All language subtitles for N.eon.2002.720p.BluRay.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

I remember closing my eyes and

gliding over the

water and the mist and the cry of gulls.

Remember the spires and the campanile,
the sensation of floating.

The white of the water, the white of the
sky.

Remember the approach to the city walls,
no golden gateway or bridge.

forming a mouth, swallowing the boat.

Instead, we secreted our way a side
channel, a

sound reflecting off the walls and the
water,

entering through the ears of the city,
not the eyes.

Remember the people.

Just people doing people stuff.

Adding their own layers of life,
paperwork, graffiti, derma to the

centuries of layers already there.

I remember the memories drifting in the
water.

Faces I half recognized.

Form and dust.

the key, the steps and the slow burble
of the engine idling.

I remember standing, assuming that when
I stepped ashore, the city would bob up

and down like a pontoon.

And just as I touched dry land, I didn't
wake

up.

I have friends back in England.

They all have babies.

And at that age, all my friends suddenly
shift up a generation.

I don't know them.

I've actually caught some of my friends.
These are people I grew up with, talking

to me about settling down.

Where? Where are you supposed to do
that?

What happens to these people?

Is there a book?

It's a manual that tells you how to do
this stuff.

Settle down.

You must have to feel that you belong
somewhere.

And suddenly, that's it. You don't want
to be anywhere else.

I've never felt like I belong anywhere
in particular.

Except possibly here.

Every time I come here, I feel like I've
always known this place.

Almost like a dream.

I've dreamed about this place.

I've had a life here already, so it's
intimately familiar.

Except the tourist crap.

The gaudy baubles and the dust
collectors.

They're not part of my dreams.

But then,

They've been around for such a short
time, barely a blink.

And the older these walls and arches
get, the more they are colored and

etched and infected by time and entropy.

The more beautiful they become.

I don't understand why people want to
remember such a place with some plastic

thing that lasts about 15 minutes.

I think they're missing the point.

This city rewards attention.

The longer you look, the more you see.

There are two cities.

The positive city.

The city is a solid, real piece of cob
stone.

Streets and bridges smoothed by
centuries of soldiers, citizens,

touristers, mask makers and glass
blowers teetering around the edges of

buildings.

And the water is a dream.

winding liquid mist through the streets,
reflecting the life of the city,

melting the stone to ripples and
shadows.

And there's the mirror image, the
negative city,

with the water as it feels as you
approach the island.

an immense, inevitable force, the blood
of the world.

And sitting in my vaporetto, myself, a
speck of life,

a germ carried into the veins of the
city.

And the city as an organ, its histology
etched into the walls and cavities,

decaying.

I don't want to carry this body metaphor
too far, but you get the idea.

A child in a mask shop tries on a mask.

The child imagines herself as an animal.

The mask carries the years of craft of
the mask maker.

The design of the mask has been refined
and simplified over decades.

The mask assumes different meanings over
the centuries.

The mask is that of a man, a Venetian
with a pox.

These were real people.

The moment unfolds like an iris, filmed
in stop motion,

exploding its petals, and then wilting
from energy spent.

Huh? You still with me?

I'm sorry, this means a lot to me.

You see, I'm realizing slowly that the
membrane that separates the positive

and the negative in this place is very
thin.

Stretched and translucent at times and
in places.

Only a vague texture of reason indicates
that he's there at all.

I'll give you an image from my marriage.

I didn't tell you I was married.

It's well down the list of things that
are mine.

The image from my marriage is a book.

I was on page 165 of my life.

Page 165-ish.

That's far enough through to get
involved in the plot.

It's even far enough through to assume
I'm going to finish the story.

But then the spine of the book began to
crack.

The binding let in the elements.

Gaps appeared between the signatures.

I could see the pages I'd read, a merge
of familiar words.

And more alarmingly, I could see the
pages I had yet to read, rising to the

surface before my eyes, the same merge
of words,

the same noise.

And I felt very frightened and alone.

When I closed the book, I left it
behind.

And I think that's all I want to say
about it.

Today I met an old friend I never knew I
had.

I bumped into him at the Galleria
dell'Accademia.

In a fraction of a second, during a
particular minute of an evening hour, on

an overcast day in the year 1478,
Giorgio da Castelfranco watched

my life enacted underneath his brush.

on a modest, squarish canvas panel.

La Tempesta.

A man, a compagno of the confraternity
of the suck, specializing in amateur

dramatics, that's me.

A woman, a naked allegory, suckling a
child Apollo or Corita.

or some other convenient deity.

Satis even imagined a bizarre reading as
Adam and Eve, Adam ingeniously acquiring

a wardrobe, the serpent, a matter of
camouflage, appearing to be a root.

But none of the traditional readings
worked.

How could they know that Giorgione
wasn't painting Dionysius or Ferragato?

He was painting me.

And you.

X-radiography reveals you, a painted
female figure below the man,

only visible with invisible light.

There you are.

The man and the woman appear on the
surface, separated by water.

The artifice of the city in the
background, a painted set, illuminated

by the real star of the show,

the agent provocateur, freezing the
moment in flat,

colorless light.

Crack of lightning.

Realization.

The pin sharp flash gun reality of the
situation.

And the dull migraine rumble of
consequence in the distance.

Dominoes fall.

Empires crumble.

Marriages collapse.

History buckles under the pressure.

I think this thing is taking its toll.

I think I'm becoming a climber.

Slowly.

The place I'm forced to live in between
the time I share with you is

increasingly uncomfortable.

The air is thick and sticky.

It clings to me.

Like I'm walking through water.

sleepwalk one night.

Down the steps into the canal.

And I just hadn't realized that I'm
walking on the streets of the reflection

of the city.

Walking around on a gently undulating
image of the city.

The weight I feel on my skin.

Just surface tension.

I'm making very little sense at the
moment.

I've been having a recurring dream since
I came here all those years or minutes

ago.

No, I don't think it was a dream because
it actually happened.

No, it couldn't be.

I can't see why I'm turning.

I'm standing at the end of a cul-de-sac.

I turn and there's nobody really there.

But that's... I thought that was the
important bit.

But I realize sometime in the next few
days that that's not the case.

The important bit is that it happens
again.

You see, we all live in little pieces of
our past.

We replay them endlessly, tell our
friends about them, write novels about

them.

They are very important.

And I decided that the reason I haven't
felt that I belong anywhere

Because I'm looking in the wrong places.

I don't think my place is spatial.

Although this city is as close as it's
going to get.

I think my place is temporal.

I think we could be happy.

In a second of time.

It's not a big second.

It's all we really need.

To be happy.

heals most wounds.