All language subtitles for Yes.2004.1080p.WEBRip.x264.AAC5.1-[YTS.GG - YTS.BZ]

Downloaded from
YTS.BZ

Official YIFY movies site:
YTS.BZ

They say my cleaning
is the best they've ever known.

But cleanliness, of course,
is an illusion.

Those of us who clean
as a profession

know the deeper source of dirt
is always there.

You can't get rid of it.

You cannot hide
or put a lid on it

as long as human life is there.

It's us, the skin we shed,

and then the hair.

I think of what I do
as therapy for homes.

You know, I often see
the pain imprinted on a bed.

If you spot a stain
that should not be in there,

of course you know at once
what's going on.

But then you go
into another room,

the one he keeps his papers in,
or so he says.

He sleeps in there
from time to time as well.

What was I saying?

Yes, it all relates.

The evidence on things
like, um, dirty plates

and socks and underwear

and other things
I shouldn't mention

that he sometimes flings
into the toilet

and thinks I won't see--

Oh.

because he flushes.

But unfortunately,
he doesn't check it's gone.

It's down to me to try again.

Sometimes I fish it out.

It's quicker in the end.
It floats.

I doubt they'll ever realize
I know it all.

They think
that those of us who clean

are small somehow
in body and in mind.

We fall out
of the line of sight.

Invisible,
we work our magic.

Indivisible,
one from the other.

We're a mass.

No soul, no rights to speak of,

just a basic role to play

in keeping their lives
looking good.

Cosmetic artists,

that is what
we should be called.

Or dirt consultants.

Nobody said
that losing love's

like being dead--

- How could you?
- -or deaf or dumb.

In our house.

How could you,
in our house?

Oh, don't.

Don't what?

Don't make a scene.
Don't make it worse.

I'm not.

Where? Our bed?

The sofa?

Or perhaps a chair.

That's fine.

Um, forgive my question,
but are you all right?

I'm fine,
thank you.

Are you sure?
Uh, yes, quite.

A woman left alone...

If it was me,
I wouldn't.

Wouldn't what?

Let such a beauty
out of my sight,

not for one moment, no.

- "A woman left alone.
- I wouldn't."

"Wouldn't what?"

"Let such a beauty
out of my sight,

"not for a moment, no.

And let me add..."

I'd like to steal you

from the man who cannot see
that you're a queen.

When are you free?

My God, you're fast.

Oh, no, quite slow.

- I don't believe this.
- I must say no, definitely.

It's you.

You knew.

I guessed.

That's good.

I said I'd call.

I thought you would.

Ah, you're over there.

Quite far away.

You sound so near.
And when are you--?

Returning?
Mmm.

In a day or two.

I'd like to meet.

Yes. Where? You say.

Let's walk somewhere
and, uh, eat.

And talk.

What's that?

My cab. I'm getting out.

I cannot hear.

You'll have to shout.

I'll call again.

Oh, good. Yes, do.

I'm glad I found you.

I understand that you've
invited me to make a case

that life begins
at three hours

or at one or two
or maybe four,

as if there is a moment when
we can be sure that we're human.

You want evidence,

material,

not big ideas
nor common sense,

but what is measurable,

what you can see,

and not just once,
but many times, repeatedly.

For this is science,
and that's what we do.

But wait a minute...
is this really true?

Could objectivity
be just a point of view?

We interpret what we see

and can see what we expect
in embryology.

When a man
first saw sperm magnified,

he thought he saw
a little man inside,

and those that looked were sure
that they could see one too,

so eager were they to agree.

Look at this.

Man or mouse?

The mystery is that
each cell knows its destiny.

Yes.

Who?

Oh, Sister Maude,
of course.

Hello.
It's been a while.

It has.
How time does go.

No, she's not here.

Of course
I'll tell her. Yes.

I'm sure
she meant to call.

Oh, I would guess the weekend,
but of course, one never knows.

Yes, always working,
that's the way it goes.

And how is her aunt?

Oh. Oh, dear. How sad.
Is it serious?

Oh, dear,
that does sound bad.

Oh, quite.

Of course.
I'll speak to her tonight.

Except when she gets back,
he will be out.

That's how
they organize their lives.

I doubt if they will
see each other for a week.

They leave each other notes,
but rarely speak.

Hello.

Where are you from?

I'm Irish, from Belfast.

But you sound--
I know, I know. American.

They took me there
when I was 10.

And you?

I'm from Beirut.

My land
is made of stones,

but we have trees
that blossom in the spring

and then release
their fruit.

We have cherries,
plums and peaches,

and the queen of all,

the tree that reaches for the
sun to fill its seed with gold,

the yellow fruit,
the apricot.

Ah!

The old
and wisest say

this fruit
will keep them young,

and you can taste her secret
with your tongue.

Potato is our apricot.

We bake, we boil,
we mash, we fry,

and we make a flour of it
for dumplings in our stew

or bread or scones
or pancakes.

The famine
haunts us still, you see.

We too are haunted by our dead,
it seems.

They speak to us in riddles
in our dreams.

So many killed.

They ask the question,
"Why? Did we have to die?"

Look, shall we think
of something sad?

This conversation's
far too light.

That's bad,
yes, absolutely.

You're right.

My auntie in Belfast
once said to me,

"Survivors can't forget.
The memory is all that's left.

"We cannot let it go.

If it is lost,
then who'll ever know?"

She brought me up.

I loved her so.

My parents went away
when I was two.

They said
they'd fetch me in a month,

but then a month
became a year.

My father flew back home
from time to time.

Mmm.
I never knew when I would go.

Do you believe in God?
Um...

She didn't.

So I had to pray at school

and then go back home

and say that I thought
reason was the way, the light.

That God was dead.

This was a Catholic school.

They fed us catechism,
fear of hell,

fear of punishment as well.

They hit us hard
to do us good

and told us that we never would
survive without our faith.

My aunt said
they were hypocrites.

You can't imagine how it was
to be alone with such a split,

but to atone
for sinful doubt,

I searched for truth with
all the passion of my youth.

You found it?

Yes. Science.

So you think you can
penetrate the mind of God?

I do not know if God has a mind
or if there is such--

Such golden hair.
I don't believe...

We can agree...

To disagree?

Mmm. How true.

I'm talking
far too much.

Now,
what have you...?

We'd rather sing than speak.

It leaves us free
to mourn or to rejoice.

Ultimately,
there always is a choice.

So you see,

we're not
so different really,

you and me.

Speak to me.

Of what?

What is there to say?

Too much.
Or nothing.

Please.
Try anyway.

Well, I adore
the number one.

One you, one me,
one moon, one sun.

Must I revolve
around you, then?

Am I the silver planet
circling round the gold?

Are you the source of light
and heat,

whilst I'm shadow,
pulling watery tides,

and cold?

You hear meaning
where there's none, I fear.

I spoke of one,
a number, an idea,

my preference
for...the single state.

That's all.

"Single" is a word
based on illusion.

Life itself
develops from a fusion.

Two is joining,
letting go,

attraction and rejection,
yes and no.

It's not a solo,

but a sweet duet
that's played to bring us here,

and then forget how it was
before we met the other.

It was two that brought us
to the mother.

Desire that led us
to the lover.

You're right,

but now I'd like
to speak of three that meet.

There's you and...him,

and now there is me.

Oh, God.

Let's hide inside
the number four.

A house with walls, and with
a door that closes on the chaos.

We've gone too far.
Hmm?

I forgot the thought
that precedes one.

The thought that's not.

The void, the vast
and endless state of none,

containing, holding, God-like.

It's the one and only number
that we really need.

Naught is the majesty

that rules our lives,
unseen and silently.

Nice.

But a bit too mystical
for me.

Someone invented zero

so that we could
count and measure

the unthinkably large,
unwieldy numbers,

and it was then, by multiplying
to the power of 10,

that we began to measure space
and so to time.

Yeah,
you tricked me.

No.

Yeah, you did.

Of course
you start with one

and then give yourself
the source of all the numbers.

No, lovely lady.
Mmm.

What I meant to say was this:

You are the one.
The light of day.

The velvet night.

The single rose.

The hand I want to hold.

The secret country,

land of all my longings.

There.

You have my world.

I used to lay the blonds
who came my way,

and they were ready for it,

night or day.

I'd look at them.

I wouldn't say a word.

And they were on their backs

as if they'd heard
a heavenly command,

and then they'd cry.

At first with pleasure
like they'd never had,

and then they phone you up
and drive you mad.

The weeping and the wailing
and the rest.

They'd ruin it!

At first, they were the best.

Those babes.

But now, at last,
I've seen the light.

Temptation's there to teach us
how to fight.

The devil comes
in every shape and size.

Those that resist him
get the prize.

The prize is Jesus.

Thank the Lord above.

He is the maximum,
top source of love.

Now, hold it there!

Some girls might be tarts,
but they're not evil.

They've got broken hearts.

They do it
'cause it's all they know.

They're used for sex
when they are kiddies.

They're abused
from start to finish.

Then they're on the streets

taking drugs
instead of eating sweets.

They haven't got
a chance.

Back home,
I'd walk around a bit,

chat with them, you know?

Sometimes. Just talk.

You'd what?

Just talk?
You're not that fucking good.

You'd fucking do it
if you fucking could.

You know fuck-all
about my fucking life!

I know you're fucking skint.
So did your wife.

Fucking leave that
out of fucking this.

I'm only joking!
Can't I take the piss?

The difference is

I never had to pay her.

Yeah, so you fucki''
always say.

No fucking woman's
free of charge, no way.

You fancy one,
but there's no fucking lay.

Unless you buy their drinks
all fucking night.

It's not the drinks.
You have to treat them right.

They want respect.

Respect?

And dignity.

Oh, Jesus Christ!
I've seen the fucking light.

You shag them,
then you chuck them away,

and now you got
the fuckin' cheek

to say
that you respect them.

And they're fucking white
and fucking blond.

Come on now, big boy,
you'll pull a girlie soon.

Don't start a fight.

I saw a woman once,
upon a bus.

She was a foreigner,
not one of us.

She sat alone,
this tourist from the West.

Her trembling bosom
in a skintight vest.

The men were staring
at her from behind.

The same scenario in every mind.

There was a television--

On the bus, with
fucking videos and all,

like us?
Don't interrupt!

What happened next?
Poor lass.

Each fucking Arab
got a piece of ass.

An image came up
on the shaking screen.

A porno movie,
fucking gangbang scene!

Shut up!

He is right,
the image was obscene.

But not the way you think.

It was a girl,

a young one, fair and fresh,

a lovely pearl
with long, fair hair

that blew around her head
like golden candy floss,

as she shot dead one man
after another with her gun.

We stared and sweated

as the blazing sun beat down
upon the bus, but didn't care.

She wore a costume
that was hardly there,

a little piece
of fabric

round her hips
and covering her breasts,

and on her lips
some glossy red.

And every time she killed a man,

her lips would open.

Yes.

She spilled their blood
with pleasure.

And she wore a flag.

The cloth that covered her
was not a rag,

it was a symbol.

Stars and stripes.

I swear this was
a blond American.

Ah.

They share their women's bodies
with the world, you see?

It's true.
They have no shame or modesty.

Come on now, lads.

It's not all
black and white.

They might be wrong,
but you're not in the right.

Where he comes from,
the lassies wear the veil.

They've got no life,
it's like they're in a jail.

Too fucking right.

Some wear those things
like beaks.

They look like fucking crows.

Gives me the creeps.
Aye.

They're oppressed.

But what about
the vest?

That one up front
all trembling and the rest.

She was a foreigner,
therefore a guest.

And we were hosts,
therefore we were polite.

That's all
that happened?

What a load
of shite!

My godmother's here.
I'm gonna have to go. Bye.

Hi, gorgeous.

Mwah!

I'm feeling fat.

What do you think?

Oh, darling girl,
you're lovely,

and you're more.

You'll have a stream of lovers
who'll adore you.

Not just for your eyes
and glossy hair

and for
your slender body.

Don't despair.
You're not fat.

But even if you were,
you'd still be beautiful.

You see. You think I'm huge.
I knew it.

I did not infer
that you were overlarge.

And anyway...

what your godmother
is trying to say

is this, Grace:

There's so much more to you
than your reflection.

So much more to do than stand
and stare, obsessed with...

You're not fat.

Don't waste another
breath of yours on that.

But don't you worry about you?
The lines and stuff?

Pursuit of beauty
is the rule.

They say you mustn't let it go
without a struggle.

I will be there with color
covering every hair that's gray,

and cutting straightaway
if there's a wrinkle.

You wait and see.
I'll do it when I'm 23.

How's school?

Okay.

What interests you most?

You mean, what's fun?

I know you like to boast

that you're a party girl
without a brain.

I don't believe you, Grace.
Now, try again.

If you insist.

I suppose there is something
I quite like to think about.

I...find I lie in bed

and I start to drift and dream.

Things really aren't
as they seem.

That's true enough.

From a bit closer,

we see that everything
is really chemistry.

The world is made of sulfur
and of tin,

phosphorus and lead
and nitrogen...

Of mercury, zinc and hydrogen.

Of gold and silver
and uranium.

Of carbon and iron
and vanadium.

Argon, potassium,
titanium.

So, Grace, what do you
really want to be?

Famous.

I was a doctor.

With a knife.

I cut the flesh
to save the life.

A surgeon, yes.

My father too.

But I came here.

What could I do?

I use my knife
to cut the food.

I do it well.
I'm very good at cutting meat.

Whoa!

I chop.

I dice the ham,

which I don't eat.

I slice it wafer-thin.

So delicate.

Like ladies' lace.

It's very nice to look at.

Silky to the touch.

I like my work, yes. Very much.

But surely,

don't you feel that you're
wasting what you were?

I mean, the task
that you trained for.

Why did you choose
to leave a country

that could use your talents
properly?

No reason.

Why should I jump in a plane

and, grieving,
fly halfway round the world?

Hmm?

Perhaps...yes.

I forgot.

I was a surgeon.

Now the plot has changed.

The story has been revised.

The hero's been reduced.

Downsized.

A lower kind of man.

A cook.

The kind of man
you wouldn't look at.

Is that what you want to say?

Not good enough
for you today?

One night, I saved a man
from certain death.

I operated,

and when he took a breath,

I knew that he was safe,
and I felt good.

I'd done my job with skill,
the way I should.

I turned to go,

but standing in the door
were three men that I knew.

But I was sure
they hadn't come to talk,

for it was late,
they carried guns

and in their eyes was hate.

They told me

I was wasting
precious skill and time

on someone that might later kill
a child of theirs...or mine.

Before my eyes,
they shot him dead.

They said, "You can't disguise
one of them as a patient.

From now on, you treat
our people only. Do you hear?"

I packed my bags at once and...

I was gone.

They killed a man
and murdered an idea

that doctors
answer to human need,

without the thought
of color or of creed,

and then

they had the effrontery to claim

that they had done it
in my people's name.

It's something
that you wouldn't understand.

Oh, but I do.

You're not the only ones.

I feel your story--

in my blood and bones.

I see a father
calling to his son.

I see the houses crumble,
dust and stones.

I hear the gunfire and the
knock at night upon the door.

I see the women's fright.

I hear the adolescent
called to fight.

I see him march away in morning
light and not look back.

He knows his mother weeps.

She fears that she will
lose another son.

She's buried two already.

Listen to her litany as the
tears glisten on her cheeks,

and to the bell that's ringing,
calling her to church

to join the singing

and to praise the Lord.

Yes, I know of

so-called "holy war."

You do not have to go so
very far from here to find it.

You're looking good.

Well, thank you, Kate.
Am I?

I think I see a sparkle
in your eye.

As for me, I'm tired.

My limbs are sore.
My feet are aching.

I'm such a bore.
I'm sorry.

I've just been at home,

and you have gone
halfway around the world.

How you can climb
out of your bed at dawn

when you've had three or four
hours sleep at most...

But then, you see, that is the
difference between you and me.

I simply do not
have your energy.

Oh, what nonsense.
You're amazing.

You have far more stamina
than me.

What was
the conference about?

They want an easy,
ethical way out

so that the public
doesn't have to feel

we're killing living things.

But are you?

Kate!
I'm sorry.

But I really hate to think
of those poor little--

Cells! They're cells.
That's all they are.

Sorry.

Do they feel pain?

Oh, why must I justify
my work again?

How are the children?

Fine.

The little ones, as usual,
are divine.

But, of course,
the giantess is trouble.

She stays upstairs

in the heap of rubble
that she calls her room

and never talks to me.

I hear you took her out
the other day.

Yeah.
How was it?

Lovely.
For me, anyway.

Yes.

But then,
she so looks up to you.

She thinks I'm dull.

Sometimes I wish that
I could get away like you,

just take off
on some sunny day.

Ah! One airport's
like another.

I used to dream
of travel, but...

Now I pack and unpack
suits and shoes.

That's all they see,
the haircut and the clothes,

even with me.

I envy you.

I envy you.
Oh, why?

Because you're free to wear your
ancient tracksuits all the time

and T-shirts covered
in your baby's slime.

Oh, thanks.

That lovely portrait
really gives a feeling

for the life
a mother lives.

A less important job,
the one I do.

Thank God our mothers
did it, though,

or you would not be here
at all, and nor would I.

Why is it that we always end
this way?

Competing for who suffers most.

Perhaps you
did it right.

Single mom.

My so-called open marriage
has become...

Ah!

We just can't talk,
with so many lies.

Well, I guess that that's
what happens when love dies.

Kate, you know us both.
You're his friend too.

And so I'm really loath
to say too much.

What has he said to you?

Oh, nothing really.

Oh, lovely goddess,
whore and tramp.

You are my love.

You light the lamp that guides
me through the velvet night

towards you.

Hold me.
Hold me tight.

Your voice,
your paleness,

your perfume,
your presence haunts me.

In my room I wait for you,
filled with desire.

Your hungry look
ignites my fire.

Oh, lady, what then
can I do but burn?

I'm in flames for you.

Before I knew you,
now I know,

I was not living.

This is so much more
than anything I felt.

Oh, my love.
The way you hold me.

And I melt.
I'm not solid anymore.

I'm a feeling.

Call me whore.

I'll ask for more.

Oh, the names.

You give me names
I never would forgive

if spoken to me
in the street.

Somehow, from you,
my love,

they're sweet.

What can I give you,
lady luck?

What other words
and names?

I'll fuck you as a mistress,
as a queen.

I'll worship you
with words obscene,

and only all the more
to show

how I adore you.

Bring you low with language
from the gutter.

Hear me now. I'll gently mutter
things into your ear.

Flowing streams of words
from fantasies and dreams

you've not confessed
to anyone.

Yes. Yes, please, yes.
Say it all.

Let forbidden thoughts
be heard.

Yes.

Let hidden parts be seen.
Yes.

The only danger

is that all the lonely,
private places you have been to

might dissolve.

And you'll be seen
to...blossom.

Singing.

Dancing.

Humming.

Laughing.

Come here, love.

You're coming.

Grace, come in.

Is she here?

Not now, but come on in
and wait, Grace, anyhow.

Do make yourself at home.
Come, sit by me.

Something to drink?

Perhaps you'd like some tea.

No, thanks.

How's school?

Fine.

Not too much to say.

I see.

Well, Grace, you don't give
too much away. You're very wise.

I do my best.

You don't have to do a thing.
You just have to be.

The rest comes later,
when you're old, like me.

I'm not that young.

And you're not...

that old.

You're sweet.

Grace.

Can I confide
in you?

Your godmother and I...

She thinks I'm...cold.

But it's her, you see.

I have feelings too.

He said you're cold.

Who?

Your husband,
silly.

God, what the hell
was he--?

I came to see you.

You were out.

And then he told me all about
his secret feelings.

Oh, I see.

Uh, that must have been...

uh, exactly when?

He held my hand as well.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

And then?

I need to talk
at the end of my day.

She feels I've compromised
or lost my way,

so she won't listen.

She'll never learn what changing
things, in practice, has to be.

She's like a student.

Her mentality is as it was
when we first met,

all dreams and talk and...
grand ideas and lofty schemes

about society and truth.

I try to do something
to right the wrongs,

yet I somehow am now the enemy,

while she does science

and retains integrity,
or so she thinks.

She always has to feel
that she's the underdog,

the one that's real,

while I am false somehow.

And English too, of course,

while she is Irish
through and through.

The fact is,
she left when she was 10.

She grew up in America.

But then...it suits her
to forget that, on the whole.

She claims her roots and so can
play the role of the oppressed.

Right.

So tell me why

she never seems to find the time
to fly back home

to see one of the very last
true communists,

her auntie in Belfast?

To say those things to her,
he's abused us both.

She doesn't need to know how
we've organized our marriage.

And then he said
things about...

She so looks up to me.

I could kill him.
I could shoot him dead.

Our goddaughter.
I can't believe he said--

Have you ever seen
a body full of bullets?

As a matter of fact...
You people are...

Who?

Are so naive.

What?

The stupid things
that you believe.

You think there is no pain
that cannot be forgotten,

and no chain that fetters you
that cannot be undone.

Ha!

You're free,
but must defend that

with a gun, a tank,
a helicopter or a bomb.

So no one thinks that way
where you come from?

Why suddenly accuse me
in this way?

I have a different point of view
on life and death.

Is that really true?

You're a scientist
and from the West.

You think you know it all,
that you're the best.

One life of yours
worth more than all the rest.

Hello, is it me
you're talking to?

What do you know
about my point of view

and, come to that,
about the work I do?

You do not seem
to work much anyway.

I work at night,
but you here...

in the day.

Jesus! What's going on?
What did I say?

It seems that you know
nothing of my life.

I know that you're married.
You're a wife.

A woman with
a lover in the day.

Perhaps another one at night,
or two.

I don't have lovers.

There's only...you.

Oh, shit, man.

I was saved from worse than sin.

My life was ugly.
I ate out of bins.

You know,
I sunk that low.

I had no pride,
with dirt on me.

In my mouth.
I lied with every breath.

I didn't have a friend
left in the world.

They gave up in the end.
It was hopeless.

And it was all because
I turned away from Jesus.

It was hell!
But then he found me.

And he made me
well again.

Oh, praise the Lord,

the mighty one, who gave
this undeserving world his son.

You think it's you
that fucking turned away!

He saw your fucking face
and thought "No way!"

Don't mock the man. But look,

I can't believe in any father

that would leave his son
in such a mess.

Why didn't he come sooner?

None of it makes sense to me.

Too right it don't.
You've got to fucking think.

"I'm God. You're dirt.

I wash you in the sink
of holy fucking water."

What for?

For one less sinner
banging at the door of heaven

when it's all
too fucking late.

The Lord is merciful.

Oh, I fucking
hate this crap.

There ain't no God.
It's fucking shite.

And if there is,
he's full of fucking spite.

You're just negative.
Don't pick on me.

I'm not.
But every cunt's your enemy.

Too fucking right!

If Jesus chose that fuck
instead of me.

Now, who's got
all the luck?

His heart is big enough

for you as well.

If you repent your sins,

you're saved from hell.

He will forgive the things
you've said today.

Just go down on your knees
and start to pray.

Fuck off, you fucking wanker.
There's no way.

And that wasn't what
I fucking meant to say.

What did you mean?
You picking on me too?

I only asked.

What do you fucking do,
go down the fucking mosque?

Dark fucking horse.

Ohh, infidel!

Oh, what? Of fucking course.
You're a fanatic.

One of them.

Careful, laddie!

Why? Are you afraid?

Don't be
ridiculous.

The lamb has strayed.
What fucking lamb?

The lamb of God's in hell.

He was in paradise,
and now he's fell.

I've had it with
this fucking God and shit.

There ain't no paradise.
This crap is it.

This country's full

of wankers dressed
in sheets,

asylum fucking
seekers

in our streets, and taking
all our fucking jobs.

Arab wanks!
Easy, easy.

And what do they do
to give us thanks?

They fucking blow us up!
You've got it wrong.

That fucking jihad war,
it won't be long.

The war is fought
inside the soul of man.

He struggles,
doing everything he can

to overcome his base desires,

the part of him that's animal
and has no heart,

the self that's primitive
and has no mind.

That's why there is a law.

Islamic law is not kind,
but it is fair.

A bomb's not fucking fair!

You Arab shites are evil.
You don't care.

To you
we're all the same.

"From over there."
You're ignorant.

Now, don't you fucking dare--

You celebrate your ignorance
with joy.

You should be studying.

You're just a boy
and living on the street.

So fucking what? You fucking
foreigners have stole the lot.

There ain't no fucking houses
left for us!

You dirty motherfucking
load of pus!

Come off it, son,
he didn't mean--

Boy!

Answer me.
Are your hands clean?

I'm not an Arab,
if that's what you mean!

Then you may touch.

This fuck's
too fucking much!

Insult my people,

you're insulting me.

I may have my doubts,

but now when I see
an animal like you,

I'd rather be a man of any faith
than be of none.

Well, then, Whizzer,
give it to him, son.

Out!

♪ Well, the reason you hear me
Singing the blues, baby ♪

♪ Yeah, you know
My baby's gone ♪

♪ She's gone, she's gone ♪

I need to see you.

Look, I-I can't, not now.

Then later?
No.

Well, tomorrow, anyhow?

I cannot say.

You cannot say? Why not?

Some problems.

Well, me too. Have you forgot?

Um...

Look, let's, um...
We need to talk.

Let's go away. A small hotel.

A night or two. I'll pay.

Sorry.

How are you?

Fine.

That's it?

Don't nag.

I'm sorry, I don't follow.
Could you repeat?

Or is it that I ought to
somehow learn to read your mind?

I'm sure that if I try,
I will find a way.

I'm going out.

Sometimes you are a bitch.

Hmm. The bitch and nag,
a lovely pair.

Yes, do go out
and get some air.

Why won't you fight?
Why won't you shout?!

Then we can argue
our way out!

Look, as it happens,
I am proud of my control.

You say out loud the first thing
that occurs to you.

I don't behave like you
and I am glad of that.

I try to do
my best for us...

Don't sigh.
Oh, am I too much?

Am I too real?

Well, perhaps, with me
you have to feel!

Feel what?

A loss
of all our dreams?

The end of us?

Some empty schemes
to fill the void?

Redecorate the house,
perhaps?

Celebrate my birthday
or some other date?

Our anniversary?

Let's wake up somewhere else.

Let's take a break.

Lie on a beach
and feel the ache of emptiness.

You're bored.

You read a book.

And then we go
and feed ourselves

at some expensive place
you hate.

And so you pull a face with me
as if the fault were mine.

You think it's good
to feel I failed?

You think it's good to feel
I've...jailed you somehow

in a boring cold hell
of a place

where we grow old together,
wishing that we weren't?

I've learnt that
not to feel at all is best.

There was a time
when love was there.

There must have been.

Yes, it was you who once said
conversation was an aphrodisiac

because it flowed.

Like nectar, or like juice.

Fuck it.

Fuck it, what's the use?

And how is your aunt?

I don't know.

You didn't call.
Not yet.

You're so...
I'm so what?

Neglectful.
Don't you care?

Of course I do.

Oh, but don't you dare
accuse me.

Fuck, of course I care.

I care too much.

I love my aunt.
I'll call her right now.

Fuck, I can't,
it's far too late.

But anyhow, how could you
say those things to Grace?

What's going on?

I can't go on like this.
Like what?

What did I say?
What did I miss?

I need you. I need your body.
Need it so.

What's wrong?

And don't ring off again,
don't go.

This is impossible.
What is? Tell me.

Look in your heart...

and you will surely see
that I have acted

with sincerity.

But now the time has come
to say goodbye.

What?

To say what?

You can't.

But why?

My body's been
in your possession.

Now...I'm asking
for it back.

It once was mine,

but everything I said
was true.

Oh, how
I worshipped you.

Yes...

you have
been divine.

I'm...

I'm hearing
something strange.

Behind your honeyed words,

I feel a doubt so strong
it's poisoning my mind.

This bitter question
must come out.

Asking's way beneath me,
brother, for you said

there was no other one for you,

I was...your secret country...

land of all your longings.

So...who is she?

No female body
tempts me.

Please believe me
when I say that.

I would never leave you
for another woman.

Who could be
the scarlet goddess

you have been for me?

Ah, but I never asked for this.

Ah, but I never asked for this.

To be blinded
groping for a kiss.

To be blinded
groping for a kiss.

I feel as if my mind's
on fire.

Where once my limbs
coiled in desire,

all I feel is hate.

I wanna attack,
stab you, fucker.

I wanna attack,

I wanna stab you, fucker,
in the back

and make you feel
the power of my vengeance,

sweet-talking man,
with your hypocrite romance.

A hypocrite?

I'm not the lying kind.

What can I do
to purify your mind?

I need to wash you.

Yes, from
head to toe.

What did you say?

How can you doubt me so?

Wash me?

Do you see some dirt?

Can you not see
how your words hurt?

Divinity--
Oh, don't call me that.

It isn't me.

In long afternoons, I've felt
your lovely arms about me,

tasted you and known the charms
of flesh on flesh,

of skin
on lovely skin,

but when your blood
is calling,

it's a sin to take--

What? No, wait.

Blood? Sin?

What's happening?

I have remembered who I am.

The old and wisest men

explain that all the love
a woman gives distracts us.

We are told

that riches wait for those
who rise above temptation

to obey a higher call.

You're asking me to turn away,
to fall from grace.

You cannot look me
in the face

and say I'm your fall
from grace.

Do you--? Do you really think
that I am unclean?

A-a-a secondhand cunt,
a fucking machine,

a dirty distraction,
somehow obscene?

Look, I'm not only
your goddess or queen.

I'm a 21st-century
any-damn-thing-that-I-choose,

including your teacher or king!

I named you goddess and queen.
I crowned you.

Fuck you.

Who do you think you are?

I draw a line.

You're not a king,
that role is mine.

Oh, sir, excuse me.
I forgot.

You are a son and...I'm not.

I'm a daughter, so inferior.

It's you.

Your people feel superior.
You want to rule.

You want to spoil.

You want our land,
you want our oil!

You call that
civilized?

Your country is a dragon
breathing flames,

land of corporate fantasies,

brand names,
Big Mac, big burger.

Yes, big everything.

And you, blond American,
are too thin.

Too fit, not womanly.

And then your skin
too pale, insipid.

And your eyes
too blue.

Why do you make me dream of you?

So we are at war.

Oh, you terrorist!

Imperialist.
Bigot.

Bitch.
Oh! How did it come to this?

You are confusing me with them.

Look, I'm not just an American.
I'm Irish too.

So what?!

You all have roots somewhere,

but have forgot that you
are anything but powerful,

the big boss.

You hear our children's screams,

but feel no loss
because they are not yours.

That isn't fair.

The things that they have done
have not been in my name.

I don't feel pride.
I feel a deepening shame.

Oh, look,
I am an individual.

I am me.

"Me" this, "me" that.

Each one of us is we.
We are not alone.

I know. Look, I-- I agree.
I am not your enemy.

How did this start?

From Elvis to Eminem.
Warhol's art.

I know your stories,

know your songs by heart,

but do you know mine?

No.

Every time,
I make the effort.

And I learned to rhyme
in your English.

And do you know a word
of my language, even one?

Have you heard that al-jibra
was an Arabic man?

You have read the Bible.
Have you read the Koran?

Is this the reason
you're rejecting me?

Rejection?
No, I don't reject.

But, yes, I do
demand respect.

You say you want me,
but as what?

Your exotic
something-other?

Your toy boy?

Pet? Huh?

Your secret lover?

You buy me with
a credit card in restaurants.

You want me hot
so you can melt.

Why can't you see that
being wanted not for me,

not for
my noble ancestry,

but for my flesh,
erodes my dignity?

Your pride is hurt.

You're feeling
small and wounded.

But can I walk tall

when people spit into my face
because they fear me?

Where is my place of pride
and honor in this game

where even to pronounce my name
is...an impossibility?

I hear you.

Tell me more.

In-- In your land...

I am not seen.

I am...unmanned.

You can't imagine,

with white-skin
sense of privilege

and human rights
you take for granted,

how I fight for
every little thing.

Oh, no!

Oh, no. Oh, no.

Fuck, I--

I have to go.

I didn't call.
God, I didn't call.

Oh, why didn't I call?

- You're late again. Don't worry.
- Never mind, I know you're busy.

It's the kind of life you lead.

But then, you chose it,
so I guess you want it.

Always to and fro,
you never stop.

Unlike myself,
I'm here to stay.

For just how long, who knows?
I feel it could be ages.

It creeps up on you,
this funny business.

First, a creak or two,
your knees, perhaps,

and, bingo, then you're old
and in a bed.

The thing is, no one told me
I'd have all this time,

but far too late to use it
for the things I dreamed of.

Oh, auntie.

Fate delivers upside down
and back to front.

I've more to say than ever,

but they shunt me
back and forth all day

from bed to chair
and back to bed again.

It isn't fair.

All this experience
I'd like to share,

not that it all adds up.

Not that you care.
I'd better stop.

It's time for you
to go already, isn't it?

Five minutes.
Oh, well, maybe 10.

You see, I never know
when you'll be here again.

It's such a blow
each time you leave.

It's hardly worth your while
to come at all. I mean it.

Don't you smile like that.

Oh, you'll be sorry

when I'm dead.

I'm only joking, dear.

I only said that for a laugh,
although, of course, it's true.

The questions
that you never asked.

Yes, you will certainly regret
a thing or two.

No one explained to me
when I was young

why time only goes forward.

"Hold your tongue"
was what they said

when I asked them
about the universe and such,

and why we can't do
all that much about it

when we make a mess of things.

If only a mistake
could be corrected,

wind life back and start again.

The second time,
we'd know the art of living,

but we only get one go.

No dress rehearsals.

This one is the show
and we don't know it.

I don't see the rhyme or reason
in this so-called grand design,

but then I don't believe.

There is no sign
of him up there

as far as I'm concerned.

See, if there's one thing
that I've truly learned,

it's this:

It's down to me.

And you, of course.

Each one of us is it.

We are the source
of all the bad

and all the good things too.

But out with it.
What's happening with you?

At last, you've got some color
in your cheeks.

I haven't seen you
look this way

in weeks or maybe months.

It even could be years.

Don't tell me.

You're in love,
aren't you, my dear?

Not with that English chap.

What a mistake!
I knew it from the start.

It only takes
another one to come along,

and then your heart
tells you that,

frankly speaking,
men are not all equal.

Some are better, love.

It's just another trick
from that one up above,

if he exists,
which he or she does not.

Unless I didn't notice,
or forgot,

but I've a perfect memory.

I lie here
running through the lot.

I think I'll die

with all that information
tucked away.

I'd trade in all of it
for just one day...

In Cuba.

Auntie, what did you say?

You heard me. Cuba.

In Cuba.

Oh, I'd love to see
the place, the people,

the reality of how
it all turned out...and Castro.

Castro...

Gave us hope, he did.

Oh, yes, he's better
than the pope.

I'd love to shake his hand.

You should go soon.

Yes.

I tell you,
we'll be living on the moon

before we have another go
like that.

A great big dream
that's fallen pretty flat

in all the other countries
where they tried it.

They'll regret it.
Communism died.

But what came in its place?

A load of greed.

A life spent longing for things
you don't need.

If and when I die,

I want to see you cry.

I want to see you
tear your hair,

your howls of anguish
fill the air.

I want to see you
beat your breast

and rend your clothes
and all the rest

and sob and fall upon my bed.

I want to know that I am dead.

I want to know I'm part of you,

and that you cannot bear
me being torn away.

I want to see you
dressed in black,

with red-rimmed eyes from
sleepless nights of grieving.

I want to hear you
protest at my leaving.

I want to see you
in each other's arms,

and, wailing,
see you kick a chair

and punch the wall.

And see you moan and fall upon
the ground and scream.

I want to know
this isn't just a dream.

I want my death
to be just like my life.

I want the mess,
the struggle and the strife.

I want to fight
and see you fight for me.

I want to hear
your last regrets,

the things you wish
you'd done and said.

In fact, I'd like that
just before I'm dead.

Don't let them put you off
or make you go.

Or say it's bad for me,

or makes it hard
for me to leave.

It won't be true.

I want to see you grieve.

Don't let me drown in silence,
so pious, so polite.

Let's make a lot of noise.

A different kind of light
will fill the room.

I want my death to wake you up

and clean you out.

And as I end,

I'll hear you shout.

No, no, no.

But I will go.

Oh, no, please,
don't die.

Life is so short and precious.

Let's not waste
what we've been given.

Look, we haven't
faced the truth.

Even the rages we express

perhaps contain
the seeds of happiness.

Let's go. Let's go to Cuba.

What?

Far away from everyone.

We've never spent
a day and night together.

Only an hour or two. Just...

Let's take the time for us,
just me and you.

I'm in Beirut.

You are?

I have a friend, we trained
and worked together.

In the end, he stayed.

He's married. Now he has a son.

There's only one life.

This is it.
Let's seize the time.

I'll send a ticket to you.

I'll go on ahead.

It's many years--
Since you've been there.

My auntie died.

She died.
My aunt is dead.

Then you'll have a lot to say
and a lot to share.

I'll send the ticket anyway.

Dirt doesn't go.

It just gets moved around.

Some things get burnt
or buried in the ground.

But fire makes smoke and soot
and greasy grime

and buried stuff
crops up after a time.

It travels slowly.
One could say it creeps.

It's all the water underneath.

It seeps.

God gave us eyes that do not
see too much, or we'd go mad.

We'd never want to touch
a bed again, a sofa or a chair,

if we could see
the things that live in there.

There's millions of them.

Loads of things with legs.

They fornicate
and then they lay their eggs.

They think our dirt is lovely.

They survive by eating
what we shed.

They are alive
because bits of us are dead.

Now, smaller than the mites
are the germs.

Well, we do what we can.

We scrub and scrub,

but they fly when we sneeze,
on drops of moisture,

packed out with disease.

Then all we have to do
is take a breath

and they're inside us,

fighting to the death.

It's not just germs.
It seems they're not the worst.

There's viruses.

Some say they were
the first things to exist.

Because they're so small,

they can't be cleaned away.

No, not at all, not ever.

That's why, really, in the end,

there's no such thing
as spotless.

You just send the dirt
somewhere else.

Push it around.

Work is endless.
That's what I've found.

Maybe this Earth
is just a ball of fluff.

Some great big cleaner
out there said, "Enough,"

and that's how we all survived.

Why not?

We're just the parasites

that God forgot.

Point is this:
We never disappear.

Despite it being
what we all most fear,

we're certainly not
finished when we die,

however hard
the undertakers try.

Every single creature
feeds another.

Everyone is everybody's mother,

or at the very least
a kind of host.

When we expire,
perhaps we change, at most,

but never vanish.

No, we leave a stain,

a fingerprint,

some mess,

perhaps some pain...

some fear or doubt
in someone else's heart.

Mum?

We leave a mess,
in fact, when we depart.

God, if you exist,
I need to confess.

Please, speak to me just once.

And don't make me guess
your point of view,

for I might get it wrong.

I know.

I've strayed so far,

I don't belong

in any church of yours.

I've sung the song of science.

Yes, I've sung it every day.

But, I could argue,
that is how I pray.

For 20 years--
God, can it be?

I've cut, dissected
carefully and with respect

each living cell,
a source of wonder,

as I tried to see,

to penetrate your mystery.

The point is, God,

you never lie,
but you have secrets.

So have I.

Now, all I was is turned
to ash and doubt,

but love has tasted me
and spat me out.

At first there's blossom,

then there is decay.

Impermanence
will never go away.

In fact, it is
the only certainty.

There'll come a time
when I will cease to be,

but not quite yet.

Oh, God...

Can you forgive me
for not--?

For not believing in you?

Señora?

Sí.

Un señor.

When you look closer,
nothing goes away.

It changes, see?

Like night becomes the day
and day the night.

But even that's not true.

It's really all about
your point of view,

depending where you're
standing on the Earth.

And in the end, it simply
isn't worth your while

to try and clean
your life away.

You can't,

for everything you do or say
is there forever.

It leaves evidence.

In fact, it's really
only common sense.

There's no such thing
as nothing, not at all.

It may be really
very, very small,

but it's still there.

In fact, I think I'd guess
that "no" does not exist.

There's only "yes."