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PAIN AND GLORY

I'd like to be a man
so I could swim naked in the river.

- Come on!
- What an idea!

And the water could get in
all around your cooch.

- That'd be nice!
- Wouldn't it?

Before you jump in,

lift him off me, he's breaking my back.

Come on, Salvador.

Here's a stick to play with.

Alright.

Help me with the sheets.

Coming...

The little soap fish!

There they are!

The little soap fish!

Sing us something, Rosita.

They're lovely.

Look at them.

Salvita, don't move from there.

Salva!

I'm Zulema!

What a surprise! This is wonderful!

Have you time for a coffee
or are you in a hurry?

If you don't write or film,
what will you do?

Live, I guess.

I can't live without acting.

It gets harder all the time,

but I do everything I'm offered.

Do you see Alberto?
I believe he was in Argentina.

No, in Mexico.

He was working on some soaps,
but he's back now.

Eh, I met him at a Latino film festival

on the Mayan Riviera.

He was charming. High, of course,

but it was a really nice reunion.

- Have you seen him?
- No, no.

I haven't seen him
since the premiere of Sabor.

But that was...

30 years ago?

Thirty-two.

You know, I saw the film again last week.

Hadn't you seen it again?

Not since the premiere.

And I shouldn't say this, but it moved me.

I've always loved it.

The Cinematheque has restored the negative

and they're doing several screenings.

They asked me to present it,
and I'd like to do it with Alberto.

I'm glad you don't hold a grudge.

The bastard never played
the character I'd written.

At the time I wanted to kill him,

but really I don't hold a grudge.

His performance is better now
than 30 years ago.

It's your eyes that have changed, darling.

The film is the same.

Do you know how to contact him?

He lives in El Escorial,

in someone's house.

He works occasionally.

He's well, without giving up...
you know what I mean.

I'm surprised
that you're the one not working.

I always thought you'd never retire.

So did I.

- Is your number still the same?
- Yes.

I'll send you his details and mine too,

in case you get bored
and write something that only I can do.

Stop here.
I'll leave you with Fr. José María.

Good morning, boys.

First we'll choose
who will be in the choir.

If anyone has sung in a choir before,
raise your hand.

Well, we'll try you out.

You, come here.

- What's your name?
- Rodolfo.

Let's see how you vocalize.

Repeat after me.

Let's see.

You, the next boy.

What's your name?

Salvador.

A lovely name. Do you like singing?

I don't know.

But you like music, don't you?

Yes, I like The Beatles and the cinema.

Here we'll develop your tastes
and direct them to less pagan subjects.

We'll do a vocalization test.

We'll warm up those voices, boys.

That was how I became
the soloist in the choir.

The priests decided I wouldn't attend
geography and history classes

or science or history of art.

During the first three years
of high school,

while those subjects were taught,
I was practicing,

and I always passed the exams.

They made me a total ignoramus

who passed every subject
without doing the exams.

GEOGRAPHY

With time, I became a film director

and I started to learn Spanish geography

while traveling to promote
the films I directed.

ROME

I traveled because I was successful.

LONDON

My knowledge of geography...

NEW YORK

...coincided with my growth
as a filmmaker.

ANATOMY

I got to know my body

through pain and illness.

I lived my first 30 years
with relative abandon,

but I soon discovered that my head
and what was inside it,

as well as being
a source of pleasure and knowledge,

also carried within it
infinite possibilities for pain.

I soon became acquainted with insomnia,
chronic pharyngitis,

otitis, reflux, ulcers
and intrinsic asthma.

Nerves in general
and the sciatic in particular.

And all kinds of muscular pain.

Lumbar, dorsal,
tendinitis in both knees and shoulders.

This is tinnitus.

I have that too.

These are wheezes or whistles.

I also suffer from those.

As well as tinnitus and wheezes,

my speciality is headaches...

migraines, tension headaches
or cluster headaches,

and back pain.

After the spinal fusion operation,

which immobilized
more than half of my back,

I discovered that my life would revolve
around my spinal column.

I became aware of each one of my vertebrae

and of the number of muscles and ligaments

that make up the mythology
of our organism,

and that, as with the Greek gods,

our only way of relating
is through sacrifice.

But not everything
is so physical and illustratable.

I also suffer from abstract hardships,

pains of the soul,
such as panic and anxiety,

which add anguish and terror to my life.

And naturally,
I've dealt for years with depression.

On the nights when various pains coincide,

that's when I believe in God
and I pray to him.

The days when I only suffer
one kind of pain,

I'm an atheist.

It's here.

- Very well. Keep the change.
- Thank you, sir.

- Bye. Thank you.
- Bye. Have a good day.

Who is it?

Alberto, it's Salvador.

- Salvador who?
- Salvador Mallo.

What are you doing here?

I have to talk to you.

- About what?
- About Sabor.

Will you ask me in?

Can I get you anything?

Whatever you're having.

- I was making some tea.
- That's fine.

Look at that.

I love that you've got Sabor here.

Why have you come?

It's taken me 32 years
to reconcile myself with this film.

Thirty-two years.

This is lovely!

- What are those trees? Firs?
- Pines!

Why the fuck have you come to see me
after 32 years?

The Cinematheque has restored Sabor.

They've decided it's a classic

and they've programmed it
in a season of films shot in Madrid.

They rang to ask me
if we'd present it together.

Don't they know
we haven't spoken since then?

If they do, they didn't mention it.

Alberto,

gossip grows old, like people.

- Do you mind if we sit down?
- Go ahead.

Thank you.

Why do you want us
to present it together now?

Because you didn't do it at the premiere.

Because you forbade me, faggot!

So it's only fair
that the two of us present it now.

Who gave you my address?

- Zulema.
- Oh.

I met her by chance
and we talked about you.

I'm going to chase the dragon.
If the sight disgusts you, you can leave.

We can talk on the phone
about the Cinematheque.

May I?

I don't recognize you, Salvador.

Is it your first time?

Yes.

And why do you want to try heroin
at this stage?

Curiosity.

I bet you're doing research for something.

The drop!

Salvador!

Salva!

Salva!

Come and help me.

Mom, I found a novel.

Good. Leave it there.

Take that.

How was I to know it was a holiday here?

It isn't a holiday in our village!

I didn't know either.

What a night we're going to have.

The shame of it.

Open the chocolate.

Alright.

There are two cards!

Leave the cards for now.
We're going to eat.

Liz Taylor and Robert Taylor.
Are they brother and sister?

I guess so.

Eat up.

What a disgrace.

Dumped here like gypsies.

I like the station.

You're a dreamer!

I don't know who you took after.

Wrap up well.
Don't get ill on top of everything.

My God, what a huge hole!

I didn't see it before.

Give it to me. I'll sew it.

Look, with the egg.

Lie farther back and go to sleep.

When your father was in the army,

he learned to sew and darn
and to iron shirts.

He did it very well.

Will I go into the army?

I guess you'll have to go.

I don't want to!

And I don't want you to go. It's useless.

- Mom?
- What?

Do you think Liz Taylor
sews Robert Taylor's socks?

I don't know.

From the photos,
she doesn't look as if she likes darning.

Are you alright?

Don't forget to breathe.

No.

God, what a long night!
I thought we'd never get here.

I told you to wait until I got settled in.

Your mother was fed up with us.

Don't say that.

You know what she said three days ago?

"This month my bread bill
has gone up so much!"

- Can you believe it!
- Ignore her. You know what she's like.

I won't be a burden to anyone.

That same day I packed our bags
and here we are.

Salva!

Come here.

Or would you rather be alone?

Jacinta, don't say that.

But you could have waited a few days.

Is it much farther?

No.

We're here.

Is our house here?

We're on top of it.

What?

On top of it.

A cave!

It's the best I found.

For God's sake, a cave!

Salva, come on, let's go.

How can we live in a cave?

There are over 300 families living
in caves. It's typical of this village.

There's no shame in it.

Is this our house, Dad?

This is it, Son.

Go in.

A cave!

For God's sake.

It was your idea
to leave the village and come here.

What would they say there if they saw us?

I didn't have time to whitewash it.
That's why I wanted you to wait.

It's all in a mess. We have to fix it up.

Mom, look, the sky!

Look!

I cleaned it as well as I could.

Are you happy we're here?

I wanted something else for you.

You think I'm happy
bringing you to a cave?

There was nothing else.

It's alright.
I'll make it look like a home.

Come on.

But your mother, really,

saying that about the bread
in front of him.

He loves it.

I don't want to see you so serious.
It makes you look ugly.

Dad, can I start sweeping?

I need a taxi to collect me.

Just a minute.

- What's the address?
- Calle Pontón, 89.

Uh, Calle Pontón, 89.
In San Lorenzo de El Escorial.

To go to Paseo del Pintor Rosales, 108.

That's right.

Yes, in Madrid.

Very well.

Fifteen minutes. Thank you.

So you're clear about the Cinematheque?

The 18th.

In three weeks.

I'm even planning my outfit.

But we'll talk before that, right?

Well.

What's this?

Can't we exchange two kisses
like old friends?

We've even smoked the peace dragon.

Alright.

Afternoon.

Miss Mercedes rang.
Call her as soon as you can.

Hello?

It's me.

Salvador, is it true
about the Cinematheque?

Yes.

Keep me informed.
Don't shut me out so much.

I was going to tell you.

I'm delighted they're showing Sabor
and that you're appearing.

But do you really want a Q&A?
The place will be full.

It isn't that I want a Q&A.

I'm just curious to see
if the film has survived these 30 years.

You'd better believe it.

But if you decide not to go,
tell me and I'll sort it out.

Better to cancel now
than at the last minute.

Alright. Bye.

I'm leaving now. Do you need anything?

No, thank you, Maya.

See you tomorrow.

He was the loneliest man
Death had ever seen.

I entered the room where Johannes was.

He had rolled over into a ball,

so there was no room for me.

When I tried to make a space for myself,
he woke and we made love,

but loneliness stayed with me

and I couldn't expel it from my heart.

We were as close as two people could be,

but each in his own world.

Hello.

Weren't you going to answer?

I wasn't expecting anyone
and I've got a headache.

- If you want, I'll go.
- No, you're here now.

- And do you live like this, in darkness?
- When I've got a headache, yes.

Poor thing!

You've got one hell of a house!

You want anything?

Any liquor.

This is wonderful!

What?

Breathe through your nose.

Through your nose.

Wait, water...

Take it easy.

Wait.

Breathe.

Drink.

Be careful, drink slowly.

Shit, I choke on nothing!

I thought you were dying!

I'm fine.

It happens from time to time
and it's horrible.

SIRENS

TOO MANY CHANGES

STRANGE WAY OF LIFE

ADDICTION

My idea of cinema

was always linked
to the breeze on summer nights.

We only saw films in the summer.

The films were projected
on an enormous wall

that had been whitewashed.

I particularly remember
the films where there was water:

waterfalls, beaches,

the bottom of the sea, rivers or springs.

Just hearing the sound of water

gave all the kids
a tremendous desire to urinate

and we did it right there,
on both sides of the screen.

In the cinema of my childhood,
it always smells of piss,

and of jasmine,

and of the summer breeze.

What are you doing there?

Reading you.

I've just read Addiction.

You shouldn't have.

I had to do something. You were groggy.

May I?

Yes.

Delicious!

Hey, the short story knocked me out.

- It isn't a short story.
- Well, whatever it is.

It could be staged just as it is.

Thanks, but it isn't a dramatic text.

It doesn't matter.

I could perform it,
I really know what it's talking about.

You?

You're on the opposite side of that text.

You forget that I'm an actor

and I suffer very well.

I need to act again.

I came down from my pedestal
a long time ago.

I'm in touch with the Sala Mirador.

I know it's a very small theater,
very "off,"

to put on Le bel indifférent, by Cocteau.

Hmm.

With men, to give it that touch.

But to be honest,
I'd much rather do your text.

Why not give me a copy and I'll show them.

Alberto, stop!

I don't understand. Why did you write it?

To forget about the content.
But I don't want to talk about it.

Will you let me have
what's left of the paper?

I'm not a dealer.

I'll give it to you,

but use it with discretion.

These late discoveries are the worst

and you're far too keen.

Think about what I said about the Mirador.

Yes.

Did it get rid of your headache?

- Totally.
- You see?

- Is he on his way?
- I don't know.

You organized all this yourself.

I don't understand.
He loved the restored print.

- The washroom?
- On your left.

Why don't you call him?

Excuse me, is there a Q&A?

Yes, the director is on his way.

All right.

The Cinematheque.

Give it to me.

I don't believe it!

You organize all this
and then you don't go!

It took a lot of work
to borrow this jacket.

- You go.
- Eh?

- On my own?
- I don't want to be seen like this!

Seen how?

It isn't a beauty contest,
it's a fucking Q&A!

I don't want to be seen
drugged up and stammering.

When you step on stage,
you'll control the situation.

With what you've been...

That was before,
and without having taken heroin.

Salvador? Where are you?

At home.

Still?

The film's over.
The audience is waiting for you.

Really?

I'm with Salvador Mallo.

We were intending to go.

Alberto Crespo is with me.

And the lead, Alberto Crespo.

Would you mind applauding again,
so they can hear it?

It might encourage them.

- Is everyone listening to me?
- Yes.

Well, I'd like to apologize
to the spectators.

At the last minute I wasn't feeling well.

I'm with Alberto Crespo.

He stayed to keep me company.

Excuse me.

Someone's raising their hand.
I think there's a question.

It's a question for the director.

Mr. Mallo, what do you think

of Alberto Crespo's
performance in the film?

Some people say you weren't happy
and that's why you grew apart.

Did you hear the question?

Yes, I heard it.

I read that after Sabor you argued

and didn't see each other again.

Look, time is mysterious.

I saw the film again a month ago,

and I think Alberto's performance
has gained a lot with time.

What did you not like about it?

Its heaviness,

its lethal rhythm.

I conceived a dynamic character,

a funny, scathing cocaine addict.

Alberto didn't have the lightness
I asked him for,

not because he was incapable,

but because he was taking
the opposite drug, heroin.

The rhythm of his performance was graver,

the humor in the text disappeared.

But I must be fair.

Now I think that the gravity he brought
goes well with the character.

It gives him substance.

How dare you!

I didn't mean to say it,
but now it's said.

Be careful with me!

I won't let you humiliate me again!

- Who the fuck do you think you are?
- I just told the truth.

You promised you wouldn't take heroin
during the shoot.

That's why I gave you the part
and you lied to me!

You did what you wanted!
I had to tell you some day!

You're fucking crazy.

I give him all the messages.

He's been avoiding me lately.
Is he really alright?

He doesn't eat much, and he chokes a lot.

Puree all his food.

- Does he go out?
- Not that I see.

But he walks through the house,
along the hallway.

I saw loafers by the door
and he never liked them.

He wears them,

even though he's got
a thousand lovely sneakers.

Maya.

Tell him you don't mind
doing up his shoes for him.

It must be very hard for him
to tie the laces.

I do tell him, but he doesn't want me to.

I think he's embarrassed.

I feel sorry for him.
I don't know what to do.

Smile at him, and take good care of him.

If you see anything strange, call me.

Everything here is strange.

I know...

SISTER
I BELIEVE YOU

Can I help you with anything?

I don't know.

What do you want?

A dose.

Ten euros.

- 10 Euros?
- Yes.

Don't bring me shit.
If it's good, I'll come back.

- Give me the money.
- No, no, no.

When you bring the material.

In cash and now.

Wait here.

Come here. Damn it!

Come back here!

He's so young
and look at how he's reading!

Hey...

- Can you write too?
- Yes.

How much would you charge
to write a letter to my aunt in Bilbao?

I don't know.

What's this?

We wanted your son
to write a letter for us.

My boyfriend is illiterate.

When can I learn if I'm working all day?

If you didn't waste your time drawing...

- Are you a builder?
- And a painter.

What a pity! So handsome and illiterate!

My Salvador can teach you
to read and write.

Can't you?

At night, when you finish work.

Whenever it suits you.

Could you teach me math too?

Yes.

Of course, the four rules
so no one can cheat you.

In the world we live in
you can't be illiterate.

I'll get paper and a pencil
to write the letter.

- How much would you charge?
- Nothing!

But as you're a builder,

you could help me finish the kitchen
and paint the walls a bit.

When it suits you.

- It can only be Sunday.
- Sundays, that's great.

And my Salvador will teach you
to read, to write, the four rules,

and today's letter is free.

Thank you.

A, B, C, CH, D...

Eduardo, when will you put in the sink?

I have to wash all this in buckets.

I wanted to finish the walls first.

The sink is more urgent.

I've got used to the paint coming off.

Salvador gives me a lot of homework
and I don't have time.

Salvador!

If he wants to read and write,

he has to learn the alphabet by heart.

Come on. Start again.

A, B, C,

CH, F, J...

No, Eduardo.

It's F, G,

H, I, J, K.

You said it right before.

There's a lot of letters.

Stop complaining. That's what there is.

No, you don't hold it like that.
Give me the pencil.

Look, you hold it like this.

Now you do it.

- Like this.
- Yes, like that.

No, you don't have to hold it so tight.

Let your hand go loose.
I'll move it for you.

"U."

I'm a bit nervous.

That's alright.
It's much better like this.

- Do you like drawing?
- A lot.

Then you'll learn to write very soon.

Writing is like drawing, but with letters.

Now do it on your own.

"U." "U."

That's it.

Read the sentence.

One...

Holy...

Catholic...

Apos... tolic.

One Holy Catholic Apostolic.

Who's that?

Spain. Who else could it be!

Now write it all at once.

Very good.
You're doing it more quickly now.

There's a pile of invitations.

You should go out somewhere.

- Cecil Beaton. I'd love it.
- I'll go with you.

The dance season has started.

Dimitris Papaioannou and Jan Fabre
are coming to the Canal Theaters.

The seats in theaters
are the most uncomfortable for me,

and I don't want to leave in the middle.

Did you go to see Dr. Galindo?

No.

I'm sick of doctors.

How do you get the oxycodone?

A friend gets it for me.
His mother's a pharmacist.

This book came for you.

How to Put an End to Counterculture.

Christ knows.

The Guggenheim have asked
for two of the Pérez Villaltas,

for a retrospective.

Tell them no.

Those paintings are my only company.
I live with them.

Sorry.

Hello.

Go on.

Yes.

I'm listening.

I have to hang up. I can't keep talking.

It's none of your business where I am!

Anything wrong?

No.

Luis and I are getting a divorce.

I didn't know you had problems.

I didn't want to bother you.

It's been going on for a while.

And now that I'm at home so much,
I can't keep fooling myself.

I'm sorry.

So, if you don't mind,

I'd like to keep taking care of your mail.

People like to get an answer.

But it's always no.

You should do something.

You've got too much free time
to think about your ailments.

Give your brain
something to keep it occupied.

I'd like to do things too, but...

You could write.

You've got loads of documents
full of ideas to develop.

I'll make a list.

I don't want to write
if afterwards I can't film it.

And you know better than anyone
that I can't film in this condition.

Without filming my life is meaningless.

But that's how things are.

Call me.

For whatever you need.

Jacinta, the cave looks beautiful.

And that light!

It rains at times.

You can't be so selfish.

We need the rain.

Think of the countryside, the farmers.

That's true.

Of course.

Well, let's see.

Since your mother told me
that at the age of nine

you were a teacher, I thought:

That boy must be for God!

He's always been ahead of boys his age.

- Do you like teaching?
- Yes.

Would you like to study?

A lot.

Why?

To know more and to be able
to teach more things.

Very good.

That's what I call a vocation.

I'll speak to Fr. José María
and he'll see to everything.

Thank you.

Next year you'll enter a seminary to study
for your high school diploma.

You'll have to behave.
Not everyone gets a scholarship.

- So is the scholarship definite?
- Yes, it is.

Don't worry.

And you, don't show me up.

Think you're one of the chosen.

Well, I still have a few visits to make.

You don't want some more juice?

No, thank you, it was delicious.

Bye, Salvador.

The walls look lovely with the whitewash.

Yes, they're better.

To tell you the truth, I really envy you.

Me?

Yes, you live in catacombs,
like the ancient Christians.

Yes, that's how we live.

Shall I come and sew on Sunday?

Yes, I'll expect you.

- Thank you.
- You're welcome.

- Mom.
- What, my love?

Is a seminary a place to become a priest?

Yes.

Shall I make one
of those potato omelets you like?

Sweetheart!

I don't want to be a priest!

- You don't have to be one.
- Then why send me to a seminary?

Because for the poor
that's the only way to study!

That's why.

What can I do?

Salvador!

Salvador!

Salvador!

That child!

Salvador!

Come down!

- Come down!
- I don't want to go to the seminary!

When you get your diploma, you can leave.

We'll think of a way
for you to have a career,

so you don't end up like your father.

I don't want to go to school!
I want to stay here!

And what will you do here?

Kill yourself working in the fields
or on building sites?

Is that what you want?

I don't want to be a priest!

I find life distasteful,
like a useless medicine.

And that's when I feel
and can clearly picture

how easy it would be
to get rid of this tedium,

if I had the simple strength of will
to really want to get rid of it.

- Who is it?
- It's me.

Go away!

Go away or I'll call the police.

I'm here to negotiate.

I'll give you the rights
to perform Addiction.

I don't believe you. Go away.

- I'm busy.
- Really.

I've got a copy of the text.

Please, let me in.

If it's a trick,
you'll leave worse than you are now.

What's up? Are you on hunger strike?

Are you still thinking
of doing Cocteau in the Mirador?

Yes.

But I've got lots of doubts.

The text is beautiful,
but it's become outdated.

If you really give me Addiction,
I'll go full out on it.

I'd have to tell them at the Mirador.

Here it is.

Why this change of heart?

I revised the text, like you said, and...

First make me some tea.

Of course.

Anything else?

I don't want to be credited.
Don't say it's mine.

I don't want to appear anywhere.

Very well. Will you direct me?

No.

- That would help.
- No, no.

Let the people at the theater read it
and decide if they're interested.

But don't give my name.

- So who's the author?
- You.

- Or we'll invent a pseudonym.
- No, no!

I'll sign it!

But I don't understand.

It's a confessional text.

- I don't want to be identified.
- I see.

Uh, about the staging,

I suggest an empty stage,

a screen.

A chair,

if you don't know what to do
with your arms and hands.

I know exactly what to do
with my arms and hands.

After correcting it,

I admit that the text
is a bit melodramatic now.

Don't worry. I master melodrama.

My years in Mexico will be of some use.

That's why I'm telling you.
You have to avoid sentimentality.

Control the emotion. Don't cry.
Actors take any opportunity to cry.

The better actor isn't the one who cries,

it's the one who fights
to hold back his tears.

Let me give you a kiss, honey.

If you don't mind,
I'm going to start working now.

Stay if you want, make yourself at home.

I've got a lot of magazines from the '80s.

You're in some of them,
dressed as a woman.

You soon forgot those times.

But first offer me some,
and give me your dealer's address.

Tell him I'll go myself to pick it up.

There's no need!
They deliver it now, like Telepizza.

Lighter.

Here.

Not yet.

Why?

I'm reducing the doses,
just enough so I can work.

And can you do it?

How do you think I'm still here?

Going in and out.

It's slavery.

But this play is vital for me,

and I have to be
as clean as I can to do it.

I don't want to lose one iota

of the emotion
you've put into these pages.

Will you come to see me?

I don't know. I don't think so.

This time I'm not doing Shakespeare,

or Chekhov, or Lorca.

I'm doing you.

If you do it badly, I'll feel terrible.

And if you do it well,
I'll feel much worse.

"The cinema of my childhood...

always smells of piss."

And of jasmine.

And of the summer breeze.

I met Marcelo in a washroom
full of people.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen him,

but it was that night,

after casually brushing
against each other,

when I discovered that I liked that boy.

We spent the whole weekend in bed.

And before I knew it, a year had passed...

and we could no longer
live without each other.

It was 1981,

and Madrid was ours.

One day I found Marcelo
looking paler than usual.

He'd been losing weight...

and he looked haggard.

I asked him if he wasn't feeling well...

and he confessed that he'd started
fooling around with heroin.

I was surprised
because I'd never taken it.

I drank and I snorted cocaine
like everyone,

but never heroin.

I sensed that it wasn't good
and I didn't like it.

I was going flat out,
I was writing a nighttime chronicle,

I was appearing on musical shows,

I was singing in a parody punk group,

I was preparing my first film, I shot it,

it was released, it was a success.

I wrote the second, I shot it.

I was doing a thousand things,
I wasn't sleeping,

while Marcelo was languishing
on the couch at home...

or shut away in the bathroom,

or out of the house,
somewhere I didn't know.

I spent the night coming and going
from the window to the bed,

always listening
for the sound of the door.

ACTING SCHOOL

- Here are your tickets.
- Thank you.

Madrid had become a difficult ring,

as bullfighting people say,

so we traveled continuously,

anything so as to get out of Madrid.

The first days were the worst.

While Marcelo was going cold turkey,
I looked after him...

and I wrote.

I don't know how, but I wrote.

Marcelo was very young,
the effects didn't last long,

three or four days.

Then we'd go out on the street
and have fun, like kids.

I remember the Ivory Coast.

Dozens of muscular young men,
washing clothes in the river,

on wheel rims.

The Malecón in Havana,

by day or night.

Old Havana, beating gently to the rhythm
of unceasing percussions.

I remember Mexico City.

Marcelo and I, drunk,

listening to Chavela Vargas
singing "The Night of My Love."

I want

The joy of a ship
Returning

A thousand bells of glory
Pealing

Those journeys,
which were only to escape from Madrid,

from heroin,

became my best school.

On those journeys,
I found the inspiration...

to write the stories
that I would tell years later

and the colors that would illuminate them.

But we couldn't spend our lives traveling.

Sooner or later,
we had to go back to Madrid.

And Madrid was a minefield, a dead end.

I was desperate. I didn't know what to do.

Except repeat myself.

We both repeated ourselves
for three long years.

I thought the strength of my love
would defeat his addiction.

But it wasn't so.

Love isn't enough.

Maybe love can move mountains,

but it isn't enough
to save the person you love.

Under the whitewashed wall

where the films of my childhood
were projected,

I prayed that nothing would happen
to the leading ladies.

But I didn't succeed,

neither with Natalie Wood
nor with Marilyn.

Then I tried to save Marcelo
and to save myself.

If Marcelo was saved,
it was far away from me.

As for me, I stayed in Madrid...

and the cinema saved me.

CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF

Come in.

Hello.

Good evening.

Good evening.

Come in.

Have we met?

Yes.

I don't remember you.

It was a long time ago, when you were
preparing Sabor with Salvador Mallo.

- I'm sorry, I don't remember.
- We met two or three times.

I'm Federico,

the Marcelo in your monologue.

Did you like it?

I don't know.

"Like" isn't the word.
It affected me very much.

- You were crying, weren't you?
- Yes, I guess.

Sit down.

I imagine you have some questions for me.

Is Salvador alive?

How did it go tonight?

Very well. Full house.

A pity the theater is so small.

It's better. You gain in intimacy.

Tonight there was
a very intimate spectator.

Who?

I'll tell you if you promise
to come and see me in the theater.

Who is that very intimate spectator?

Federico.

- Federico who?
- Federico Delgado.

Your Marcelo.

He came to my dressing room.

- Did he recognize the text?
- Every word.

He asked for
your phone number and address.

You didn't tell him anything else?

No.

I said nothing about you chasing dragons.

Thank you.
I'll come and see you one day.

Sure.

Salvador?

Yes.

Is that you?

I wouldn't have recognized you.
This is Federico.

Federico!

I'm in Madrid.

What are you doing here?

Seeing lawyers about an inheritance.
I'm leaving tomorrow night.

I'd like to see you.

Same here.

But I'm in bed now.

Can we meet tomorrow?

How about at midday?
I'm seeing the lawyers in the afternoon.

Yes, perfect.

I didn't ask how you are.

Old.

Five years older than me, not one more.

And how are you?

I'm better now.

When I left the theater I was devastated.

I went to see Addiction.

How did you know it was on?

By pure chance.

I took a walk round Embajadores,
to see our old street.

I was outside our house.

Of course, the theater
is a bit farther up.

I went in to pass the time

and because I remembered
Alberto Crespo from your film.

And you found yourself suddenly...

Yes.

Suddenly.

I don't know how to apologize.

I didn't know how you were feeling,

all that you'd suffered.

It was a good school.

What?

You don't have to apologize.

I didn't do anything I didn't want to do.

I tried to help you as far as I could.

And I'm grateful.
I'd like to prove it to you some day.

Look, I don't think I can
go to sleep after this.

Can I have 20 minutes to shower and dress
and we'll meet at my place?

Of course.

Yes?

It's Federico. Will you let me in?

Come on.

It's been so long. Come here.

Too long.

Would you recognize me
if you saw me in the street?

I'd need to have looked closely, but yes.

Your eyes are the same.

- I'm sorry to get you out of bed.
- No, come in.

It looks like a museum.

I invested all that I earned
in this house and in these paintings.

I'll give you a tour later.
What'll you have?

Anything.

- Tequila?
- Yes, tequila.

- In honor of Chavela.
- Ohh.

When you mention her in the monologue,
I couldn't hold back the tears.

Well, come on.

Tequila for Chavela
and to celebrate our reunion.

I love your house.

Where do you live now?

In Buenos Aires.

Didn't you have an uncle there?

Yes. I went there in '85.

So soon?

Yes.

Shall I give you a summary now
or after the toast?

- Cheers.
- Cheers.

Ooh!

The summary.

After we separated,
I stayed with my parents for a year.

At that time, the heroin routes
didn't pass through Argentina.

So I went there to my uncle
and worked in his restaurant.

I couldn't take heroin
because there wasn't any.

It was the best way to quit.

I met Lucrecia, my wife, we got married,

and now I have two grown sons,
my own restaurant.

I only ever came back to Galicia
to see my parents.

This is the first time
I've set foot in Madrid.

Like you say in your monologue,
Madrid had become...

a difficult ring for me...

a minefield.

It's a pity that you lived here.

I needed Madrid.

And I needed you.

But not under those conditions.

"Love isn't enough to save the person
you love." It's in your monologue.

Let's not talk about the monologue.
It's a very sad text.

I felt better

when you said that while caring for me
you still continued to evolve

as a writer and as a filmmaker.

Did you really feel like that?

You didn't interrupt anything, Federico.

Just the opposite.

You filled my life
like nothing and no one...

has done until now.

So you haven't been back to Madrid
since then?

No.

But I followed everything you did.

And I was delighted

when I recognized some scene
obviously inspired by us.

Each film of yours was an event in my life

and I was proud that you were
a success around the world.

You're the only Spanish director
my family knows.

Your new family.

Yes.

Do they know anything else?

You mean about us?

Lucrecia, my wife...
Well, my ex-wife. We're separating.

I told her, but she doesn't know it's you,

just that I was with a man
in Madrid for three years.

And I told one of my sons
to encourage him.

With time, I'll tell him it's you.

He's a real film lover
and he'd never forgive me if I didn't.

Do you have a partner now?

Yes.

And you?

No. No.

Man or woman?

Woman.

My experience with men ended with you.

I don't know how to take that.

Take it as a compliment.

That's Mauro, the younger one.

And this is Federico.

He's 22 now.

He's like you.

He's the one I told.

They're both very handsome.

You have to come to Buenos Aires.
You'll love the city.

And I'm sure it'll inspire you.

I want you to meet my family,
to come and eat in the restaurant.

We'll get drunk together.

Hmm?

For the old days.

Do you want me to stay and sleep with you?

Of course I do,

but we're going to close our story
as God intended.

We never cared about God.

And our story could be closed
just as well tomorrow morning.

In any case, I'm delighted to see...

that you still get aroused by me.

Same here. You're aroused too.

Yes. Go away.

- Go away.
- Yes, I'm going.

You're right.

As usual.

Remember that you've promised
to visit me in Buenos Aires.

Mm-hmm.

Safe journey.

Thank you for coming. Really.

I'll call to remind you.

Yes, Salvador.

Is this a good time?

Yes, go ahead.

I'd like to see Dr. Galindo
as soon as possible.

What have you taken?

Nothing. A tranquilizer two hours ago,
and a few shots of tequila.

Now I'm taking my legal ration
of crushed tablets

with liquid yogurt.

And the gastroenterologist too?

Yes, as soon as possible.

Very well.

- Okay, bye.
- Bye.

Salvador Mallo?

Yes.

This way, please.

- Thanks.
- You're welcome.

- Good morning, Doctor.
- Good morning. Come in.

- Thank you for finding time for us.
- Not at all.

Tell me, Salvador.

The pain in my back is killing me.

The oxycodone does very little for me.

We'll have to change your analgesic.

Why didn't you come sooner?

- I was feeling very low.
- Yes, he's been very depressed.

And what have you done
to control the pain?

I've started taking heroin.

- And are you going to continue?
- No. That's why I'm here.

How often did you take it?

Every two or three days.

In the end, every other day.

Smoked on tinfoil.

- When was the last time?
- The night before last.

Will I have withdrawal symptoms?

A bit.

But with a compassionate and controlled
detoxification, you won't suffer.

Compassionate and controlled?

Yes, that's what it's called.

Have you someone to help you?

I'll be with him.

How have you controlled
this period without it?

With tranquilizers

and a will of iron.

You're going to keep needing
that will of iron

because your mind knows
the effect of heroin

and you don't forget that.

You're still taking Paxtibi
for your headaches?

Yes. And with all the rest.

For asthma, blood pressure,

insomnia...

But most of all I need your help
with the pain in my back

and to put some order
into everything I'm taking.

With the migraines too.

The pain in my back and the headaches...

leave me totally paralyzed.

I understand.

Do you have a new project?

Yes. To improve my quality of life.

I mean work.

It would do you good to be busy.

Don't you miss it?

I think about it every day.

But it isn't a question
of missing it or not.

Filming is very physical work

and unfortunately
I'm in no shape to do it.

Actually, that's my big problem.

People worse than you have managed.

I know.

But I haven't been able to.

My mother died four years ago.

Two years later I had the back operation.

I think I still haven't recovered
from either thing.

- I need help.
- Fine.

I'll change the oxycodone
for another opiate.

You'll think about heroin.

- Watch out for that.
- Yes.

I'll give you prescriptions
and explain the instructions.

Do you mind if I leave and walk around?

Go on.

- Doctor, thank you.
- You're welcome.

- Let's see...
- There's something else.

Something else?

Salvador chokes frequently.

An hour ago, coming to the hospital,

he had a sip of water,
and I thought he'd choke to death.

The gastroenterologist did an endoscopy...

and he found a lump
pressing on his esophagus.

That's why he chokes so easily.

We don't know what the lump is.

Does he know the result?

No.

They've ordered a CAT scan to be sure.

But the gastroenterologist
doesn't rule out that it's a tumor.

What should I do? Do I tell him?

No, no, no. Spare him
at least two days of anguish.

Please, call me with the CAT scan results.

Of course.

Mercedes, will you pass me
that box, please?

Thank you.

I'm really touched that you've put me
in your mother's room.

I've brought you a snack.

I'm not eating those black madeleines.

They're whole wheat.

One day you'll bring me
a plate of alfalfa to eat

because now they say
it's good for your heart.

Won't you drink the milk?

You have to try.

Later.

Sit down.

What are you doing?

Trying to unravel these rosaries.

I'll help you.

No. You don't know how.

Do you remember
how you have to lay me out?

Yes, Mom.

If we're in the village, call Petra.

She's used to it.

And if I die here, which I hope I don't,

because I want to die in my bed.

Maya and Mercedes will help you.

- Must we talk about this now?
- Yes.

On my head,

a half mantilla,

because I'm a widow.

Let me help you.

I'll help you.

Like this.

And the habit of Jesus of Medinaceli,
with its girdle.

Yes, with its girdle.

You put a rosary between my hands.

The old one.

I want you to keep the new one.

- Wouldn't you prefer the new one?
- No.

I want to be barefoot.

If they tie my feet to bury me,

you untie them and say I asked you to.

The place where I'm going,
I want to go in very lightly.

Do you remember this pen?

Of course.

Your father gave it to me.

With it I wrote all the letters
when we were courting.

And the wooden egg?

I darned so much with this egg!

Of all these things,
it's the least valuable.

Give it to me.

Here. You've just inherited it.

I think about her a lot recently.

It's the first time I've heard you say

that you still haven't got over
your mother's death.

I think a lot about my childhood too.

When I'm dozing,
which is most of the time,

I end up thinking about my mother
when I was a child.

But you never talked about her
or your childhood in your films.

- My mother didn't like me to.
- You think so?

She told me one of the last times
she was in the hospital.

Your legs are so clean, Mom.

I took after my family in that.

There are no varicose veins in my family.

What a pity, love.

Why?

You won't have a good old age.

Why not?

You took after your father's family.

Mom, the things you say.

Did you sleep well last night?

So-so.

I was with my neighbor Lola all night.

Here, in the room?

No.

In dreams.

I dreamed about her all night.

I'd just arrived in the village,

and I heard Lola knocking on my door,
as always,

when she heard me arrive from Madrid.

Even though it was a dream,

I remembered that Lola was dead,

but I opened the door,

and there she was,

just the same as ever,

except that she was a bit transparent.

But I wasn't scared.

I said, "Lola,

I suppose you're not happy...

and you want me to do something,

but you have to tell me what
and I promise I'll do it."

"No, Jacinta, I'm happy," she answered.

"How can you be happy?" I said.
"If you were, you wouldn't appear."

"I'm appearing to you

because my daughters
would be very scared."

"But why are you coming to the village
when it's so cold?"

"I don't feel cold or heat now,"

she answered.

"And there's nowhere better
than your house."

"You're right about that," I said.

What else?

Don't get that storyteller look.

I don't want you
putting any of this in your films.

I don't like my neighbors appearing.

I don't like autofiction!

What do you know about autofiction?

I heard you explain it in an interview.

My neighbors don't like you showing them.

They think you show them like rednecks.

The things you say!

I couldn't treat them
with more respect or devotion.

Whenever I can, I talk about you

and I say that you and the neighbors
made me what I am.

I owe everything to you.

They don't like it.

Let's go for a walk.
You haven't moved today.

Because I had nowhere to go.

- Now you do.
- Where?

To the hallway.

That's it.

You haven't been a good son.

- No?
- No.

You never forgave me
for recommending you to the pious woman.

I think you took revenge for that.

I didn't want you to go
to the seminary either,

but we were poor.

It's true I didn't want to go,
but to say I wanted revenge...

How can you think that?

After you got your diploma,
you couldn't wait to get to Madrid.

And when your father died,

I asked if you wanted me to live with you.

You wriggled out of it.

You said you were living a life
that you couldn't share with me.

And it was true.

But not as you understood it.

I understood it perfectly.

I'm very bad on my feet,

but my head is clear as a bell.

When I wasn't traveling, I was filming.

You couldn't have put up with the solitude
of an apartment in Madrid.

That was no life for you.

I'd have looked after you.

I'd have adapted,
as I've done to so many things.

But you didn't want it...

and that hurt me.

Mom...

I'm very sorry
I was never the son you wanted.

When you used to say
"Who did this child take after?"

you weren't exactly saying it with pride,

and I realized.

I've failed you, simply by being as I am.

I'm very sorry.

Pass me St. Anthony.

Here.

I'll pray for you tonight.

Thank you.

- Salvador.
- Yes?

I brought you into this world...

and I slaved so you could get ahead.

I know.

Take me to the village.

That's my last and only wish.

Very well.

We'll go to the village.

With Maya, so she can do the housework.

I'll look after you day and night.

This time I won't let you down.

But I couldn't keep my promise.

The next day she went back to hospital.

You did what you could.

Yes,

but she wanted to die in the village.

And I'd promised to take her there.

The poor thing died
in the ICU of a hospital,

alone.

You're invited to give a talk in Iceland.
It's well paid.

I don't understand
why they like me so much in Iceland.

Neither do I.

This is from a little gallery.

But I kept it. The drawing is lovely.

- Salvador Mallo?
- Yes.

You can come in.

Sit down here slowly.

While I raise your legs,

you turn your body and gradually lie down.

Thank you.

When's your mother coming?

At lunchtime.

When she sews at the pious woman's house,
she stays all morning.

Okay.

Okay, Salvador. Don't move.

Stay there.

Can you hold the book with both hands?

That's it.

Now, raise your head.

What do you think?

It's lovely.

I still have to finish it.
I'll take it home and do it.

Yes.

Do you mind if I get washed?
Look at the state I'm in.

Yes, I'll get a bar of soap.

- Here.
- Thanks.

Salvador! Will you bring me a towel?

Coming, Eduardo.

You're burning up.
You must have gotten sunstroke.

Salvador! What happened?

He got a lot of sun.

I was reading.

Didn't you notice the sun shining on you?

- You're burning up!
- I didn't notice.

And you, what?

I finished putting up the tiles.

He fainted and I brought him here.

You fainted?

A bit. I got dizzy.

Oh, my God.

Stay here. I'll get a vinegar poultice.

Where's your father? In the bar?

Yes.

He told me he'd stay in the house.

What's this basin doing here?

I had a wash.

Couldn't you wait till you got home?

It's hard work for me carrying water here.

I was very dirty.

I'll bring a basin and dry the floor.

Bring me water and I'll dry it.

The tiles turned out nicely.

Yes, very nice. Thank you.

I'll get the water.

First, I want to reassure you.
There's no tumor.

That's totally discounted.

But something's wrong
because I choke even on purees.

What you've got, that dysphagia,
is due to Forestier's Syndrome.

You'll see it more clearly here.

You see this white part,
next to the vertebra?

It's an osteocyte, an ossification.

Here, you can see the esophagus,
displaced by that ossification.

There's practically no room
for food to get through,

not even liquids.

That's why you choke.

Why did that bone grow so much?

Forestier's Syndrome is a rare disease
and we don't know what causes it.

We know that it affects tendons,
ligaments and joints,

which calcify and we don't know why.

In your case, the anterior ligament
of the spine has calcified.

Can anything be done?

Surgery, to get rid of that calcification.

But don't worry.
It isn't a risky operation.

The gastroenterologist and the surgeon
can tell you more.

- Very well.
- Thank you.

POPULAR ART

Hello.

Do you like the watercolor?

Yes. I'd like to buy it.

- Who's the artist?
- It's anonymous.

Almost all the works are unsigned.

How did it get here?

I bought it at the Flea Market
in Barcelona.

It's one of my favorite works.

So you have no idea who the artist is?

There's something written on the back.

But they're all anonymous artists who
probably don't even know they're artists.

Dear Salvador,

I'm sending the drawing to your house
because I don't have the school address.

I'm happy to be able to write to you.

You taught me

and I'm very grateful to you.

I'm working in Conchita's uncle's store

and I'm very good at numbers.

All thanks to you.

It's nice here,
but I miss life in the caves.

And you in particular.

Every time I write
I think of your hand guiding mine.

I'm sure you're learning a lot at school,

reading lots of books
and seeing lots of films.

Here's my address in Bilbao.

Maybe you'll write and tell me.

Your pupil, Eduardo.

Salvador.

You'll have to start getting dressed
in half an hour.

Remind me just before.

THE FIRST DESIRE

What happened with the drawing?

Eduardo sent it to Paterna.

My mother would have got it.

I was at the priests' school.

She never sent it or mentioned it.

Are you going to look for him?

- For Eduardo?
- With Google.

Or going to Paterna and asking about him.

Fifty years later?

It's a good idea for a story
and maybe I'll write it,

but looking for him would be crazy.

How did it get
to the Flea Market in Barcelona?

No idea.

By chance.

What matters is it finally got to the one
it was intended for.

We're going to move you over here,
bit by bit.

Your head here.

I have to pull this down a bit
and put some stickers on your chest.

How are you?

Hello, Doctor.

I heard. No wonder you couldn't swallow.

But don't worry.
We'll get rid of this right away.

- Doctor.
- Yes?

- I'm writing again.
- That's good news.

- Yes.
- I'm delighted.

And what is it? Drama or comedy?

I don't know.

You never know until...

Mom.

Do you think there's a cinema in Paterna?

If we have a house,
that'll be enough for me.

- Cut.
- We've cut.

38, 5, first. Final clapper.

THE FIRST DESIRE

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