All language subtitles for Le film est déjà commencé.en

Your obstinacy to see this
film is incomprehensible.

If you had wanted to see Griffith's
"Intolerance" for example,

which is an authentic
masterpiece of cinema...

But Lemaître's film has no
aesthetic nor ideological value.

It's just a boring jumble
of commonplace ideas.

What shit!

Aren't you ashamed to
want to see that?

Couples should consider the
price of a hotel room instead.

You're really crazy to want
to watch that!

HAS THE FEATURE STARTED YET?

Sound engineer:

With the faces and voices of:

This film is dedicated to
Jean-Isidore Isou, who will be

always, towards and against all,
he who will come.

Has the Feature Started Yet?

Maurice Lemaître wonders
why he made this film.

Isn't it a totally
absurd enterprise?

Already, as a child,
he would hide in his bed

besieged by darkness.

Lying in a coffin whose
rough boards bruised his elbows,

shredding noises like flesh,

his brain gurgling empty
like an unclogged sink,

he searched horrified for signs
of a useless, bland life

with no "arc de triomphe"
at its end.

He was rotting alive in this
carriage of gilded feet.

He was surrounded by

the works of men,
changing each morning.

The names of these men were
gasped from reluctant mouths

like the hiss of
a punctured balloon.

The new conquerors
trample the elderly

who cast sudden watchful glances
as they struggle and strive

to save their pensions
and avoid a forever

worrisome retirement.

Maurice Lemaître mused over his
death in the same banal way...

Like a million other imbeciles
he thought:

"I don't want to die!"

Millions of those guys die.

Then the obituaries say
they "are no longer."

We should complain

instead that Mr. or Mrs. Smith
"never were."

But when someone
impressive dies,

his remains are hastily
gathered in fear

and he is proclaimed to be
still living.

Years and years go by

and his name is endlessly evoked

with sacred fervor and trembling,

standing stiffer to attention

than a subordinate in front
of his superior.

Mediocrity calls for a scalpel.

It attracts insults
degrading to our purity.

Maurice Lemaître has
slowly learned that

centuries are reduced to
a few names.

On this earth
no one has lived but

Socrates, Dante, Joyce!

But if passions die, the world
has one implacable law

one absolute determination:
the law of creation.

In this, the little idiot,
Maurice Lemaître sees his chance

for survival and salvation.

Art, history and science
thus become painkillers.

The author mocks these artifices

invented by men who cannot
admit to incongruous death.

But he needs these steps to

save himself from the grave
which his pride refuses.

At seventeen, in one of those
heathen temples

of the twentieth century
called movie theaters

he dreamed of becoming
an important film director

managing, in a loud voice,

ten stars and
a hundred crew members,

the almighty master
of these slaves,

as they build the pyramid
of his Name.

Since then, the author
has understood creation

as the unique chance
to make a truly free gesture!

That it's the only hard, white
marble in this black, muddy

universe of filthy,
rotting stinking vermin... you!

And if this film is like
what you will see,

if it seems to its creator
like an unexpected offspring,

the monster son of
a naive and romantic father,

it is his unique possibility,

the only means available to him

to make a name in the
history of cinema.

Lemaître knows, he can only
resolve his death by giving

a unique meaning to his life

in the meantime.

He still has one more hope

once expressed by Isidore Isou:

"I treat masterpieces as
temporary moments because

if they were anything else

they would not have left me
mortal and miserable.

If these masterpieces and
their creators were pure beings,

in themselves definitive
elements, they would have

already given me what I sought
between the lines,

that which I discovered in
my books, which will be offered

to everyone:

immortality through
their own works

and ultimately, actual

immortality of their beings.

Please inflict on me
what I inflict myself

on the gods who preceded me
if I don't keep my promise.

Let them leave me, young men
who seek themselves in me.

Let them abandon me and
go farther and elsewhere.

Let them treat me as desperately
as I treat books:

as a means and not as an end.

All compositions that preceded

cannot be accomplished
ends in themselves

because they have not marked
the accomplishment of everyone,

the final end, in grace,
of all humanity."

Maurice Lemaître,

one of the most cynical guys in
our contemporary world,

one of the most chilling killers

of modern sacrilege,
surpasses himself in new belief

and swears to continue

until death and beyond,

in order to open
the messianic times.

Gil J. Wolman!

That was
"41 degrees and 5 seconds"

by Gil J. Wolman.

Here is how the
performance will unfold

of Lemaître's film:

a rose-colored screen
will be installed in front

of the movie theater,
its neon lights turned off

as soon as night falls
on the boulevard.

For an hour before the film,

an impassive projectionist will
screen classics of cinema

like Griffith's "Intolerance."

On the sidewalk in front

of the theatre will be written
in huge yogurt white letters:

"Here at 8:30"

"Film show"

with an arrow pointing
toward the ticket counter.

Above the ticket counter,

on the billboard,
a gigantic poster

with no illustrations
will indicate the film's title:

"HAS THE FEATURE STARTED YET?"

Each side of the entry hall
will have photos under glass

with images of the following:

a) A kiss (in close-up),
it doesn't matter which stars.

b) A skier going down a slope.

The mountain where the shot was
taken pales in importance

next to the foreground action.

c) A shampoo ad,

the brand is unimportant.

A clip from an ad for a brand of
aperitif and sparkling water.

d) The current French President

dexterously laying bricks.

e) Cowboys chasing Indians
on horseback.

f) A step in manufacturing
buttons for men's underwear.

g) An image from some cartoon.

Although the film was announced
to start at 8:30,

people will be made to wait
in line until 9:30.

During the hour they wait

dusty carpets will be shaken

from the second floor above them

and ice-cold water
will be poured over their heads.

Those carrying out
this loathsome business will

exchange insults with
particularly loud extras

paid by the theater to mingle in

the dense crowd.

- Stop it or
we'll call the police.

- That's good for your voice,
herring-skin,

don't go to films then.

- That's my business.

- Fuck you.
- Come say that up here.

- Why trouble myself for
a clod-head like you?

Only at that moment,

to avoid further scandal,
the theater doors

will be opened violently by
another group of extras

of all ages, in diverse attires.

They will rush and form

an excited crowd around the
box office, loudly exclaiming:

- This film stinks.
- They're taunting us.

- What the hell is going on?

They will rush to
the screen outside

where Griffith's film
will still be showing.

They will watch attentively,
interrupting

with noisy approval, such as:

- This is real cinema.
- Should've watched this.

The manager will end the scandal

and will try to dissuade
the people in line

from seeing the film.

- You are out of your mind
to want to see this!

...even insulting some couples

- Listen, if you want I'll
give you some cash

so you can pay for a hotel room.

The same extras as earlier,

will stop yelling at
the people upstairs and beg

the manager to be allowed in.

- Be nice, we just want
to know what it is.

- What's the point?

- Do you take us for idiots?
Now, after waiting...

- There is no cashier.

- It doesn't matter, I can
collect the money.

After the debate, in a despising
and weary tone, the manager...

- Oh, after all,
what do I care...

...will raise his hands
in helplessness

and slowly withdraw
to the projection booth.

The shouts and exhortations
of the extras will follow...

- Let's go. The film is free!

- Get a seat quickly!

rushing joyfully into the dark.

The theater will be
plunged into blackness...

- We can't see a thing! Lights!

...and no usher will
show them to their seats.

They will seat themselves in
great confusion...

- Don't push!

...they will jostle each other
in controlled mayhem...

- Sit here, it's better!
- No, I'd rather sit in front!

A fight with angry words...

- Excuse me, but I
was here before you

- You could be a bit more polite

- Who do you think you are?

Do you need the whole row?
- Idiot!

- Repeat that and
see what happens, imbecile.

...will start among the extras.

As they bicker,

cowboys and Indians will
chase each other on the screen.

The screen will not be
a rectangular shape,

but a strange form rendered by

a certain number of
brightly colored fabrics

partly covering it and
by different objects

hung in front of it.

These drapes and objects can be
set in motion by stagehands

throughout the film.

During the pursuit,

the audience will continue
looking for seats.

As soon as they are settled,
or almost settled, the words

"The End" will appear
on this wild screen,

accompanied by triumphant music...

...and the room will light up.

Immediately, the projectionist's
voice will be heard...

- Audience members who
have already seen this film

are requested to
exit the theater

through the door
at the back right.

Two janitors, one with a broom
and the other

with a bucket of dirty water,
will walk into the room

and begin their work, saying:

- The bastards are smoking again.

- They take the cinema
for a brothel! They hide

in the dark.

Finally, the janitors will
take their tools and leave.

The manager, projectionist
and the ushers

will enter wearing street clothes.

- No and no! I don't want

to project this film!
As a communist

I refuse to aide
this American propaganda.

- This story is starting to
get on our nerves.

It's okay for
the swine who sees it once,

maybe falls asleep, but
we have to see it all week...

- All we fucking get here is

varicose veins. Our tips are
forged coins, torn bills

and boxer-short buttons.
And always bits of film,

the ends, the beginnings,
nothing but spare parts!

At that moment, a landscape
of dazzling sun

will appear to the eyes of the
suddenly blinded audience, and...

It was a winter evening

of sickening black cream.

November or December?
I don't remember very well

because today it is buried in
the huge crater of faded memory.

I had boots of mud and
rustling money,

this joyous crackling
announcing new bills in the fist,

confirming my desire for
the warm dampness,

for the night, for the escape
from this diluvian reality.

The only drug at hand then,
the only cheap morphine was...

But why tell stories?

These stories are always
the same; literature doesn't

want them anymore.

People tire themselves
uselessly inventing them.

Serious people can be seen
stuffing themselves full

of low-rank anecdotes with
a satisfied belch.

Well, what then?
A young man, Robert,

falls in love with
a young girl, Michelle.

Where could I make them meet?

Anyway, Robert does not want
to get married,

feeling unsuited for marriage.

Me neither. Furthermore, I...

Michelle, however,
a beautiful, buxom redhead,

though she plays hard to get,
dreams only of marriage.

- Young woman, 22, sporty,
caring, domestic, unselfish

good body, serious, Catholic
would like to meet and marry

a distinguished, well-bred man
in good position. Reply to #5556

- Widow, 50, good in all aspects
with flat, would like to

meet and marry a man in
good standing,

tall, distinguished,
serious, learned.

- Paris, 30, elegant, nice flat
would marry

a smart, loyal, caring man
Standing not important.

If not seriously interested,
abstain from replying.

- All these women... What the
hell do I care about all this?

Or better: a very young man

spends a short holiday on a
fashionable beach. One day,

in the blue water of the bay,
he meets a...

With his stinginess, yes,
with his stinginess.

He meets a charming woman with a
sexy name, Veronique, who is

scarcely older than he is.

How can you not fall in love?

Yes, how can you not
fall in love with Veronique?

Little pills, perhaps?

Stuffs himself with fish soup,
the satisfied burp of a man.

Or still:

George has been married

for six years to
a gorgeous woman named Suzanne.

But he meets...
- Enough, enough!

The screen will then turn
completely black

and a man will climb up
on stage with a flashlight.

Directing its beam
at different viewers,

he will cry out:

- What did you come here for?

After this alarming remark,

another individual from the room
will join him by saying:

- That's what I want to know.

What did I come here for?

To sleep? To forget?
To forget what?

And aiming the flashlight
at a couple,

- and you are kissing,
you're petting.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
the latest statistics show

that X% of the audience is
under twenty years old,

Y% between twenty and thirty,

and Z% over thirty.

I am really wondering...

His elbow's beginning to bug me.

To escape from this
diluvian reality.

This wet rat smell.

Ugly face.

This smug and idiotic smile.

There he is, embracing
the beautiful tart!

- I love love stories!

Love, complicity in baseness,
while falling, as said...

The back door, with a sign

"Projection room, do not enter"
will open and...

- Mr. Lemaître, you've
forgotten the credits.

- What? Who's the son
of a bitch...? Marcelle!

Where did you put the credits?

- The credits! The credits!

- Silence!

A long silence will endure.

And where are
the stars in this film?

Ladies and gentlemen,

due to financial difficulties
facing French cinema

and the great demand for stars,
we must inform

our amiable patrons that
there will be no stars in...

- OK, Albert, let's go.

The wolf and the lamb.

Master Crow, perched,
held a cheese in his beak.

Master Fox came
for the odor... this language.

- Got a light?
- Thanks.

- Hello, how are you?
- Is your stop next?

- Fine.
- Sorry, did I hurt you?

- There you go.

- Taxi, are you free?
- What weather...

- Yes, it's brisk
compared to the summer...

- What's the time?
- Waiter, beer!

- How much?

- A token, please.

- Officer, where can
I find a cinema?

By order.

In line.

Wait for police.

- You haven't seen it all.

- So I told him... what do you
think... I told him though...

- You'll grow out of it.

- And what do you do?

In accordance with the law of
November 7, 1945, the audience

is reminded that it is
strictly forbidden

to smoke in the theater.
Thank you.

- Come on. The cop is gone.
Hide it!

Next week on this screen,

you can see a story of love
and death, an unforgettable film

set on the marvellous
island of...

Tell me, George, have you seen
"City in Fear"?

Do you remember when Hayworth
tells Bogart in the car...

Sir, please put out your
cigarette. It is forbidden.

No, it wasn't in "City in Fear,"

it was in "Desperate in the Desert."

Are you sure?
Yes, of course.

The usher's beacon.

I am a boat lost in the storm.

What a banal image!

- You have time to waste!
- Nice to meet you.

- Has the feature started yet?
- No, newsreels.

How often have
these women heard that?

Nauseating. I can't do that.

To go to the cinema
ready for anything.

The incredible adventure...

- One ticket please
- Orchestra or balcony?

- Want a program?

It's always the same.
Trying to refuse without...

Sir, could you move along,
so that we may...

Why do people leave empty seats
between each other?

Myself. Oh shit, her arm.

Dear sir, re: yours of the 30th.

Our correspondents in London.

Have supplied us with
the necessary help.

Would you be so kind as to.

It should be understood that
in case we are incapable.

Please.

This sensation of thrusting
a sword into putty.

This violent desire to go right
through her, hurt her,

stab her with this sword, plunge
this burning revolver into her.

To make her guts
explode in the sun...

Like... barbarians, huns.

- Men. Not one
can redeem another.

They are all the same.

- Women. They are all bitches.
They all want to be in movies.

- Will there be a war?

There have been up to the
present two economic models:

classical and critical.

According to this discipline,

the theories can be divided into

classical conceptions and

abstract ones, dealing with
pure subjects.

How then do you account for
the fact that after

the proletariat came to power

there were still civil wars,
class problems,

the formation of the new caste
of bureaucrats and

innumerable trials since
the one in Moscow.

Manifesto for an
uprising of youth:

"As long as youths suffer

slavery and hierarchical abuse

they will devote themselves to

all violent follies
and barbarities

to escape their inexistence.

There are men who want
to stay the way they are

who don't want any changes.

And there are masses of

young people, who fight
to overthrow everything.

That's why the Fascists,
who addressed youths

with false claims have
vanquished more

successfully than anarchists,
who continued to hold on to

factories and proletariats.

In Italy, where the population
equals France, Mussolini

gained power with 200,000
young people.

In Russia
(160 million inhabitants)

Lenin created a revolution
with 500,000 - 800,000 men.

The 'established' are passive

because they don't want
the risk. They have

possessions or children
to defend.

Young people, who have
nothing to lose,

represent the attack and
adventure itself.

The young people carried out

the resistance, not the leaders,

commanding from their armchairs.

Revolutions were made by
the young of all classes, that

betrayed and rejected them.
May the young be not commodities

but consumers through
their own impetus.

If you don't save the young

the young will be your ruin."

I felt warmth flushing my cheeks.

The girl's elbow relaxed,
motionless, on my arm.

I understood less and less
the images

on the screen, this rope of
noise and desire.

My arm and leg were paralyzed
by agonizing prickling.

The audience laughed on a gag
I didn't. I forced a guffaw.

A lightening. Their eyes met.

Their intimacy
immediately became

intense, the uproar complicit.

- We could go for a drink.

- Did you like the film?

Our antennas are touching.

This waiting for the catalyst

that unbridles everything, that
hurls us towards the chaos of.

What kind of girl?
Book on her knees. Her knees.

The triumphant classical music.

The impossible unexpected,
unless.

- Get your "France Soir," "Le Monde."

- What are you reading?

Maxine van der... bitch.

All of them are.

To crush her breasts,
to lacerate them in one's teeth.

- Do you think it will rain?

- I don't read much. No time.

- Do you want to have a drink?

All the research to project
in 3D: the embossed screen,

the oscillating grid screen,
the water tank, filters,

are completely
devoid of interest.

Cinema is an art, by God,

get that into your skull,
it's an art!

There is no essential difference
between poetry, music and cinema.

An art is a composition
of meanings and techniques

and something more
in its masterworks.

Film already has its techniques,
this something more needs work.

Mechanical research alone
will not make cinema evolve.

It might create another
art-form, but cinema

will pursue it's evolution,
in which this film is a step.

My screen is not
the perfection of the technique.

Hanging objects on it
is not enough.

It only breaks the normal frame

of cinematographic
representation.

The smell of stink bombs thrown
by the extras will spread

through the theater and
be greeted by cries.

- What is this smell?

- Open the windows or
we'll suffocate!

Here is a letter from Mr. N.
in Bécon-les-Bruyères.

I'm a skilled worker
in a construction business

earning a good living.

I was a painter, but sometimes
one must sacrifice passions

to insure one's well-being.

I was twice deceived by love,
but not discouraged, having

a terrible fault of thinking
my desires to be realities.

Selfishly, I believed myself
to be forgotten by Providence

and I had to read your column
to understand

that I'm not alone and there are
many others unhappier than me.

So I take courage and hope
to find with your help a serious

hard-working young woman, who
will love me as I am.

I'll try to give her
the happiness I've never known.

This is a candid letter full of
optimism, appealing to women.

If our column
distracts from concerns

and causes compassion,
we thank it for doing so.

Forgetting sorrows means
escaping from them.

Here is another letter
from Mr. G in Nancy:

I am a specialized worker.

And if I am a little awkward
expressing myself on paper,

at least she'll feel my loyalty
and affection, which is the key.

I earn a good living and regret

always being alone and unable to
involve another in my projects.

I remain deeply convinced
that the ideal woman exists,

she only needs to be discovered,
we could be perfectly happy.

You will remark as we go on
up there the time will come,

he hasn't changed, I told you
not to do it, this is blackmail.

Ich bin der Geist, der stets
verneint! Und das mit Recht;

denn alles, was entsteht,
ist wert, daß es zugrunde geht.

he asked my forgiveness never
before this is all your fault

at the right time whatever
I beg you but this is stupid

you are very kind
it's none of your business

let's go she would have
done anything for him

you must be firm with this child

I permit you to slap him

due mile due cento mila cinque
cento cinque cento cinque cento

vai via vai via

I've got heartburn

obviously he wasn't satisfied
with that the frog

ti ponimaesh po ruski ia
ne znayu dosvidania tovarish

what's playing on the boulevards

eat now or go away

England 1697 April 24th mourns
the greatest of it's musicians

Henry Purcell, dead at 36

give me a pack of Gauloises
if you believe little one

what is it with him

you cannot he is lazy good for
nothing lucky he has his parents

to support him without that
what would you do

someone's phoning you

two tickets to Trocadero when
does it end you're confused

I've had it
my god what have I done

I met him in the courtroom

he makes furniture now
the dirty bastard

the other tall guy died
in Spain or somewhere

as he was rejoining
the free French forces

your father is a sub-Appolinaire

he has a sort of perfection

pass me the dictionary
Christiane go and find it

get it yourself exaggerate,
insult, overdo, tease, bluff

the printing press invention
is not as new as we think

from cro-magnon to
the men of tomorrow

il monumento di Vittorio
Emmanuele mi sono perduto...

es gibt keine ties pockets
hankerchiefs scarves

I'm totally exhausted
second-class gunner

one two three four
one two three four

ti voglio bene

cinque cento cinque cento cinque
cento cinque cento cinque cento

vai via

From now on phrases will become
completely incomprehensible

as a result of playing
the soundtrack backwards.

One of the extras will stand up

and shoot at the screen
with a revolver.

Another one will tear it up
with a knife

and, passing through to the
other side, will attack the wall.

The police will be called and

many viewers will be
taken in the raid.

At this point in his film,
the author insists

on declaring his regrets about

being unable to predict
the rest of the screening,

as he is too busy making
a desperate escape.

Nevertheless

this film,

to be in line with itself,
and to please assholes,

must itself announce the many
innovative creations introduced

into film history
with its appearance.

First: destruction of the screen
as we now know it

and research into possibilities
for a new screen.

Second: Use of the first
Joycean sentence in film,

its explosion into a series
of inarticulate sounds.

Third: Defacing this process
by total destruction of all

possible screenplays
past and future.

Fourth: introduction of the dust
of cinema in its chiseling stage,

that is: introduction of
the projectionist,

the ushers, the crowd and the
screening room into a film bent

on self-destruction,

and not enrichment as was
the case up to now.

Fifth: from the point of view
of the image,

the destruction continues

and the creation of
a new, unseen world.

Dear listeners,

here now are theater reviews.

Afterwards, you can hear
the evening news

on 52 meters and 63 meters 20 or
64 kilocycles, and, at 8:30,

the rest of the news.

But first, an overview
of all the shows in Paris

by Jean-Jacques Laurence.

Last night was the premiere

of a Maurice Lemaître film
with a strange, promising title

"HAS THE FEATURE STARTED YET?"

The audience reaction to this
unusual work was mixed.

The diversity of criticism is
a witness, so before talking

about the film we will

first give you some diverging
opinions from the Paris press.

To start with a lively attack
against this film

this is what George Rosnay
writes in "Prolétaire Libéré":

"Being occupied by hordes of
Americans,

we are used to
centralized productions, funded

from abroad upon governmental
agreement for the sole profit

of foreign capitalists and
the stupefecation of the French.

But never has one seen such
cynicism and complacency as in

the vulgarity of the Trotskyists
who cover screens

with Fascist propaganda, while
the government closes its eyes.

Compared to the incomparable
productions of the Soviet Union,

Maurice Lemaître's film bursts
with flattery and ass-kissing,

the very image of

a bourgeois terrified
by the victory of popular vote.

Maurice Lemaître must have
complied with his sponsors.

His film, of pure
Nazi inspiration,

is an insult to our comrades who

gave their lives for Lemaître's
liberties he so abused today.

We must unite in the face
of this menace."

We hear the same
from Roger Diamil

of the "Film Worker's Echo°:

"While our workers,

worn out by long labor days
in capitalist factories,

refuse salary increases, denied
the sacred right to a vacation

that would bring their
faded children to the country,

papa's boy Maurice Lemaître
throws out the window

the money of doubtful origins
that he did not earn

to make a film without any
value, ideological nor artistic,

that scorched the hands of
personnel with famine-rate wages.

All unite against this threat.°

On the opposite

political horizon,
we find similar complaints.

Francois Derais of
"France-Toujours" writes:

"In films like Lemaître's

one can see the deep influence
of Marxism on the youth.

No new generation filmmaker
tries to defend

the essential French values,
perpetuated

in history of the glorious
name and spirit of France.

Only nebulous philosophers
are imported into our country by

Talmudists across the Rhine.

French cinema is dying from
suffocation in filthy caresses

of those wanting to destroy
everything beautiful

and noble in us: the French
taste for fine workmanship which

made us renowned throughout
the world.

We must defend our values
if we don't want

our children to accuse us of
selling their heritage

the heritage of Joan of Arc,
of Saint-Louis

to the carpet merchants
just out of the Polish Ghettos.°

Here is
Maurice de la Ruchardière

of the "Le Catholique Libéré":

"When one thinks that some
of our boys and girls have

unfortunately seen
the film by Lemaître,

one shudders.

One aspires to defend them from
these enterprises inspired

by the devil to turn them away

from God's path, those souls
who suffer and search.

A Christian facing these films,
that should be

banned by a smart censor
anxious to save our children,

really feels like
a soldier of Christ,

sustained in his efforts by
the mystery of incarnation."

Finally, a "Mondanités
Parisiennes" columnist

Robert Lezise will provide us
with a conclusion:

"A charming evening," he writes,

"which enabled us to admire
an all new and charming hat

on the beautiful Parisian head
of our colleague, France Roche.

Do you know, by the way, what's
whispered in left bank salons?

It appears that France Roche
hates hats;

that servitudes to fashion
enslaved her against her will.

That will make people talk!

We can also mention,
in the audience

Baron de Toussac accompanied by

Isabelle, a famous model,
wearing a two-piece suit

in flaming yellow linen
with gold buttons

and a reversible bodice
with Pekinese ornaments.

This outfit, which
elegant women will die for

and run jealously to Weim
to buy the same,

was set off by a necklace
of Caucasian blue pearls,

by the evocative name Flamenco.
When we left

this oh so Parisian event

and arrived at
Marquise de B's soirée,

the worst scandalmonger
in our dear capital

told me all the new gossip
our women readers will be the

first to hear and due to lack of
space I must reveal next week."

Maurice Lemaître wonders
why he made this film.

Isn't it a totally
absurd enterprise?

Already, as a child,
he would hide in his bed

besieged by darkness.

Lying in a coffin whose
rough boards bruised his elbows,

shredding noises like flesh,

his brain gurgling empty
like an unclogged sink,

he searched, horrified, for
signs of a useless life

with no "arc de triomphe"
at its end.

He was rotting alive in this
carriage of gilded feet.

He saw around him the works of
men changing each morning.

The names of these men were
gasped from reluctant mouths

like the hiss of
a punctured balloon.

The new conquerors
trample the elderly

who, casting around them the
abrupt beams of their alarmed

gaze, struggle violently
to save their pensions

and avoid a forever
worrisome retirement.

Maurice Lemaître mused over his
death in the same banal way...

Like millions of other imbeciles
he thought:

"I don't want to die!"

Millions of those guys die.

Then the obituaries say
they "are no longer."

We should complain instead that
Mr. or Mrs. Smith "never were."

But when someone fantastic dies,

his remains are hastily
gathered in fear

and he is proclaimed to be
still living.

Years and years go by

and his name is endlessly evoked

with sacred fervor and trembling,
standing stiff at attention,

stiffer even than a subordinate
in front of his superior.

Mediocrity calls for a scalpel.

It attracts insults
degrading to our purity.

Maurice Lemaître has
slowly learned that

centuries are reduced to
a few names.

No one has ever lived on this
earth but Socrates!

Dante! Joyce!
He knows that if passions die,

the world is subject to one

implacable law, one absolute
determination: creation.

Here, the little idiot Maurice
Lemaître finds his great chance

for survival and salvation.

Art, history and science
thus become painkillers.

The author mocks these artifices

invented by men who cannot
admit to incongruous death.

But he needs these steps to

save himself from the grave
which his pride refuses.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is
the theater manager speaking.

As unlikely as this may seem,

the projectionist has just
warned me that he cannot find

the last reel of
Mr. Lemaître's film.

We don't know whether it was
misplaced or

not delivered to us.

We apologize for this situation
and regret, cherished customers,

that we are unable to finish
the show.

Ask for candy, mints,
chocolate ice cream.

Adaptation: Natasha Lesser
Pip Chodorov, Moira Tierney