Original subtitles

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.