rely heavily
on one Evelyn Nesbit.

It's a mock trial...

When no one
would be in the house.

A plan that
Lilith thought

would return her home a star.

Deux, trois, et un,
deux, trois, excellent, Lilith!

Maman!

And for a moment,
perhaps there was hope

that she might be able to
escape this madness.

Hope that would only last
for a fleeting moment.