Original subtitles

you

are in my place.

This is a public library.

I always sit here.

You cannot reserve.

Ask him.

My place, please.

Why don't you sit there?

Why don't you?

I'm lonely.

Are you lonely?

Of course I am.

You're a genius.

I know you're a genius because I'm a genius too.

When there are no fish in the pond, the shrimp is great.

Ah, philosopher.

I thought you were a poet.

I'm a writer and I want a paper.

I'm an artist.

I don't read the papers.

Give us a kiss.

I do not like men.

Oh I do.

Sometimes I think men are more beautiful than women.

Beauty is dead.

I think you're wrong.

I make beauty.

You make beauty.

Most people struggle to make something beautiful.

If many fail, that's true.

But I shan't fail.

I have enough for everyone.

You mustn't boast, boy, or you will never become a genius.

What do you think, Michelangelo?

Boasted?

Hallows, Michelangelo.

There.

Michelangelo at his worst.

Yoo-hoo!

That's not by Michelangelo.

It's dead!

Just look at it!

No holes, no muscle, and no mystery!

Consider these tipsy tits.

And who wants a whopping great arse staring them in

the face in the middle of the average working day?

It's indecent!

There is a good chance some innocent young child will be corrupted for life!

Art, good people!

Nothing but luck backed up by slave labour!

So, good citizens, I implore you, have nothing to do with art!

Art rots your moral fibre!

Ladies and gentlemen, observe that charming woman in the straw hat with the

wicker basket from the look of her you would

imagine she was a famous lady of fashion.

But there you would be wrong.

She is a great novelist.

But she does not set her immortal stories at the time of the Crusades, does she?

And why?

Because you can't make art out of dreams.

Art is dirt.

Art is sex.

And art is revolution!

Just a minute, young man.

We want a word with you.

Stop!

I'll see you tomorrow.

In the library!

If I'm not there, come and bail me out!

Hello.

I forgot to tell you my name.

It's Gaudier.

Henri Gaudier.

G-A-U-D-I-E.

Hey, let's get married.

I earn good money.

One franc an hour at the Lartique Art Gallery.

No.

No.

Well, let's live together then.

I sleep with everyone.

Good.

I'm part of everyone.

You shouldn't have made that scene in the park.

You should have taken the hat around.

I come from a good family.

My father's a carpenter.

What's your book about then?

Conflict.

Conflict?

Yes.

Ah.

Perhaps you should read it.

Yes.

Hey, leave that alone.

I dare you.

I love you.

That doesn't give you the right to pry, anyway.

No, true.

Some Polish.

I'll learn Polish.

I shall learn Polish tomorrow.

No, you tire me.

Ten minutes with you is like a week's work.

I'm sorry.

I'll give you one sou for that league.

Three.

One.

Three.

Shall I send it, or will you take it wrapped?

What's it like, this work you do in the gallery?

Oh, it's piece work.

I come and go as I please.

But they get their pound of flesh.

Your flesh?

Sometimes I do feel as if I'm always going uphill.

Now, don't get me wrong.

I don't want to be other than I am.

I know it's lucky to be what I am.

But...

sometimes I don't think I'll be able to do what I want to do...

on my own.

Let me make one thing clear.

My asking you in... is a simple act of artistic companionship.

I understand, Miss Breschke.

Why should you be special?

I know dozens of artists.

Who do you know?

I know... never mind who I know.

What does it matter who I know?

I don't know anybody.

That's who I know.

You know me.

I know your kind.

You think art is all sex and material things.

Art is above sex.

When my books go out into the world... of people who read them will have... Read?

I'll read anything.

You!

You're the worst read man I've ever met.

You wait until you meet my friends.

You have no friends.

And neither have you.

And you're old.

I would like to see Henri Gaudier.

Stop!

I'm not allowed, Miss Breschke, Madame.

But I must see him urgently.

I'm... I'm his sister.

And... And this poor dying mother is calling for him.

My condolences, Madame.

The trade entrance is round the corner.

Bourgeois lucky!

My God!

A soldier!

Help!

Help!

Mama Lusca?

So, I'm entertaining a criminal.

Better a good copy than a bad original.

What's to draw in Polish?

Rysowak.

Oh, don't make a mess all over the floor.

Not.

Anyway, if people with more money than sense...

can't tell the difference between a genuine Gaudier... and a genuine Gainsborough...

they deserve to be cheated.

One day someone will be forging my work.

Work?

You don't know the meaning of the word work.

Dubrovsky.

To work, yes?

Well, start of the morning...

I have Dubrovskied on the roads from Paris to Marseille.

I've Dubrovskied in Wales.

In the coal merchant's office.

And I got a Dubrovsky scholarship to study business.

Till I chucked it for this.

And soon, I shall be in the Dubrovsky house.

Well, you, I imagine, are in Paris to do a little shopping.

I came to finish my book.

I needed a creative atmosphere.

You have to create your own atmosphere.

Knife, please.

What's in that?

What?

My trunk.

All I possess.

Is it full?

Yes.

Who said you could open that?

You've too many things.

You should get rid of them.

Hm.

I think it's artistic to have nothing.

If there was ever any good in nothing, it's hard to find when you pass 30.

30?

What am I saying?

20, 10.

Being alone.

Getting sick of nothing, of nothing.

In the head.

Arms minus the will to wash their face.

Taking a letter to the post harder than shifting a ton of rock.

Alone.

Write?

You want to write?

Mother said, poor, flat, flabby.

Chocolate munching.

I only want what's good for you, mother.

Gone saggy with one after another.

Born dead or dead three weeks later.

Boys, till they held me up, looked between my legs and frowned.

Stupid, they said.

Stupid.

You cannot write.

Girl, she said.

Girl, better find a man as stupid as yourself.

Writing?

Writing?

Put that book down.

However will we get rid of you, I'm sure.

I do not know, miss.

Nice.

Fluttery.

Home loving.

Reading.

Writing, sleeping.

So they found me an oafish fop with a moneyed memoir.

A diary.

Father's gambling and whores.

Gobble that up.

So when her oafish fop jilts her, a well-bred cast-off can become a governess.

Her empire clouded with vomit and baby shit.

And in the evening up to your room and write out your thoughts on the soul.

Oh, what is this?

I hear it is my God-fearing, upright employer ready to jump on me.

Keep your lab.

I know exactly what you've got at the top of your legs.

I'm the biggest whore in the Latin Quarter.

I've started more books than all the drawings you'll do in a lifetime.

My book is about sleep.

That thick, oily substance under whose surface you float, half dreaming, half waking.

Hidden, you hope, yet the world comes through.

You cannot imagine the ways I have evolved

to abolish myself there, under the surface.

Half sleeping.

Half waking.

Leaving your worries and your clothes asleep.

But the rent never sleeps.

And time never sleeps.

If only we'd met 20 years ago.

My body's gone, see?

Scrawny, see?

Old enough to be your mother.

Soon I'll be a snuggle-toothed old hag.

And do not imagine I mourn my lost loveliness.

From the start I knew my face was not my fortune.

But I won't forget it.

I was young enough to have prospects.

Like you.

I'm not worth your love, boy.

Love me like the love must be and you'll loathe me soon.

You're so young.

You will be a great artist.

Keep yourself for someone kinder.

The cabbage is burning.

Oh!

Oh, you'll like my mother.

She's wonderful.

I thought your mother lived in the country.

Oh, that's my natural mother.

My real mother is...

The Louvre?

Oh, rubbish.

Pretentious townhouse full of junk stolen from savages.

Art is made from art.

That's not what you said yesterday.

That was yesterday.

Look, you said and don't you dare tell me I'm wrong that

today's art cannot be made from anything except today.

And where do you think today comes from, huh?

Yesterday.

Or do you see some clean break along the line

of days stretching back from here to Babylon?

Look, you never say the same thing twice, boy.

You change all the time.

Yes, I change.

When I lie down at night, I lie down as if I'm going to die.

When I get up in the morning, I get up as if I'm going to live forever.

And you expect me to fling myself into your arms for always?

Ah!

I know your sort.

You'll be off in a week.

I will carry my love for you wherever my mind leads me.

Excuse me.

Ah, good day, kind sir.

In which direction lies the newly acquired primitive head?

That way, sir, but I...

Thank you.

But sir, sir, sir, pardon me for mentioning, but your shirt is hanging out.

That's all right.

Most of the people in here are naked.

Hurry, look.

This is where your mind leads you.

Rape.

Rape of the Sabine women.

He's got more hanging out than his shirt.

It's more like a waxworks.

Hello, hello.

Hello, hello.

In a bit of an artistic tizzy, are we?

I'm about to take my hat off to the Mona Lisa.

Oh, I fully appreciate your desire to take your hat off to the Mona Lisa, sir.

I take my hat off to the Mona Lisa at least once a day.

However, sir, I am decently dressed.

Madam, will you take your hand out of my trousers?

Oh!

Just one other thing, sir.

My God!

My brother!

This is where it all starts.

Your voice, sir.

And where it'll all end.

This is, after all, a museum, sir.

And whilst your enthusiasm for these eternal works on the human spirit strikes

a chord, in my own heart, we don't want to disturb the

taxpayers enjoying the benefits of cultural democracy.

Do we, sir?

Disturb?

Of course they do!

They should be disturbed!

Shocked into life!

This isn't a morgue!

Now that, sir, is stone.

And very valuable stone, if I may say so.

And if we allow one visitor to touch it, then

everyone will be wanting to touch it, won't they, sir?

Art is alive!

Enjoy it!

Laugh at it!

Love it!

Or hate it!

But don't worship it!

We're not in church!

Hang it on your wall!

Right, sir!

Then I'll wait until tomorrow!

Overfed, hot-bellied, jump to up-downs, splaining, rat-faced vandal!

You have no mother!

Your old man came up against a shithouse wall and the sun hatched you out!

No, we won't!

I'll never set foot in that place again as long as I live!

Then I'll keep it pure and air-conditioned for the American tourists!

Boy, your real mother turned out a real bitch!

Right, let's see if my natural mother treats us any better.

What do you mean?

I mean a few days in the country would do us both good.

What about your parents?

I've got nothing to wear.

I don't want to go to the country.

I want to go home!

We have no home!

Hurry!

Breathe, Mamelushka!

Who is that publisher?

She has several.

She is internationally famous.

She looks like a widow.

Our love is platonic.

Such quietude.

Did you have a pleasant journey, Miss Brozhka?

I'm terrified of trains.

We find them rather convenient.

What is this place?

The estate of the Countess of Montmorency.

We are her tenants.

It is very good of you to have me.

I'm afraid there's no room for you at the house,

but we've fitted out the old dairy for you.

Oh, well, that's... We are a large family.

I need solitude.

She's a pearl.

Do you know her well, boy?

Good morning.

Intimately.

Now listen, boy.

We are fused in the mutual radiance from our souls.

Your mother is very worried.

Papa, your forebears carved the west front of Chartres Cathedral.

There's no need for me to tell you about beauty.

And beauty is in her bones.

Hello, Emma.

Oh!

What are you doing?

What?

What are you doing?

Well, I just came to see if you had everything.

This used to be my room.

It's beautiful, but I have everything.

Now, just let me alone.

I'm tired.

You're tired of me?

No, not of you.

Bye.

And your parents will get into trouble if

it gets about that you are in here at night.

Well, uh...

I'll go then.

Good night.

Good night, boy.

Let us plight our truth.

Yes.

Let us plight our truth.

Are you sure?

Yes.

Then we must give each other something.

Something that will last forever.

I'll give you my name.

I'll give you mine.

Henri Gaudier Bresca.

Sophie Gaudier Bresca.

I am your brother.

And your sister.

You are my love.

All my life, I have looked for such a love.

Even when you were young.

Very young.

Even then?

If you can't find love in your own family, I thought, find it in someone else's.

A good governess is worth her weight in gold, and travel broadens the mind.

But mothers become jealous, and fathers lustful.

And then you're walking the streets in a foreign country with no references.

What price love then?

Well, then you settle for something... else.

Friendship?

Companionship?

Less than that.

Charity?

Less even than that, you settle for...

anything.

I came to Paris to kill myself, boy.

But I was frightened of the worms and the dark.

My sister.

My little sister, Mama Lushka.

You have found your lover.

And we will live only for each other.

And you will do work for everyone.

And you too.

Right!

Up off that bridge, you two!

Come along now!

He's working my son to grave.

Honoured sir.

That's me.

It is my most unpleasant duty to inform you that a woman of foreign extraction is

using the countess's disused dairy for the improper reception of men.

As mayor of this district, it is your duty to evict the said alien.

Not only from the estate, but from the district as a whole.

Signature illegible.

Right!

Form a queue!

Outside!

Youngest first!

Go on!

Please, my son, send her away.

Stay here with us.

Vermin!

Scum on lice!

Get out!

Get out!

Greetings, father!

And help us find a cheap room in London!

Fantastic.

Thank you.

Oh, hello.

Ease for me.

Gospel, sir.

See what Jesus can do for your life.

Dominus proboscum.

I'm a convent girl.

Clean as a worm.

Whistle tight as a drum.

Sixpence a short time.

Five bob all night long.

With a gobble at the end.

You're so nice, you can shit chocolate buttons.

Bless you, sister.

How's the great pre-mortem?

You didn't read so much.

Perhaps you get some work done, eh?

In this tin?

It's not London transport.

It's the duck or the fork or the right idea.

There is only now.

You've got a job.

What?

You've got a job.

Fifty-five shillies a month.

Fifty-five shillies a month.

Fifty-five shillies a month.

Hey!

Well, now I have it.

Everything.

My studio, my work.

Everyone a masterpiece.

And my woman.

What more could a solid middle class citizen want, huh?

He wants a kiss.

Right!

What?

No!

Oh, no!

Oh, stop it.

Oh, stop it.

Stop it!

How often do I have to tell you I don't like sex?

Nothing else.

Nine cases of indecent exposure in the papers today.

All because of women like you.

You want sex?

Go and find someone who sells it.

Right, well, you give me the money.

Five shillings?

Woman, you're out of your mind.

Do you imagine I'm going to allow my beautiful young

body to be clasped in the embrace of five Bob Hawks?

It's all we can afford.

Well, let's economize and eat at home.

Bless you, Holy Brother!

You're hired.

Why do you do this, Mamelushka?

You know you will blunt my love for you!

Very good, Your Lordship.

We thank you for your letter of October 4, 12, which we received today.

Poitier.

Yeah?

Poitier wants you to do this Polish invoice.

I'll do it tomorrow, Mr. Saltzman.

I have to show my Perlack sister.

Gorky's looking forward to meeting you and your sister very much.

Gordy.

You haven't forgotten Mr. Gorky, have you?

My friend, the art dealer.

I never forget anyone, Mr. Saltzman.

Good.

I mean, you know he's supposed to be having supper with both of you tonight.

Ah, Mamelushka, Roshka, Gotsky!

Yes, she's been at it all day, and Mrs.

Saltzman thanks you very much for your drawing.

It is framed and hanging already in the drawing room.

Courage, Mamelushka!

My boss has arranged for me to meet Mr. Poitier,

one of the world's most celebrated art dealers.

Offices in London, New York, and Paris.

So soon, you will be a wealthy woman.

Meanwhile, I've written for that job in Blanford.

They can't afford you.

You're the sister of the world's most famous sculptor.

Supper?

Genius.

Of course, I retain my simple way of life.

A great artist must preserve his contact with the people.

Ah, the people.

Mmm.

Out of season watercress soup and Afghani goat's milk.

The last of the herrings.

Keep it warm.

I've invited my important art dealer to supper.

Tonight?

Mm-hmm.

Now he tells me!

Oh, my God!

Ah, that's him!

We're rich, Mamelushka!

Start spending!

Ah, Mr. Poitier, I presume?

Excuse me.

Excuse me.

My name's Angus Corky.

And I'm Henry Gaudier-McBreshka.

That's small stuff.

Soon as I've borrowed the tools, I'm starting stone carving.

I'll get you the tools.

Thank you.

You like those?

Very much.

I knew it the moment I set eyes on you.

You're a genius.

Would you accept five pounds?

How much?

Five pounds?

Safe beer!

No, I can't afford that much.

It's a lot of work.

I'll just take this one for now.

You mean five pounds each?

Well, of course.

You're an idiot.

Mamelushka!

Allow me to present my new art dealer.

The one with offices in Paris?

He has just bought one of my drawings for five pounds.

Scrooge!

Mr. Angus Corky, I'd like to present my sister, Sophie Godier Breschke.

The pleasure is entirely mine, mademoiselle.

And mine to surrender, Mr. Porky.

Mmm!

Delicious!

Snouts down, fellow pigs!

Do begin, please, Mr. Porky.

The kind of rare vegetables we like are out of season.

We're poor.

Oh, dear.

Well, I didn't actually...

I was lying about the money.

He's my friend.

I gave him the drawings.

Well, didn't I, Porky?

You'll have it tomorrow.

I promise you that.

Well, there.

You see?

Come, the food will get cold.

Of course, he'll pay.

I know he will.

It's just that you're so easy to cheat!

Yes, I'd rather be treated cheated than cheat.

Oh, that's not the only alternative.

Look, I'm the host here.

I'll decide whether... Oh, I like the man.

He's the host.

What does that make me, the whore?

Well, who buys the food?

Who pays the rent?

Well, who wastes money on stupid trinkets?

Oh, boy.

You shouldn't have... They're for me.

My new outfit.

The first to see the light of day at the exhibition Porky has promised me.

A small thing, but guaranteed to set the art-buying public aflame with enthusiasm.

Zut, a mark of sledding.

A revolutionary gesture.

I'll have to wear them.

Your ears aren't pierced.

No sooner said than done.

They'll think you're a pansy.

They love pansies.

You know the public.

If an artist isn't miserable, he's nothing.

Arcade revolution!

Boys, stop it!

Seeing me in my barbaric splendor means there's

no essential difference between men and women.

No!

No!

You!

Oh!

Oh!

I'd like you very much to come and have dinner with me one of these evenings.

Stop it, boy!

Make it.

Soon.

I'll surrender!

Oh!

A tiger burning in the night, a woman's body burning in the day.

Sensual lights and shades, but with sounds instead of tones.

That sounds more like Blake than Debussy.

I don't smell tigers, but it reeks of sex.

I see lights on the street.

One never sees anything else with an Impressionist.

I thought it was a ballet about homosexuality.

Just what you'd expect from people like Diaghilev.

They say he's had the entire corps de ballet.

Boys, girls, and all the electricians.

And do you associate Impressionism with homosexuality, Mr. Boishka?

It's a lot of cock.

Supper, everyone.

Mmm.

Did you read Hardy's latest?

I read the reviews.

I don't read reviews.

Life, scumbag.

But where else would you get your information?

Information?

You get about enough information out of the

reviews to satisfy a very small illiterate pygmy.

True.

It's always you that's blaming me for ignoring the papers.

Oh, fiddlesticks.

It's the news, not the views that count.

How do you distinguish?

I don't.

I wipe my arse on both.

Pepper?

How's more cider?

Mavis?

Mr. Shaw?

How much a year do you make out of art?

Yes.

What Tom does out of publishing my poor books.

You have no idea the overheads.

Do you include your jewellery in that?

And when the war comes, dear Lionel will make even more.

And when the refugees start to move, they'll give you a statue for a passport.

A Michelangelo for an American passport is cheap.

But if the war comes, it'll kill the artists too.

But not the dealers.

What a cruel thing to say.

I love war.

Ah!

War is good for the human soul.

The bigger the war, the better I like it.

He doesn't mean it.

Oh, yes, I do.

I like what everyone likes.

And everybody likes war.

Otherwise... Why is it so popular?

If I hear you say that again, I'll...

What?

She will shed a pacifist tear.

Why make it all so personal?

Men always make it personal.

Ahem.

What do you do, Miss Brezhka?

I write.

She sings too.

I am a writer.

And have you published anything?

Recently.

The third volume of her nine-volume philosophical

romance has just been received with acclaim in Moscow.

You mean three are out and six in typescript?

Exactly.

Except that my sister prefers longhand.

Do you know Polish folk melodies?

I loathe the peasants and their awful melodies.

She is a noble woman.

I am a communist.

Then I will cut off your head.

A song.

Entitled Melancholy Mazurka.

Translated from the Polish by Sophie Godiebrezhka.

Two fleas living in a rhubarb tree One called you and one called me You had a

stick and I had a fee And we were men of property Down the tree came silly Sam A

most uneducated man And he lived off fantasy and jam

And laughed right merrily And laughed right merrily

He saw that we were fleas of wit So in our eyes he aimed his spit And scored a

perfect hit And laughed right merrily Beautiful.

None of you liked it, you hated it, you

yapper-face-yobber-trap-offspring-of-chimpanzees-ha!

I liked it.

But I don't think I liked you.

She thinks your breath smells.

I wonder how she distinguishes it from your feet.

Tell me, what is your favorite medium, Mr. Breschke?

Breschke.

Stone.

Granite?

No, marble.

But you could carve granite.

Oh, naturally.

But you've used marble a great deal.

My brother carves in most stones, Mr. Shaw.

Sophie!

Marble is my favorite.

Sophie, help me with the coffee, would you?

Excuse me!

Shaw's gonna pin him down if we're not very careful.

How?

He's gonna ask to see one of his non-existent stones.

Oh, sorry.

I'll see him on his way.

Do you sculpt from life?

Life, death, all part of the job.

Henri, we must go.

Actually, I have just finished a torso in marble.

Neoclassic style.

I'll model for you.

That is, if you'd like me to.

He would be delighted.

Oh, I'm so tired.

I must go.

Henri, we will miss the last bus.

Oh, sit down.

I'm eating my pudding.

That new piece you mentioned, the neoclassical torso.

May I come and see it?

Gladly.

When?

Eight tomorrow.

Alas, I'm going to the theater.

Eight a.m.

Make it nine.

Done.

Mr. Borky will give you my studio address.

Oh, boy, you've done it this time.

Bye.

Well, isn't Corky's sculptor divine?

Let's hope his talent will mature.

We'll see.

It's easier to become prime minister of this country than be one of its artists.

But I can't stand her.

The sooner she goes, the better.

Yeah, yeah.

You must come again.

Borky!

Come on!

Oh, sorry, madam.

Wrong window.

Hey, come on.

We've got to get sure stone.

And bring those tools you promised.

All the shops are shut.

Dobrovsky, Borkovsky.

Come on!

Sophie.

Sophie.

Is this any good?

Too much grain.

Do we shouldn't make up your mind?

Oh, we're too near the main road.

On it?

Ah!

Oh, God!

Oh, come on.

Don't play games.

Not buying vegetables, you know.

Choosing the right stone is a creative act.

Michelangelo used to spend six months in his pavement quarry before picking a piece.

You loathe Michelangelo.

Oh, I have to admit, he's getting better.

He's getting better all the time.

Eureka!

This is it.

Come on, quick.

You will be cursed by Edward Timothy West.

Nonsense!

You'll be blessed for taking a load off his chest.

Oh, for God's sake!

Oh, it's hardly the place to mention him.

I went through.

Think of the Jews crossing the Red Sea.

I'm not Jewish.

Please, Gaudiette.

Can't we stop the tea?

No resting!

What time is it?

It must be three.

Six hours to go, then.

So and come, Gaudiette.

I know him.

He never leaves the gallery.

He never leaves the gallery before lunch.

He will.

He'll come.

He'll have his stone.

Nine o'clock on the dock.

Excellent tea, Sophie.

It's nice to be appreciated.

Right.

I'll tell you a story.

Oh, I hope I haven't heard it before.

A man was walking across a field one day...

when he came across a little bird...

so young... it couldn't fly.

Oh, how sweet.

In fact, unless he did something about it... the little bird would die.

Nearby...

there was a newly laid cow puddle... big, rich and steaming.

So...

he picked the little bird up...

made a hole in the cow puddle...

and popped the little bird in.

After a while... what with the cosy warmth... not to mention the delectable aroma...

the little bird perked up... and began to chirrup.

Cheep, cheep, cheep.

A fox was walking along the ditch.

He heard the little bird chirruping away.

Comes over to see what's going on... and... scrunch!

Bites off its head.

And...

the moral is...

it's not always your enemies who drop you in the shit...

and not always your friends who get you out.

But when you're in it...

keep your mouth shut.

I want some sleep.

Oh, what a pity.

Why don't you go and find a nice park bench, then?

Go on, it's only a couple of minutes.

Your admirer, Mr. Porky, will take you.

I am Nerith, Sir Mamelushkina.

My darling soul.

My free one.

My life outside my life.

My permanent reminder of splendour.

My soft voice.

And my happiest when sad.

Not you, Porkhams, my love.

I need you still.

Put the chisels in the stove.

And stoke up.

God!

I'm so tired!

I'm so tired!

I'm so tired!

You know the kind of work I like?

Where every blow is a good one.

Where you know the man can see the thing he wants in the stone...

before he opens the stone.

Chisel.

No messing about.

You ask a carpenter.

And yet...

And yet, unless you let the stone influence you...

and yes, you let it, to quite a large extent, lead you in...

you're lost.

Every blow must be a true one.

Every blow is a risk.

You take your whole life in your hands.

You can always tell a bad artist... like a bad doctor...

by the fact he tries to surround his work with some sort of hocus-pocus.

Sure, there's a mystery.

But then it's as much a mystery to the one who's doing it...

as to the one who's looking at it.

Exactly the same!

I need an audience.

There's no such thing as an artist who doesn't need an audience.

Well, maybe there is.

But in that case, he's a saint as well as an artist.

And a saint first.

He takes his own.

Bad-tempered bugger.

Now, he was a saint.

Paint, paint, paint all bloody day long.

And sells nothing.

But what does he care?

His father was a banker.

You buy some of his stuff, Porkhams.

Keep us all in luxury when we're old and grey and sick of sleep.

But by and large, you'd be wrong to be taken in by that solitary genius stuff.

Of course I do it because it pleases me.

There's nothing wrong with that.

If it doesn't give me a lot doing it, how the

hell is it going to give anything to anybody else?

That's the mystery, Porkhams.

Why, anybody else wants to look at the work

someone like me does and give good money for it?

Amazing.

Why don't they just do their own?

I'm not interested in somebody else's work unless I can steal from it.

Unless it gives me something I can use.

And here?

If there isn't somebody there to see it, then...

Zoot!

As my divine sister would say.

It's just a lump of stone.

Put St. Paul's Cathedral in a cardboard box.

And what have you got?

A heavy box.

After work, good citizens.

Brought by a boiled egg.

You've never done an honest day's work in your life.

Now, my little sexy darling.

Just a bit more off the shoulder.

File on your titty.

Thought he could catch us out, eh?

Mr. Bronski?

What number?

25.

I am Bronski, the world's most famous brain surgeon.

Telegram.

Read it out.

Desolate.

Just remembered prior appointment at gallery.

Do call Shaw.

Serve my liberty!

Let me into the cell immediately!

Oh, stop it, boy!

Shaw has withdrawn the charges.

Pork is paid for the window.

It's down payment on the statue.

What right have you got to pay for the window?

I insist on repaying you.

As your agent, I've got a right to sell your work to whoever I choose.

Myself included.

You will cheat a man out of his punishment.

You did it because you like me, not because you like my work.

If I get away with my deed, it's minimized.

You people make me sick.

I don't want to get off.

If I get off, it means I didn't do anything.

I did it.

I'm glad I did it.

You will be deported, boy.

Please, let's forget it.

I must go, Porky.

I don't get any rest with Henri.

But do you really want to be a governess again?

Yes.

I will have time to do my own work.

We're almost at the end of my savings.

Henri's wages go nowhere.

All those materials, they just eat up the money.

Sophie, please, let me go.

Don't be silly.

It is good of you to pay for the cab.

Anyway, I want to go.

I love him, but I want to go.

I must have my life to myself for a few months.

Yes.

Look after the Porky.

Sorry I can't see you off at the station.

Goodbye, boy.

I must find some work today.

Sorry about your job.

Don't worry about it.

It was no good anyway.

Oh, he'll soon find another one.

You will write?

Take her to Paddington.

Yes, of course I will.

Keep the change.

Here you are.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

I'm sorry.

I too love solitude.

Bye.

Freeze!

Porky!

Come on, Porky!

Let's find some women!

Well, we could go and see Mavis Coldstream.

Really fantastic women.

Big, fleshy, sexy, breasty, manly... Excuse me.

Could I have a light, please?

Yes, of course.

What the... Wait there.

Vote for women!

Vote for women!

My God!

Look at that!

Come on, Porky!

Give us your hat!

A contribution, sir.

Just a few pence.

Your wife will be proud of you.

She ought to be horse-whipped!

I dispute that, sir.

It's a defense.

Someone who provides a little public warmth on a cold night like this can't be all bad.

Come along, ladies!

Now's the time!

Join the movement!

Hot chestnuts!

Come along, ladies!

Extrusive chestnuts!

Here's the day we wanted!

Come on, Porky!

She's our man!

After her!

Evening, Miss Boyle.

The Vertex shows new nightclubs!

Come on, then!

She may need help.

One moment, gentlemen, please.

I'm sorry.

May I see your membership card?

Why give a vote to a woman?

She's got better things to do with her cross.

She's been ruling from her back for ten thousand

years, and she doesn't want a brand-new boss.

For the new one might be difficult to manage, and you

cannot get a man into a marriage unless you make him a king.

Yes, sir.

So, Softboy Slaves, you rule the waves already.

So why spoil a damn good thing?

There she is, Porky.

She must be fire-proof!

Show us your knickers!

Shut up!

Here we go.

I like horses just as much as you do!

Why do I do the things I do?

Everything my mother does, she does to please the Pope, but I don't want virtue,

I want the vote!

Votes for women, votes for women, tra-la-la-la-la-la-lee!

He's certainly worth one!

Great arse!

It's red hot!

Well now, if our priapic fellow European has discharged his creative impetus...

I can't read!

How can I understand you?

Shut up and grow up!

Thank you for your song, Gosch.

Don't go slashing too many pictures, one day you may destroy a good one by accident.

And in a moment, Miss Gosch will sound off a serious blast on behalf of the women...

Get on with it!

The women's suffrage movement.

Yes, the women's suffrage movement.

Get out of the boat and take off her knickers!

Oh, deuces!

Of course, we had hoped to follow this by having a quick sketch by Pablo Picasso.

Never heard of him!

However, it being Monday, he's having his drawing lesson.

You're lucky!

I'm here to replace him!

Draw him by the new genius of the planet Earth!

Concrete by Henri Gaudier-Bresca!

Play the maestro's march!

My assistant, Miss Gosch!

Take your clothes off or we're sunk!

One, two!

Her tits are made of concrete!

Her soul is made of jam!

Tomato soup flows from her nose!

She's the dream of the family man!

Bring me a cup of paraffin!

Or an old sock soaked in scotch!

To touch my concrete venus!

With the all-electric torch!

That's it!

Thank you!

Lovely free expression!

Damn!

I've just thought of a much dirtier song!

Oh, no!

Don't worry about them!

I know something much better we can do.

What?

Blow up the Royal Academy of Art!

Eh?

As I am coming down this weekend, I'll bring the

grammar book instead of sending it for thruppence.

Since your landlady does not permit male visitors, let's meet at Portland,

which is about half way and so... ... As an old one told, has excellent seabaiting.

I will arrive on the 222 from Waterloo.

The train arriving at Platform 4 is the 222 from London.

... Stopping at exciter.

I would like a room for two in which I could also stew some herrings for my brother.

Sorry, lady.

Our Ethel forgot to turn the sign round.

Oh, what is this?

Some oritz or something?

In the middle of winter, suddenly there are no vacancies?

Oh, come on, Mama Lushka.

I want to see the sea.

I haven't seen the sea for 30 years.

Oh, wait a minute.

Please.

Do you have some chambers for my brother and

myself in which I could also stew some herrings?

Oh, bugger the herrings.

Which way is the sea?

Down the lane over there.

Oh, thank you.

Henri!

Wait for me!

I've got to find somewhere to stay.

Later!

We've wasted enough of the day as it is.

What about the night?

You're always looking on the dark side.

Oh, boy.

Wait for me.

I shall be lost.

Oh!

Bastard!

Bastard!

Oh, bloody herrings!

Oh, bloody, bloody herrings!

Whoops!

The child is a snotty-nosed, spoiled brat.

Hates me.

The yokels come out of their holes to stare at me when I go by.

Ugly like... like pigs filled up with beer.

They think I'm an easy foreigner, sex maniacs.

They make me sick, give me a pain in the chest.

The... the cook told me the last governess died of consumption.

So I boil buckets of water, scrubbed out the entire room every week.

To write is impossible.

A great white moon shining on me, menacing, horrible.

They can always come home.

Soon, boy, soon.

It's battling with the weathercocks.

Oh, why did we choose this shortcut?

Listen, I've got something to tell you.

You listening?

Yes, I'm listening.

Just because my eyes are shut, it doesn't mean I'm not listening.

Corky really is gonna give me that exhibition.

He is?

He is.

Oh, boy!

I'm so happy for you!

It'll be a huge success.

Thousands will attend.

And I shall cover the floor with drawings.

They'll be ruined.

Only the bad ones.

It's gonna be my world.

Oh, I so want you to be mild.

Oh, and you will write the catalogue notes.

Corky'd better do that.

No!

I've never done such a thing.

Well, you're the writer, aren't you?

My God.

Look at that.

Stone

for at least a fortnight!

Now I feel it!

Behold your children in their delight!

Dance, Sophie!

Dance!

We must stay here forever, Mameluska.

We'll live in a hut.

We'll have the exhibition here.

The customers can float away their statues in boats.

A fleet of godiers stretching to the far horizon.

Just imagine.

I can do it.

I'll find a studio, then.

I know I can do it.

It will be no ordinary catalogue.

It will be a poem.

A hymn.

To truth.

And beauty!

Oh, boy!

I'm so happy!

Your beautiful home!

It's good.

It's good.

And it is beautiful.

And it's quiet.

And holy.

Oh.

Oh, I love you, Sophie.

I love you.

I'm sorry if I hurt you.

I'm only cruel because I'm afraid.

I'm afraid you might leave me.

I get afraid you don't love me.

But you do love me.

You do.

I do.

Of course I do.

I love you.

Oh, my love.

My love.

My only love.

No.

No.

We mustn't.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

I'm mad.

Why?

After this exhibition, you'll be famous.

You'll be rich.

And if you still... That will make no difference.

We'll see.

We'll see.

If you still love me, then maybe we'll get married.

Come on, it's getting dark.

Oh, where did I put my bag?

Did you see it?

I was dancing.

Oh, I put it near this road.

Oh, where is it?

Where is it?

Oh, God.

Do you think I'm beautiful?

You'll do.

Sexy.

Sexy?

I thought that was a dirty word to you suffragettes.

I'm bored with politics.

I want to be an artist.

Excellent.

The world needs more artists and fewer politicians.

You, my lovers, are poets.

Shall I show you some of my poems?

Show them to my sister when she comes back.

She knows all there is to know.

Why are you always talking about your sister?

I hope she never comes back.

I get fed up with hearing about your sister.

Are you looking forward to sculpting Daddy?

I'm looking forward to his money.

Why else would I lug a hundredweight of clay over here?

Could you give me sculpture lessons?

Lesson one.

If you want to be a sculptress, you better stop sleeping around with poets.

Get to know a few quarrymen.

You'll get a much better ride out of it anyway.

I don't care what I do, so long as it's creative.

I want to leave something behind me that was never there before.

We'll have it read outside.

Oh, I get so bored.

You know, my astrologer says that Virgo is a subject of cosmic boredom.

Oh, no!

I shall dance naked at your exhibition.

I shall dance.

The spirit of nature.

Do you think animals have souls?

You know, Daddy thinks Hannibal is almost human.

Here's the makings of a first-class general.

I'm coming back to your place tonight.

Good morning, Miss.

Good morning, sir.

I'm glad to see you're punctual.

Give him the measurements, Brown.

They are accurate.

I got them from my tailor.

Daddy, Mr. Breschke is an artist.

He looks very poor for an artist.

That's why I'm so cheap.

Do you want me to keep still?

No, you ride where you like, Major.

I'll sculpt you just as you are, horse shit and all.

If it doesn't look like me, you won't be paid.

And if you see yourself anew, I'll get more.

I hope we're not going to have a lot of waffle about artistic insight.

We're not here to make your reputation, but a regimental souvenir.

Something recognizable to the naked eye of a

well-trained fighter at the distance of 40 paces.

What you need is a photographer.

Frankly, I'd have preferred it.

Quicker.

And cleaner.

I should warn you, Major Boyle.

I charge by the cubic inch.

Maybe I'll have a head and shoulders only.

Half the regiment would like to do that.

When's the war starting?

First week in August would be a good time.

Have you got that nose right?

Do you think we'll win?

Hard to say.

By the look of some of our recruits, I'd reckon on us taking a hiding at first.

I'm sure you're making that nose too long.

It'll shrink.

They tell me some young men today would rather go to jail than to war.

Yes, it's all that education that's about.

It's too many fancy ideals.

Like art and so forth.

Art never won a war, laddie.

And there is no higher ideal than patriotism.

Where are all the brave young men of yesterday?

Dead.

Would you die for your country?

You're right, you know.

This nose is too long.

Would you?

Definitely.

I give you my solemn assurance.

In less than a year, this country will be at war.

People like him ought to be put into prison.

Prisons are full of them already.

Better kill them.

Yes.

And then set within the stars.

In there.

You don't live in that hole, do you?

Out taking the air.

I know what they mean when they say... Oh, why bother with that?

When you can have naked me.

Move along, I say.

If we live in an age of beggars, then we must draw beggars.

Put some tea on.

God, what a barn.

Good afternoon, madame.

Can I help you?

Oh, I didn't know you had a servant.

Ah, yes, I'll have some tea, please.

Certainly, madame.

Indian or China?

Indian with a dash of China.

Has madame made an appointment?

To see some drawings, perhaps?

No, I'm his model.

Ah!

Oh, pardon, mademoiselle.

You stupid bitch.

I'll have to speak to your master about you.

Ha!

Oh, it's me.

Sorry to disappoint you.

I should have sent a telegram.

Hello?

Oh, is that all you've got to say?

Um, have you got a cigarette?

Oh, my God.

I didn't realize.

Yes.

Here you are, darling.

Thank you, darling.

Ha!

Darling, is it?

Well, don't let me interfere.

Act as though I wasn't here.

I'll just continue cleaning up the pigsty.

None of that, boy!

Save that for your so-called model.

Now, take no notice of me.

There.

Right.

Gosh, show us some more of those tricks you picked up on the left bank.

Ha!

I've got the time, darling, if you've got the energy.

Loose pussy.

Foreign bore.

You don't mind foreign boredom when it's got a cock, do you?

What do you know about men?

I've had more men than you've had free dinners.

You simple-minded, petty bourgeois.

You couldn't tell a man from a... Two fleas living in a rhubarb tree.

One called you and one called me.

You had a stick and I had a feed.

And we were men of property.

Down the cheek, I'm silly, Sam.

I'm most uneducated man.

In a minute now, you'll be screaming, never darken my door again.

And all the other various cries of the confirming property owner.

And scored a perfect hit.

You, an artist.

You've had the wrong sort of education.

And laughed like Merely.

You are educated.

And that means you're sunk, dearie.

Why don't you go back to the country?

Find yourself a soulful old ploughman.

Somebody more your own age.

Someone you can sit in communion and finish with.

In front of an attractive dunghill.

You can't help Godier.

You just want him to fail.

Like you.

And we were men of property.

Down the cheek, I'm silly, Sam.

I'm most uneducated man.

When you come to your senses, I shall be a dagger.

Saw that we must be the wits.

So in our eyes the angel spits.

And scored a perfect hit.

And laughed like Merely.

And laughed like Merely.

Mama Lushka.

You haven't changed.

Paul.

It's so good to be back.

Hold.

Hold.

Hold me.

Mama Lushka.

Mama Lushka.

Mama Lushka.

We've got two rooms.

We've lived together before, so why not now?

It's only two minutes away.

Two minutes.

Two million zillion trillion light years.

What's the difference?

You want your own room, have your own room.

I can't live with all that noise.

Damn.

Is that exhibition?

I almost wish Pork had never suggested it.

Don't forget your promise.

You'll get your casulos.

You said we'd get married after the exhibition.

I said no such thing.

I said we'd see.

You promised.

We'll see.

I said we'll see.

I'm glad you found a creative outlet.

Well, where are you going?

Where?

Where everyone's going, silly.

The front, of course.

Do you fancy the French dragoons?

Oh, I see.

Daddy knows the man who's in charge of the artist's rifles.

He'll get your commission, if you like.

Well?

Well?

Well, who do you want to go with?

I'm staying.

With these birds.

Where on earth would I see a bird like that?

The same place you see yourself bandaging the

slightly wounded brow of some handsome young officer.

With star shells illuminating your dazzling new aura.

Well, what are you going to do?

This.

Now bugger off.

You ill, red, treacherous savage.

How many of the enemy do you think that sort of rubbish is going to kill?

Well, I could break your head open for a start.

Well, I'm not the enemy, am I?

People who are always talking about enemies are my enemy.

Oh, listen to the messiah.

The Kaiser was quite right to burn you.

Burn those paintings by that Dago Picasso.

You so-called modern artist.

You're just a lot of degenerate cowards.

Yes, we'll soon have enough for a really beautiful show around Christmas.

It'll all be over by Christmas.

And how do I catalogue exhibit number 52?

I'll christen this one.

All right.

How about trench motor firing a... Grenade.

No.

Bird swallowing a fish.

How are your parents?

Safe?

As yet.

You'll never guess.

Augustus John has just signed up.

I thought he was a pacifist painter.

No, he's an official war artist.

No fighting, but a full commission, a paintbrush and a king's uniform.

Hypocrite.

And no one thinks any the worse of him.

Look, my effort is just as important as the war effort.

Anyway, when are you going?

Unfortunately, I've got a weak bladder.

Then piss off.

And what happens to all this so-called art when it's sold at the exhibition?

It goes into the houses of the rich.

And nobody sees it for 200 years.

Or it's sold abroad.

How's your new room?

All right.

So a parasite who feeds off a parasite...

can always say he's working to kill his host.

I am not a parasite.

I've put something back into the pot.

You amuse the educated.

Nothing else.

An ignorant.

How can I amuse clever people?

That's the function of the mediocre.

What I do will help people.

I am responsible and I don't care what they say.

Things are beautiful and that helps.

Definitely.

It helps.

Green's Cathedral in flames.

Big German push.

Allied retreat on all fronts.

Extra.

All the latest.

Paris threatened.

Paris threatened.

Star News standard.

All the latest.

Big German advances.

Green's Cathedral in flames.

Star News standard.

Extra.

Latest.

Big German advances.

Hey, Mama Luschka?

Mama Luschka?

Let me in.

I wanna make an honest woman of you.

Go away, boy.

Go away, boy.

I'm tired of your tricks.

Let's get married, Mama Luschka.

I'm going away to fight.

Stop all this nonsense.

Go home to bed.

We'll get married after the exhibition, like I said!

Courage, Mama Lushka.

Dearest Henri, you were joking, I thought, when you said you were going to fight.

I wanted to call after you, but you were gone.

I will marry you after the exhibition, as I said.

Of course I love you.

I always have.

Take care of yourself.

Sophie.

I'm not at all bored in the trenches.

I'm doing some little pieces of sculpture.

A few days ago, I did a small maternity statue out of the butt end of a German rifle.

It's a magnificent walnut, and I managed to cut

it quite successfully with an ordinary knife.

That's a saleable item.

For the last 12 days, I have succeeded in making the enemy angry.

We were only 50 yards off, and I got a bugle to blow false alarms.

Still blowing his own trumpet!

Then I insulted them and went out of the trench to the French newspaper.

A German came out to meet me and gave me the Hanover Zeitung in exchange.

It was very amusing.

But I profited by the excursion to discover

an outpost on which I directed our artillery.

At 3 p.m., four big shells fell on it, and 20 chaps in it went up to heaven.

I like the war.

I'm in lots of action.

Each night, we go out and kill Germans.

I have killed at least four myself.

When the shells go off, it reminds me of thunder.

And I look up and say, Father... Whoever read that should be shot.

He was.

Last Thursday.