All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E05.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

I stopped at the third floor, a reflex,
as if I was going to your flat.

You forgot I had my little nest up here.

- A long time ago.
- Yes.

Come in.

- That’s my chair.
- Shit!

IN THERAPY

ESTHER – FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 2015, 7 P.M.

Philippe Dayan, in the flesh!

And you, you look gorgeous.

We know it’s untrue,
but we never tire of it.

We want to be attractive to the end.

It’s really weird being back here.

- Do you still have patients?
- Barely any.

This has become my monastic cell.

My flat is full of memories, but here...

I empty my mind and meditate.

I try to write.

- Do you want some tea?
- No, thanks.

An organic biscuit, no sugar, no gluten?

By prescription only?

Very astute, though. I’m on a diet too.

I’ve aged too.

What are you trying to write,
here in your cell?

I wish I knew. I make notes,
thinking about what I’ve learned.

There’s no shape to it yet.

It can’t be easy,
especially now that Gaëtan’s gone.

I have to tell you that,
despite our conflicts,

and even though
I was extremely critical at times,

I considered him an extraordinary
practitioner, an amazing theoretician,

and, of course,
a man who meant a lot in my life.

That’s nice to hear.

I thought I’d never get used
to his absence.

But with time...

everything slows down, you forget.

It comes in the end.

But I’m not sure I like it,

the idea that you can outlive a man
with whom you spent 40 years.

How are you?

On the whole I’m okay.

Arthritis and cholesterol,
hence the diet.

But I’m in a crisis.
No worse than ten years ago, though.

I go from crisis to crisis,

but as it’s never the same one,
I’m always surprised.

- How’s Charlotte?
- Fine.

She finally got her professorship.
So that’s what I call her now:

Professor Dayan.

In Paris?

No, that’d be too simple.

She’s always back and forth
to Strasbourg.

But she only stays there
one night a week.

That’s when I become a Jewish mom
and make meatballs for the kids.

And the kids?

The kids.

Emmanuel is... twenty.

One meter ninety! He’s not a kid.

He’s at Edinburgh Law School,
specializing in European law.

How did we beget a future president
of the European Commission?

And our dear Liza,
what can I tell you?

Being Liza takes up all her energy,
that hasn’t changed.

How old is she now?

She turned seventeen last month.

Times flies, huh?

I think you’d recognize her
in the street.

The same face,
the same questions about the world,

never resolved.

And, of course, now there’s Adam.

Adam?

Adam, yes. He’s eleven.

You’ve never seen him.

He was born a while
after we stopped seeing each other.

Yes, the following year.

The child of your new life, in a way.

If you like.

An existential crisis every ten years
and a child.

That’d be all I’d need, another kid now,
for my fifty-something crisis!

I called you last night because...

in fact,

I’m tired, Esther.

I have no appetite, no desire,

I can’t bear people
or the world the way it is.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just becoming
a miserable old git.

And above all, my patients...

I feel I’ve lost all patience with them.

I can’t stand them anymore.

If they knew what I was thinking
during our sessions

they’d run a mile.

All of them?

When you called yesterday,
had something in particular happened?

I’d seen a couple.

You see couples now?

No, not...

It’s a favor.

I don’t do couples therapy.

Remember what Gaëtan said?

“Our job isn’t to provide
the priests’ after-sales service.”

As if we didn’t know that a man
and a woman always have problems.

The world revolves around that.
The age-old quarrel!

You sound like him.

I agreed to see them.

She’s pregnant
and doesn’t know if she wants it.

But her real problem,
as you may suspect,

is that she doesn’t know
if she wants to keep her husband.

And he’s understood that.

For once he understands his wife,
and he’s in a state.

I can see all that,
but I find it so tiring.

He had a go at me yesterday,
predictably.

As if to prove his virility
he cornered me.

He ordered me to give them an answer

in an excessively aggressive way.

And, rather than using that,

all of a sudden, believe it or not,
I was overwhelmed.

I’d had enough, and I played along.

- I said, “Go ahead, have the abortion.”
- Shit!

I immediately regretted it.

But you can’t catch the arrow
once you’ve fired it.

How did he take it?

He shot it back at me.

He called me a killer.

And that hurt you.

A lot more than it should have.

How do you interpret it?

You don’t have to look far
for the associations.

I’m like everyone else.

The attacks have really affected me.

They happened 200 meters away,
as you know.

Of course, I immediately thought of you.

Don’t put on that hurt expression
I know so well.

I have connections everywhere.

I texted Marine Duruel the next day.
She told me you were fine.

You can check if you like.

But for now carry on.

You mentioned the attacks.

They dislodged something deep.
I’m afraid.

The order of things
was deeply shaken up,

the whole world seems strange to me.

A worrying strangeness and a humiliated
husband calling you a killer.

You know,

the night after the attacks,

I dreamed about a big butcher’s shop
on the outskirts of Paris,

a sort of hall open to everyone,

with these bearded guys in white coats
who were chopping

mountains of meat into tiny pieces
with huge knives.

Most worryingly,
that image is from my childhood.

A kosher butcher’s
where my grandmother went,

in the Jewish quarter in Rabat.

There was always this guy
in his white coat,

skinny, bearded,
and wearing trifocal glasses,

chopping up meat.

And your other patients?
You’ve only mentioned this couple.

What can I say?

I’m annoyed with myself because...

I find them all so predictable.

How did I get to this stage?

There’s this young woman,
a surgeon,

who’s had
an intense erotic transference to me.

And this cop. Heavy stuff!

It was during my session with him

that I realized how badly
was still affected by that night.

He’s in special forces.
The poor chap went in the Bataclan,

so he saw the killers up close.

It shook him up
and he’s not equipped to deal with it,

he doesn’t have the means.

He has obvious PTSD symptoms,
but he doesn’t want to hear it.

I want to give them a good shake
and say, “Wake up!”

Right, so that’s where you’ve got to!

Esther,

don’t get me wrong, you know
I’m a conscientious practitioner.

I’m doing my job,
I know how to help them.

That’s not the problem.

The problem is erosion.

I’m losing my motivation.

Remember presenting the patients
at the hospital,

with Gaëtan?

I miss that.

Being there, with the trainee analysts,

talking to patients with anorexia,
paranoia or melancholia.

I felt their contribution.

I felt that, as they watched us work,
they understood what psychotherapy was.

It reassured me, I think.

I need to be reassured.

That’s human.

I need to hear now and then
that I’m doing what I do well.

Why didn’t you come to his funeral?

When you left you were angry,

a bit like how I sense
you’re feeling now.

You left angry,
and now you’ve come back angry.

What is this anger? Where is it from?

So bad as not to come to the funeral,

or even phone him towards the end.

He was waiting for it to the last day.

I don’t know, I regret that.

I was hesitating.

I was going to come to the funeral.

I even jumped in a taxi to come.

But on the way
we went past the Panthéon,

and I told the driver to turn back.
I couldn’t do it.

It was a father and son type thing
between Gaëtan and me.

What else can I say?

We tackled that

when I was seeing you
as your monitor.

- Don’t you remember?
- No.

You talked to me about your father.

When you called yesterday, I thought
something had happened to your family.

I expected you to talk about that.

Really?

People see an analyst
because they have something to say

and something they don’t want to say.

You think I’m here as a patient?

That this is an analysis session?

No.

I don’t know, I just came to talk.

- You were seeing me for 10 years.
- You were my monitor.

Oh, yes, an enormous difference!

So what are the two of us doing here?

Charlotte and I have been arguing a lot
for quite a while now.

What about?

You know.

Two main subjects.

My work.

She says I’m with my patients too much,
that I’m not even home when I am.

So I ask her to examine that.

That makes her furious, she says
I’m treating her like a patient.

She says I hide
behind my psychiatrist’s mask

to avoid living as a man.

She’s stayed pretty feisty.

You find it funny?

What can I say?

Yes, I keep human relationships
at a remove.

It’s my job to help people see
what drives them subconsciously.

I can’t help it if it spills over
into my perception of my wife.

She’s jealous of my patients
like she’d be of a mistress.

- What’s the other subject?
- Adam.

That’s a huge conflict.

Adam is...

a very bright boy, very clever.

He’s at an age
where he needs autonomy,

where he needs to spread his wings,

but he’s Mommy’s little boy.

That’s a classic in lots of families.

But Charlotte
is totally caught in that trap.

She won’t let him grow up,

and she projects
all her worries onto him.

They can’t be apart...

Luckily, you’re there.

That’s fatal in that sort of situation.

She has a huge problem
allowing me any input.

He’s a prisoner of this exclusive
relationship, and he’s suffering.

Like all boys fighting the anguish
of an all-powerful phallic mother,

he’s developed protection strategies,
over-investing in the intellect.

I understand Charlotte. She can’t like
being called a phallic mother.

When he was 8, his maths abilities
made her think he was a gifted child.

I refused to let him go for tests.

She wants him to go to private school
so he won’t be bullied

because he’s “different”.

That’s what’s ruined French society.

The gifted here, the sick there,
the rich, the poor...

Everyone ends up on pills,
and the final result is a bloodbath!

You really are very angry
with everyone.

Your patients, your wife,
private schools...

I’m right to be, aren’t I?

I was cut off from reality,
not seeing how sick the world was.

It’s a harsh awakening.

It was that night that I understood.

Charlotte and I were meant
to be going out.

We could have been caught up
in the chaos.

But we had a huge argument just before.

She told me

that she’d contacted a private school.
Catholic, to boot! Can you imagine?

It went from bad to worse,
we canceled the babysitter,

Charlotte went off to bed in tears,

I tried to smooth things out with Adam,
and I took refuge in my office.

Know what I did? I drank.

Sparkling water?

Armagnac.

Reading Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Until I was completely drunk
and fell asleep on my couch.

There!

Pathetic, right?

Liza woke me when she got in
at two in the morning.

It had taken her four hours to get back
from Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

She’d tried to call us all evening.

She swore at me, her way
of telling me how scared she’d been.

Do you realize?

With our city a bloody battlefield,
my daughter lost outside,

my eldest a thousand kilometers away,

there I was, hungover on Armagnac
after arguing with my wife.

When Liza woke me up that night,
I really woke up.

That’s what I came here to talk about.

I locked myself away for too long,
and now I realize

that the world at large
is collapsing beneath us.

You have nothing to say?

Why are you here, Philippe?

To talk, so you can help me find myself!

To help you understand
why the world’s in a bad way?

After you haven’t spoken to me
for 12 years?

I don’t think so.

There’s something else,
something that requires my expertise.

I ask about your family,
and you digress about the attacks.

We can have a drink after
and discuss the state of the world,

but right now
I’d rather tackle the real subject.

You’re being a shrink!

Yes, what do you want to do about it?

At times I’m stricken with doubt.

It may sound stupid,
but it all fits together.

She gets back from Strasbourg
late on Tuesday.

Or she stays another night,
for a faculty meeting.

The other day I surprised myself
checking her lecture times online.

Her son in a Catholic school
isn’t what scares you.

- You’re afraid she has someone else.
- I’m afraid.

Then I talk myself out of it.

It comes back,
I talk myself out of it again...

What can I do?

- Talk to her.
- Absolutely not!

I’d look ridiculous.

You’d risk losing
your superior position,

coming down to Charlotte’s level,
among the mortals.

I shouldn’t have told you.

You know her, you have no distance,

and you’re projecting onto her
your grudge with me!

You’re the one who wants
to bring me down!

I’m just asking
why you won’t talk to her.

It’s not just that I don’t want
to talk to Ariane...

Charlotte...

Who’s Ariane?

A patient, she’s a surgeon.

The erotic transference?

You mentioned her
at the beginning of our talk.

And?

My dear Philippe,
you’re not just anyone.

You’re frightfully intelligent
and frightfully perceptive.

Like all shrinks, you use your learning
to escape the truth.

So there’s what you came here to say,

what you came not to say...

and what you came
absolutely not to say.

- How long has it been, you and Ariane?
- What?

Her erotic transference
is classic resistance.

We’re going to work on it.

I don’t know what you’re writing,
but you should revise the basics.

Something struck me earlier.

The comment about having a child
for your fifty-something crisis.

And just before you called me
you had a run-in with a couple

about whether
they should keep their baby.

So, when you said “Ariane”
instead of “Charlotte”,

maybe it’s silly, but it worked
like a short-circuit in my mind.

Could this Ariane
be a very attractive future mother

for a man
having a fifty-something crisis?

Bravo!

Brilliant!

Except that it all falls apart.

A perfect example
of wild interpretation.

Signifiers picked here and there,

and linked according to the logic
of your fantasy.

And what style!

No sense of punctuation, tempo,
form, interpretation...

“The analyst style”, Esther,
as Gaëtan so cleverly put it.

“An interpretation must be a puzzle,”
Lacan said.

The patient has to solve it.

The analyst doesn’t provide a grotesque
simplification of what’s been said.

That’s the work of a charlatan.

And I’m not the one who’s angry.

It’s you.

You’ve been angry for 12 years.

Going over and over all your grievances,
waiting for the right moment.

You did it with Gaëtan,

using theory to settle your scores
and assert your power.

And I knew it too, that’s why I left.

I’m wondering why I came here.

Yes, I’m wondering that too.

But, unlike you,

I haven’t given up hope
of understanding why.

I agree I lack objectivity about certain
aspects of our past relationship.

But I’m certain
that doesn’t cover everything..

Don’t use that as a defense
against what I’m trying to tell you.

You came to see me
with a subconscious motivation

related to what’s happening
in your marriage, but also, I think,

in your office with that young woman.

My marriage is fine.

Or as fine as it can be in this period
that’s difficult for everyone.

My patient is my patient,
I can handle that.

That’s not the problem.

I didn’t come to see you about that.
You’re trying to trap me in it.

The problem,
that you can perceive yourself,

is related to a feeling of unease
that has arisen in your office.

I’ll go back
to your very pertinent question.

Why me?

Why not your monitor?

You don’t have a monitor.

Esther, listen to me.

I know my job.

Yes, I should have got a new monitor,
but the truth is...

You’ll like this.

Cuvier and his pals
at the Freudian Association

aren’t up to the task.

What I told them went over their head.

So I’ve been monitoring myself.

And I promise you
that if I didn’t feel...

You can’t carry on like that.

There is absolutely no compromising
on that rule.

Now, as an emergency measure,

we’ll have to see each other
at least for a while, once a week.

You have to sort this out.

Then we’ll see about finding someone
as your regular monitor.

Do we agree?

Okay.

Does this time slot suit you?

I have to ask you one last thing.

Sorry, but the last time we met,

do you remember
what we talked about?

That was 12 years ago.

We talked about your father.

You told me about your anger
the day you found out

that he’d gone off
with one of his patients.

How many times
do I have to tell you

that I’m in control
of what happens in my office?

My father was a neurosurgeon.

Different ethics
from those of psychoanalysis.

No relation to what we know
about transference or how we use it.

Ariane is in safe hands,

you can be sure of that.

I’m not in the habit of sleeping
with my patients. It was your Gaëtan

who notoriously slept
with his young and pretty colleagues.

There! That’s the parallel of what
was on your mind, consciously or not,

12 years ago,
when you talked to me about your father.

To think I almost fell
for the trap earlier

when I said you looked gorgeous.

In fact, at first view, I thought
I was sitting opposite an old lady.

We’ll leave it there,
there’s no point persisting.

I think we both realize
it was a bad idea.

Yes.

Philippe, I really think
you should talk to Charlotte.

It’ll do you good to clear the air.

And I still think you should talk
to someone about your practice.

It’s important.

You have to.

I’ll see.

Anyway, if you have any doubts
or questions, I’m here.

Don’t hesitate.

I appreciate that.

But don’t count on it.

As you wish. Goodbye, Philippe.

Goodbye, Esther.