Original subtitles

This is the house where I grew up.

It's in the Chevreuse Valley, in a hamlet called Montabé

in the township of Boullay-les-Troux.

I know, it sounds funny.

It's in Essonne near Yvelines, two departments created

when Seine-et-Oise was divided in the early 60s.

It looks much as it did in my childhood,

though most witnesses to that childhood are now gone.

The garden hasn't changed much,

but the roots of the pine have displaced the stones,

making the path look like a Japanese trail.

The tree was much smaller back then.

It was the potted pine from my mother's first Christmas in France

after fleeing the collapse of Hungary in 1947.

The neighbors left, selling their orchard,

which is now a subdivision.

All of Montabé, which used to be in open countryside,

is now residential.

I used to know everyone.

Now, hardly anyone.

This is my father's office. It hasn't changed.

The table is still beautiful, the chair still ugly.

He had a black German Erika typewriter.

I would sit on his lap and he'd show me a metal plaque

that I was of course unable to read. He'd say,

"See this? It says: Children must not touch."

This property belongs to our neighbors, the Régnauds.

Miraculously, nothing has changed.

Gone are the begonia and lime tree

that once stood outside the art nouveau villa,

not to everyone's taste.

Everything else is still here.

The Lebanon cedar I used to climb as high as I could,

I still like to sit on its branches.

The cottage where Hélène stayed,

the maid the Régnauds brought on weekends

to cook and do housekeeping.

The Régnauds were a traditional French family.

They bought the place just before WWII and spent the Occupation there.

Robert Régnaud, "Bob", was a solicitor.

He and his wife Geneviève raised five children.

My brother Etienne and I were friends with their eldest son's kids

who were close in age,

Jean-Paul and his sister Joséphine, "Josi".

We spent our childhoods in this garden, which is theirs,

but I feel more at home here than anywhere else in the world.

I know every path, every tree.

This, according to the rules of our treasure hunts,

was the first pine forest.

This was the second pine forest.

This is the pond.

There used to be a willow tree, but it died last year.

A little iron bridge from 1900 used to link the island to the shore.

It's been gone for a long time.

I saw this tennis court being built.

It's made of porous concrete, a new product back then.

I remember Bob and Geneviève Régnaud inaugurating it ceremoniously.

Then it was more often Jean-Paul, Josi, Etienne and I

who would spend our days there in spring.

Before that, we only had this swing set.

In addition to the swing there was a trapeze, rings,

a smooth rope and a knotted one.

But we loved nothing more than climbing it

and shimmying across upside-down.

This is the vegetable patch.

Espalier pear and climbing apple trees surround it.

The gardener grew a variety of fruits and vegetables,

including strawberries and currants.

There were so many apples in fall

we had battles using them like snowballs.

Better dodge them.

The uncles died prematurely.

The family scattered.

Jean-Paul is one of the few relatives still owning the property

and is the most active.

In his spare time he mows the lawn,

prunes the trees and drains the pond.

He's made it his mission to preserve

and keep alive our childhood garden.

Here, time stands still.

What is it?

My socks.

Ordered from Amazon?

Yes.

You know the awful conditions in their warehouses.

I don't need to tell you.

You need socks?

Yes I do.

It's almost May, you've been confined two months,

summer's coming, but you need socks?

Yes I do.

Ok.

Can't you go to a store?

The stores are closed.

When they open?

It'll be too risky to go.

Plus, stores don't have the socks I want.

Those are Falkes. They're easy to find.

Not this model.

Sorry, I'm doing my Zoom dance class.

You picked up the package from this morning?

Yes, I did.

Is it my gluten-free crackers?

No, it's my socks.

Damn, I ordered a week ago.

That's all, back to my class!

Yesterday it was boxer shorts.

The day before, bathroom bins.

Yes, and a toilet brush.

So? We don't have to live with the same old junk.

We're in an old country house. We can freshen it up sometimes.

Could it be compulsive buying?

Compulsive buying?

To make you feel better.

It does take my mind off things.

Or what marketing experts call revenge buying.

Revenge buying?

Confined, your desires are frustrated.

Society has conditioned you to be a spoiled child.

Now you're frustrated, so you treat yourself in revenge.

I don't know, maybe.

Like when you bought the latest 13-inch iPad.

- I bought that when lockdown began. - So?

It's useful.

We're stuck in this old ruin reliving our childhood.

It's good to keep up with the outside world.

Everyone's welcome to use it.

You had an iPad.

Too old, too slow.

Sure, you need it to read the paper.

The phone's too small.

If it's too slow, you toss it.

You could say that.

Yet it's not a compulsive buy?

Absolutely not.

You preach the protocols, but I see a deliveryman per day.

Usually with no mask.

I respect social distancing.

And the boxes?

I put them out by the garbage.

Meaning we'll be infected when we take out the trash.

Not at all.

The virus survives no more than four hours on a box.

Where'd you hear that?

On the RTBF website.

What's RTBF?

Radio-Television

Belgian-Francophone.

Why them?

First thing that comes up when you type

"subsistence / boxes / coronavirus."

Sorry Etienne, I have to go.

I've got my shrink.

See you later.

Hello.

It's pretty strange to be confining

where we grew up.

When I write in the morning, I'm in the room

where I wrote as a college student, even in high school.

Do you often return?

Sometimes, on weekends.

I went more when my mom was alive.

She died in 2006.

Anyway.

Never for long, and always happy to leave.

Too many memories.

Too much past.

Is it hard to be there now?

No, but I've realized something.

Something new?

I've spent a lifetime running away from this house.

You've said you love it, deep down.

That's true.

It's too heavy, too loaded, too dense.

The art book collection.

The masterpieces...

of the history of painting.

The dark rooms.

The grimacing Asian deities.

As a child, I was happy outdoors.

In nature.

How I marveled when the bellflowers bloomed

in the woods where we walked home from school.

We'd make giant bouquets.

Blackberry season, then chestnut season.

And this garden.

That garden?

Yes, this garden.

Late afternoons I jog here, or play tennis.

Jean-Paul's family is confining elsewhere.

I'm not bothering anyone.

So you're rediscovering your roots, literally and figuratively?

Yes, my adopted roots, if you will.

- Roots you share with your brother. - Yes.

But my brother has chosen to live

in the fantasy world we escaped to as teenagers.

Rock music.

He's spent a lifetime observing it.

Now we're confined together.

He has two adult children.

He and his wife just split up, so...

he's a bit disoriented.

I thought he had a new girlfriend.

Yes, I just met her. Carole.

She's confining with us.

This is a clean slate.

A chance to clear things up between you.

Yes, but it's been ages

since we spent more than a few days together.

It's a strange feeling, rediscovering each other.

It's as though we simultaneously

know each other too well,

yet not at all.

But you lived together as adults.

In the nineties we shared a flat on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth.

We were both journalists back then.

My brother in music, me in cinema.

And our friend,

the filmmaker Laurent Perrin,

lived on Rue au Maire, right nearby.

That was the period

when our father died.

And since?

Hard to say.

Family

became my brother's priority.

I made other choices.

Well then,

see you next week.

Same tree, same time!

Remember the party when we almost burned our place down?

Nice going. Am I supposed to be impressed?

It was ages ago, but I remember

some kind of hipster

wearing a royalist button.

- We call them "modern" now. - No, neither!

He threw his lit cigarette out the kitchen window.

It fell into an air shaft.

Started burning. Smoke everywhere!

Luckily we realized!

That was the party

where I found Alain Pacadis...

At dawn, eating cold ravioli straight from a can!

Gross!

Should I know Alain Pacadis?

No, no! He's a friend who wrote for Libération.

- He's dead now. - Never heard of him.

Bottle's empty. Want more?

Stay put, I'll get it.

This is boring anyway.

I'm interested. I wasn't born yet.

Remember Jean-Luc Besson?

He and Dani moved into an apartment on Rue Rambuteau.

Dani the singer?

Yes, and she was an actress too.

She was in Truffaut's Love on the Run.

She died last year.

Is Jean-Luc Besson related to the filmmaker?

Not at all!

I get everything wrong!

He started the label Dorian for French New Wave.

Artefact, Modern Guy,

Suicide Roméo,

Mathématiques Modernes...

- Edwige and Claude Artø. - Even Les Rita Mitsouko...

Before they got famous!

I know Marcia Baila.

He missed out on that one.

You've lost me. But I love music!

His big coup was releasing the music for your first short.

Jacno scored it. Rectangle.

- Rectangle I know. - It was a huge hit.

Anyway, Jean-Luc Besson moved in with Dani.

We'd given them an oven...

we had no use for anymore.

I happen to have left a jacket inside.

It caught fire...

when they plugged it in.

How do you leave a jacket in an oven?

I don't know, it was a gift...

Not too bright.

What's Jacno got to do with it?

He was Elli's boyfriend.

Elli Medeiros.

I know who she is.

I'm drunk, not clueless. She sang Toi mon toit.

Back then, Elli was the center of the universe.

Stinky Toys, to start.

Her band with Jacno. Two LPs for Vogue.

Then she was the lead in my short.

She'd hit all the parties with her crew,

musicians, journalists...

Pacadis,

Yves Adrien!

And Olivia Clavel, from Bazooka.

And you were in love with Elli.

Back then it was impossible not to be in love with Elli.

That lockdown spring was one of the most beautiful I can remember.

We left Paris shortly before the schools closed.

The countryside was already blooming.

The trees were leafy and we could eat outside.

Several weeks of good weather followed.

We saw the lilacs bloom.

The neighbors' wisteria amazed the rare authorized passersby.

Only the Régnauds' magnolia, which had bloomed like a blaze,

was thwarted in its plans.

One night of frost was enough to end its extravagant flowering.

The most modest wildflowers,

buttercups, bachelor's buttons, bellflowers,

persisted in colorfully dotting the fresh meadow.

Day after day I marveled while jogging,

discovering the apple and cherry trees in blossom,

thanking heaven for allowing me to witness this remarkable season.

Only when lockdown ended did I learn that David Hockney,

probably the living artist I most admire,

spent the same spring in nearby Normandy, painting.

He shared on YouTube images made on his iPad,

along with deeply moving words

expressing his joy at capturing spring in bloom,

and regretting our lost connection to nature.

This question had haunted me for weeks:

Why had my art, cinema,

also lost its connection to nature?

Not all cinema, of course.

But wasn't there a pathway in the clarity of Hockney's vision?

The way cinema captures the most fleeting emotions on faces,

embracing its very essence...

Couldn't it similarly capture nature's ephemeral beauties?

Couldn't a filmmaker do as Monet did when he moved down to the Seine

in winter 1879-80,

and painted the river while ice blocks were flowing?

Couldn't that belong in a film?

Can I talk to you?

Of course.

I've noticed when you do your shopping...

I do our shopping.

I've noticed when you do our shopping...

you put the groceries straight into the pantry.

Where should I put them?

- If you read the news... - What news?

If you follow the guidelines,

they say to leave the goods outside for a while,

at least four hours,

to eliminate all risk of surface contamination.

- What surfaces? - All of them.

Plastic packaging, boxes...

And dairy products?

Dairy products too, of course.

Sorry, I won't leave dairy products out.

Why not?

I respect the cold chain.

- Meaning? - I avoid encouraging bacteria.

Staphylococcus. Listeria. Salmonella.

If you want to respect the cold chain...

- And I do. - ...it's more about frozen food.

- I don't know. - I do.

I prefer not to take risks.

We're talking about Covid here, and you bring up the cold chain.

A risk is a risk!

You used bleach on all the doorknobs!

- Diluted. - Bleach is toxic!

I'm happy to use white vinegar.

We ordered six bottles.

But it's pointless! All the websites say so.

Not eating with Carole?

She's fasting today.

On the advice of her nutritionist.

Fine.

I'm not saying leave the groceries in the sun.

Shade is fine. And it's not that hot.

Too risky.

- Covid is a risk too. - We all have our priorities.

So you won't budge on the cold chain?

Exactly.

You do know we're in a red department?

- Not this part of Essonne. - I see.

I didn't know Essonne was divided into zones now.

That's a scoop!

I don't know when you got that info, but good to know.

I didn't say that.

I use my common sense, not my neuroses.

I'm following the guidelines

during the worst epidemic we've ever known.

The entire world is on lockdown for the first time ever.

But it's neurosis!

I'm the crazy one.

The Hong Kong flu killed a million in 1968,

and the media didn't go apeshit.

Would you say

that's a good thing or a bad thing?

I mean, what's a million deaths? Why worry?

Let's follow the model of the Hong Kong flu,

and do the same thing.

- That's not what I'm saying. - What, then?

All this hysteria seems excessive. Grotesque, even.

I think the film industry is totally downplaying the problem.

Protocols for film shoots are under discussion.

We're getting there.

Bullshit!

Why do you say that?

You can't social distance on a film shoot.

It's not doable.

That's extreme and unrealistic. What do you propose?

Nothing at all.

I don't intend to risk my health on a film shoot.

Never in my life have I felt like less of a filmmaker.

Let's say we do make films.

I don't know when.

People will have to risk going to see them.

- Not you. - Definitely not me.

Sorry to bother you.

I'm ordering from the organic grocery for today's delivery.

Great.

Do you want kohlrabi?

No need.

You used it for a puree.

I promise you, I'm fine.

Ok.

I'll stop bugging you.

Sorry, I...

It's ok. You signed the industry workers' petition.

That's the least I could do.

My friend Jeanne Balibar launched it.

But deep down...

You disagree?

No, I think

freelance workers in the arts are in dire straits, and will be for a while.

It's vital to help them.

But still,

compared to the social devastation,

the misery and the havoc

this pandemic is wreaking throughout the world,

it's a drop in the ocean.

How do you see the future?

I don't,

I'm not clairvoyant.

No, all I know is...

movie theaters and film sets

are potential clusters.

Until there's a viable vaccine,

things don't bode well for us.

- And until then? - Until then?

For me,

nothing.

Other than...

the imperative...

of imagining new ways of making films.

Ways compatible with the new realities of our world.

In sum,

every man for himself.

Yes.

And let the industry fall to ruin.

The industry will not fall to ruin, rest assured!

It'll reorganize itself, in the short or medium term,

according to values and rules

that will make it all the more rigid

and unfortunately, all the less free.

This is my father's library.

Here too, time stands still.

He had his books bound in Italy, color-coded by genre and country.

Brown with fleur-de-lys for the French classics,

beige with little stars for modern French literature,

yellow for theater,

peach for history,

and black for my favorites,

true crime throughout the ages.

Starting as a teen, I've read them compulsively.

Then he stopped binding and classifying them.

He'd run out of shelves to hold them anyway.

Most invasive was the L'Univers des Formes collection

created by André Malraux for Gallimard.

It was like La Pléiade, but for art history.

The first volume was Sumer,

then the Hittites, Assur...

All fascinating civilizations, but the most boring rooms in museums.

My father kept his pocket change in a cigar box.

When there was enough,

he'd take me to buy art books

at the stockroom of Hachette, Gallimard's distributor at the time.

My father, published by Robert Laffont,

benefited from a "brotherly discount" of 30%.

The last time we went I was thirteen.

We bought two monographs on Bonnard and Vuillard.

I still remember them.

They're here. I leaf through them sometimes.

I had no idea that their art, Bonnard's in particular,

would inspire my work in the future.

Until his dying day, my father insisted

on being kept impeccably clean.

His last few days, he was able to drink his usual coffee.

He liked black coffee in the morning, with bread and butter.

Then we sat him down, as we did every day,

in his sedan chair, which I told you about,

and even two days before he died,

he insisted on going to the garden and starting a landscape.

So we carried him out to the garden.

We tried not to jostle that sedan chair too much.

Our slowness annoyed him. He said, "Faster, faster!"

So we went faster, and put him down

where he told us to.

Then he changed his mind. We went a bit further,

and he looked at the olive trees.

I dare say he got lost in the olive trees.

But he was suffering, suffering terribly.

And, from time to time,

this man who never complained would even let out

a tiny little moan.

We placed the canvas on his easel before him.

We opened the box of colors. The palette was ready.

I had prepared it myself, I knew how.

It was the period of great parsimony with color.

Very few colors, a clean palette.

We put the brush in his hand.

He started to take some color and put it on the canvas.

And he stopped moaning. His eyes lit up.

We felt joy,

the joy of painting, taking possession of him.

After a few minutes, he began to hum.

That's the story of my father's end. As for the rest...

the rest...

Prat, our surgeon friend, came and took care...

well, tried to make his last moments as painless as possible. That's it.

Thus concludes our interview series...

What was that?

I heard snippets from next door.

A podcast Paul recommended. Jean Renoir.

- The filmmaker? - Yes.

He wrote a book about his father, Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Paul says it's a wonder.

Seems to be about death.

He speaks about it in simple terms. As it should be.

I wanted to thank you.

- For what? - I don't know.

For welcoming me here so generously.

You didn't have to, it wasn't planned.

- It seemed obvious. - Hardly.

This is the first time Etienne and I have...

lived together.

- Haven't you been together a while? - Yes.

Under the radar.

Now he's left his wife and family, so it's different.

It's an adjustment.

He kept you hidden?

You could say that.

Was it painful?

No.

But enough was enough.

- You'd have left him? - You bet.

You know,

I haven't lived with Paul very long.

Only a year or two.

Really?

I thought it'd been much longer.

No, he lived alone. And with his daughter, in joint custody.

- She's with her mom now? - Yes.

She was here before you came and will be back soon.

Paul really misses her.

He'd do her homework with her every morning.

You and Paul seem like you've always been together.

Feels that way to me, too. But we haven't.

I don't know where I belong.

My marriage failed, divorce was painful.

Sharing custody of our daughter hurts.

Lockdown hasn't helped.

I miss her terribly.

Did you split up over Etienne?

No, before.

Meeting Etienne pulled me out of a hole.

But maybe being hidden...

I guess it fuels a complex. A sense of insecurity.

Unshakable.

Unshakable? Is it that obvious?

Etienne and I were happy...

we traveled and all. But now we've stopped lying.

We can be seen as a real couple.

I understand.

I sensed that and wanted to express my gratitude.

Wait, wait, don't tell me!

So?

Wait!

C'mon!

Wait, wait!

Of course! Snoopy vs the Red Baron.

The Royal Guardsmen.

Where'd you find it?

A random compilation on iTunes.

I haven't heard it in decades!

No, you heard it recently.

- Are you sure? - Yes.

Tarantino used it in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

Right, when Leonardo di Caprio is floating in the pool,

listening to it on headphones.

Nice job!

It was totally out of whack.

Exactly, and that's why it's good.

Get ready. I've got...

a collector's item.

Get ready for this.

Here we go.

That's too easy!

The sound of the chillum gives it away.

Quintessence.

Notting Hill Gate.

They were terrible!

The singer was dreadful. Raja Ram.

When's it from? I like it.

You do?

Late sixties, around then.

I've got another one, look out.

Concentrate. Here it comes.

Concentration.

Of course! Eloise by Barry Ryan.

Don't be so sure.

Then who is it?

The soundtrack of a famous series...

The Claude François version.

No, no! Don't do this to me!

It's so awful.

I love it.

You love it?

Have mercy!

Ok, that's enough, I'll spare you.

Can you put on the John Prine album I like?

The one with the duets.

Falling in Love Again.

- Still hungry? - No.

Two salads, ham and cheese did me.

I'll make myself a crepe. There's batter in the fridge.

I'll go heat the pan.

- I thought... - All good, I just have the munchies.

Want one, Carole?

Is he upset?

No, it's just tricky...

to accommodate everyone's eating habits.

Nigh on impossible.

And he's serious about his crepes.

Has it been long?

A while now, yes. It's become a habit.

I get it, it's therapeutic.

I think I nailed this one.

Ham and cheese. Sure you don't want some?

I don't eat gluten.

Right, you told me.

- You? - No, thanks.

- A bite? - No thanks.

None at all?

We're going to watch a film. Interested?

- What film? - I don't know.

Maybe Guitry?

You've seen several already.

Guitry is a hard drug for me.

Or Renoir? We wanted to see Elena and her Men again.

No thanks. I prefer to read before bed.

Speaking of which...

Yes?

Could you keep the sound down?

We never play it loud.

It's just below us.

That's not new. It's been that way since childhood.

Sorry, I'm getting old man habits.

- Ok, no problem. - No, I'm sorry.

We'll be careful.

Last night we had to wear earplugs.

Which I never do, stresses me out.

But Etienne,

last night we watched a silent film.

I guess the music was too loud.

You already mentioned this last night,

and we kept the volume to a minimum.

Yes, it was very low.

We'll turn it down even lower. Doesn't matter.

Great, thanks in advance.

Just to be sure, from now on in this house,

we can only watch silent films?

You told me you prefer them.

Right, but not exclusively.

I've been having insomnia.

I'm going through a rough patch.

I wake up at dawn, it's no fun.

Listen, I'll adjust as we go along.

And when it's too loud, know what?

I'll turn it down.

Let's do that.

So generous of you.

Enjoy your film.

Use the broom if we're out of line!

Trust us, we will.

Goodnight.

What drew you to the letters of Heloise and Abelard?

I was asked to direct a documentary on Madame Bovary.

She refers to their love.

And you hadn't read them?

I admit I only had a vague notion.

Same here.

Except for what Villon says.

Villon?

Yes, in The Ballad of Dead Ladies.

"Where is Heloise, chaste and wise

"For whom unmanned and made a monk

"Was Pierre Abelard in Saint Denis?"

Some memory.

I deserve no credit. Georges Brassens set it to music.

A beautiful song. I've listened to it a lot.

Heloise was anything but chaste and wise.

She was crazy about Abelard

who, even after her uncle Canon Fulbert's cruel vengeance...

"Unmanned and made a monk!"

"Unmanned and made a monk."

...persisted in explaining to her the primacy of love in Jesus Christ.

Heloise's letters are sublime.

Unfortunately, she only wrote two. That's not many.

No, but they're a marvel of the French language.

She speaks freely and crudely of physical desire,

fearlessly guided by her passion.

Abelard's letters pale in comparison.

Heloise is so patient and generous in accepting

Abelard's singularly bloodless lessons.

His writing is beautiful, though.

It lacks the dazzling modernity of Heloise's letters.

The book was lying on the desk. Did you get it out?

Yes. I wanted to reread

Letters of the Portuguese Nun in the same volume.

Two monologues by women in love,

written to men overwhelmed by their desire

and fearing its depths.

Any particular reason?

I want to do a period drama with Kristen Stewart.

I'm looking for ideas.

She'll play a Portuguese nun?

I know, that won't work.

It's more complex than that.

I want to explore the interplay between a film shoot and real life.

Both the character she plays,

and how it echoes with her own fate.

So what's the problem?

The Portuguese nun's fiancé.

He's French, a total wanker!

A bit like the English hussar in Adèle H.

He's so indifferent to her that we don't care.

- About her? - No, him.

All that's left is a monologue.

Hardly enough for a whole film.

- And a victim's monologue. - Beautiful though.

Up there with Racine.

But there's no one to respond.

Shame.

I liked the idea of Kristen Stewart as a Portuguese nun.

Me too!

Shall we race?

Hello, I'm Mr. Berger, I came to pick up my order.

Hello, it's the fourth cart.

- Thanks, have a nice day. - Goodbye.

How to wash your hands well.

Wet your hands.

Take a sufficient amount of soap.

Rub your palms together.

Rub the palm of one hand back and forth

on top of the other,

then switch hands.

To wash your nails, rub your fingertips on the palm of one hand,

then switch hands.

Thoroughly dry your hands by dabbing them with a towel.

All good?

Very.

You dreaded picking up the order.

Actually it's extremely well-organized. They do wear masks.

Pickup is in the parking lot. You take your crates.

Phew!

Importantly, they socially distance. There's no contact.

So how do you pay?

Easy. You pay online.

I see.

And then you wash your clothes.

Yes, it's much safer.

Tell me,

Etienne wondered if you got bread and pie from the bakery.

I'm not psychologically ready for the bakery.

I can do without.

Right, I figured the bakery would be a stretch.

He'll go, then.

Can you remind him to wear his mask?

He does.

- And disinfect his hands? - He does.

Around the wrists...

...and between the fingers, thanks.

First I'll download the app.

Call me and I'll walk you through it. You'll need a mic.

I don't have a mic.

No worries, we'll send you one.

Ok.

Then please take every possible precaution.

Not for me, for my brother. He's a total germophobe.

I get it. We've seen worse.

A famous talk show host, who shall remain nameless,

insisted the courier wear gloves,

the mic box be disinfected

and left out on his landing.

He waited a whole day before picking it up. See?

That's my brother to a T!

Give us the address.

We'll leave it outside for pickup.

That'll reassure your brother.

I'll pass you back to Maxime.

Was that clear enough?

Yes. I'm technically challenged, but I should be ok.

We need to do a live show at noon.

Something along the lines of Song of the Day.

Live broadcasts mean life goes on.

And repeats for my evening slot?

Your series on Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys

is joyful, danceable... what our audience wants.

You and Laure Adler will do a segue.

She'll be live?

No, hers are repeats too. She'll do intros and outros from home.

We'll connect you, then run your show.

When will we do this?

Not quite yet, starting next week.

Any ideas for the next few days? Something topical.

We could pay tribute to Covid victims.

David Greenfield, The Stranglers' keyboardist.

Paul Oakenfold, who produced Primal Scream,

Manu Dibango,

John Prine...

Sure, but that's not really what I had in mind...

I was thinking of something uplifting.

But it's your show, you decide.

I get it, let's avoid obits.

Right, exactly. Avoid obits.

I'll do my best.

What's fabulous about you

is you turn us on to artists we might have missed

and make it all come to life.

What'll we do with the strawberries?

I forgot all about them.

They're past their prime.

I'll make a compote.

In what? We burnt the small pot beyond repair.

I know, I threw it out.

I ordered new ones. They came this morning.

Amazon again? That's nuts!

No, I ordered straight from the Swedish website.

I got a stockpot

and a small saucepan, look.

What will you cook in a mini stockpot?

I don't know. It's cast iron with a wooden handle.

Very pretty.

How much was it?

90 euros, plus shipping.

You spent 90 euros on a mini stockpot you may never use?

Unbelievable.

Shall I use the small pot for the strawberries?

Go ahead, be my guest.

So...

you're mentioning Amazon again.

Got a problem with Amazon?

Yes, I have a problem with Amazon.

Well, the stores are closed.

What am I supposed to do?

Stop supporting war profiteers.

Listen,

it's not my fault we're in lockdown.

It's far easier, I think, to do our shopping online.

Killing small businesses.

Small businesses were killed long ago by superstores.

Some remain.

It's actually the opposite. The superstores fear Amazon.

- Why? - They're afraid.

Afraid people will shop online, according to their needs.

No need to stir. They release water and won't burn.

Sorry.

For books there are great alternative sites.

I found one that uses gender-inclusive language.

Frankly, that turned me off.

You're being mean.

Anyway, most of those sites redirect you to local bookstores

which happen to be closed.

We're in a house full of books.

No pressing need to order books on Amazon.

Now that you mention it...

that library makes me anxious.

I've seen you dip into it.

Right, Boileau.

Why Boileau?

I couldn't remember if I'd read L'Art Poétique.

So?

Actually, I still don't know.

The verses sound so much like proverbs!

"What is well conceived is clearly expressed."

What's that burning smell?

The strawberries!

You told me to leave them be!

I never said that.

Yes you did.

They're burnt to a crisp.

The saucepan is ruined.

Soak it overnight and it'll be fine.

No, it won't.

The bottom is carbonized!

I'll have to throw it out.

I never said to leave it alone.

You said not to stir!

So it's my fault?

- I never said that. - You did.

Here.

For your crepes.

You're welcome.

Disgusting. Can I toss it?

Sure, don't worry. The garbage is right here.

Hang on.

I found a website that says to boil it

with dishwashing liquid and baking soda. Works a charm.

I bought baking soda for my gluten-free bread.

It's totally scorched.

Try soaking it in white vinegar. That works.

Another website suggests throwing it out.

Not funny.

How are you?

Ok, considering the horrible context. My film is on hold.

I can resume next summer, if that.

Otherwise I'm fine. We're in the country, nice weather.

Is Louis' parents' house nice?

Very.

There's a big yard with a trampoline.

Britt is always on it. She wins every jumping contest.

If she loses, she's cranky all day.

Nothing new there.

How's her homework going?

- Better than when she's with you. - Meaning?

Do you work on her German?

I don't speak German.

It's just practicing the drills.

I do what I can.

She struggles to focus.

Are you letting her surf randomly on the internet?

School's closed, she's confined. It's no fun for kids.

True, I'm more relaxed than usual.

That's not how she puts it.

How does she put it?

She's happy here,

but calls us the gulag when it comes to internet.

So I assume you run a more lax regime.

I let her chat with her friends at the end of the day

so she doesn't lose all her social connections.

That seems positive to me.

And if she does her homework,

I let her play games on my tablet.

- What games? - I don't know.

I didn't analyze the games.

So you let your daughter play any game on your tablet,

even toxic ones?

I doubt they're toxic, but I'll check.

Thanks for being willing to do that.

- Is she there? - I'll put her on.

Britt!

Hello, sweetie!

Hi, Dad!

Hi, how are you?

Where's my bike?

We put it away...

in the utility room.

Dad, can you order Warriors volume 22 for me?

Actually, volumes 22, 23 and 24.

- Why three volumes? - It's the end of the Fifth Cycle.

I ordered you three volumes before you went to Mom's.

I know, 19, 20 and 21.

I'm halfway through 21.

I'm lost. How many volumes per cycle?

Six!

You can't leave me hanging halfway through.

It's too cruel.

I'm sure Louis' parents have an excellent library.

Old books!

Great, what's the problem?

You don't get it. I have to finish the Fifth Cycle!

Why not discover something else?

Wings of Fire, for instance.

- I don't like it. - Why not?

I don't like dragons. Boring animals.

- Are you sure? - Dad!

I won't insist, but still.

When I come back

can I watch films on your tablet?

Does Mom let you?

She never loans me her computer or tablet.

I'm pretty sure she does, sometimes.

Yeah, but I can't watch Netflix.

I'm pretty sure you watch it anyway.

How?

Using my password, for instance.

Britt, I saw that you logged in.

How do you know?

They send me notifications.

I may have used it once or twice.

Listen Britt,

we'll do like we used to, ok?

Pay attention to your lessons and do your homework,

and you can watch films, ok?

Netflix?

Isn't there anything besides Netflix?

There are things you might like elsewhere.

Netflix?

Ok, one episode.

- Three! - No, one means one!

Three!

No, listen. Ok, two.

Two, ok.

- You're a fierce negotiator! - I know.

Gotta go, jumping contest!

Hang on, Britt! Give the tablet back to your mom.

- Promise! - Yeah?

Britt!

I got in the habit of jogging around the Régnaud estate.

We're not allowed on country lanes.

Here, I encounter no one.

Running is relatively new for me.

Maybe the past ten years. And only in summer.

The rest of the year I don't exercise.

Young, I couldn't run.

I couldn't breathe, or didn't know how,

and was quickly exhausted.

I've come to like it. I've found my bearings,

I enjoy the effort, and I run better than when I was twenty.

Here in Montabé I'm back to my old routines.

For instance, the path around the grounds.

I run down to the vegetable patch, pass the espalier pear trees,

head right toward the swing set, go behind the tennis court.

I run down to the pond,

then follow the fence up a steep hill

to the undergrowth leading back to the villa,

where I start over again.

I run six laps.

I ran the same path

when I was a student at Censier.

Most often, I worked at the old National Library,

on my Master's thesis

about serial novelist Gustave Le Rouge.

Blaise Cendrars

devotes a chapter to him in The Astonished Man.

Actually, it was mostly about the close link

between Symbolist poetry and the revival of occultism in France

in the late 19th century.

A source of inspiration for my film Irma Vep,

and my essay on the art of magus / filmmaker Kenneth Anger.

Mornings, during this one period of my youth,

I would go for a run before driving into Paris.

It must have been winter. I remember the frost, seeing my breath,

and especially how hard it was running up from the pond.

At best, I could run two laps.

I liked it.

Well, at dawn it was pretty marvelous.

But my memories from that time aren't good.

Claire, whom I still loved, had left me.

I couldn't imagine replacing her.

She was irreplaceable.

She was the first.

She inspired my early artistic attempts.

Why was I doing a Master's, if not to get it over with?

I didn't want to be a teacher.

Painting was too lonesome, and cinema was still a long way off.

Anyone home?

Right, I understand.

Next year is Gustave Flaubert's 200th birthday,

so it'll be newsworthy,

well, so to speak... Sorry.

But that's no reason to approach Madame Bovary in a conventional way.

If I do this documentary,

I'll need an angle.

If there's no angle, I'm not interested.

I don't want to rattle off dates.

This year he did this, this is the year of the trial,

the press said this or that...

Wouldn't that be boring?

But...

Yes, so...

Sartre asks the right question in The Family Idiot:

What can Flaubert tell us today?

That interests me.

There's a package for you at the gate.

I know.

Been stagnating there for two days.

I got it. It's a mic, so I can broadcast live.

Great.

Can you help me set it up? Carole's doing her yoga.

Sure. I'll just finish my coffee.

Thanks.

How can I help?

Can you sit at the desk so I can adjust the height?

Lower...

More, more...

Stop.

Height's good, but how will you stabilize it?

Screw this, I'll call the technician.

So?

I did it, but the mic's not stable.

Let's see if it works anyway.

I'll hold it.

Who remembers The Stranglers,

first-wave punks known for their occasionally coarse machismo?

Their sound is defined by the use of keyboards,

anathema for their contemporaries, and inspired by The Doors.

Their keyboard player was David Greenfield,

felled by Covid at the age of 71.

We're paying tribute to him today.

Stop, I can't hear a thing.

I did everything you said.

Holding it steady is tricky.

It was better before, the signal's faint.

Is the app set up right?

Yes, I checked twice.

Does he know the wifi is low?

- I told him. - Tell him again.

I only have two wifi bars.

That's the problem.

You said it'd be enough.

Try plugging into the modem.

No ethernet port on my Mac.

I'll investigate and get back to you.

I'm willing to answer your questions but I was reluctant at first.

Why's that?

Because I feel extremely privileged.

In such a dark time, with so many people struck by poverty,

disease, grief, unemployment,

people confining in tiny apartments,

the underprivileged always forced to take the biggest risks,

there's something

rather obscene, if you will...

in displaying how lucky I am to be confining in a family home.

You could tell us what gives you hope.

We all need it right now.

Honestly,

right now, nothing gives me hope.

You must at least have a song for us.

Yes I do.

Murder Most Foul by Bob Dylan.

Tell us more.

It's a 17-minute song he put online

when lockdown began. He recounts the murder of Kennedy,

the loss of innocence and the way his entire generation

came to terms with this disaster by listening to music.

Yep.

At least that's my interpretation. That's how I received it.

Doesn't sound very positive.

I warned you.

Any books to recommend?

- Am I bugging you? - No, no.

The garbage truck came but didn't pick up our garbage.

It's happened before. There must be a problem.

- Shall I bring it in? - Yes, I'll deal with it later.

Ok, bye!

Sorry.

No problem. Have you any books to recommend?

Without hesitation,

The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon.

She's a medieval Japanese courtesan,

who lists what she likes and doesn't like,

what makes her sad or happy.

It's like...

an herbarium of sentiments

containing all the beauty and melancholy in the world.

It's in fragment form. Did you read it all?

No, but it's not meant

to be read cover to cover.

It's a bit like the I Ching, if you will.

You read around in it.

I also recommend

The Tale of Genji by Dame Murasaki.

- You're too much. - How so?

You read The Tale of Genji?

Not really, but I've been planning to.

Yeah?

For a long time now. Actually, I bought

René Sieffert's new translation for my mother.

I took it back when she died.

When did she die?

2006.

I have to admit, the foreword put me off.

The translator, basically,

explains why it's boring.

According to him, that's not an obstacle.

But still.

Shall we hit a few to warm up?

Sounds cool to mention Genji on France Culture.

Sure, it sounds cool.

But the thing is, lately,

I've been struggling with fiction, I don't know why.

David Hockney discusses it in an interview.

Can't you just talk?

It's always "David Hockney says this or that"...

I admire him. I pay attention to what he says.

Plus I've always loved

reading history and popular science.

That explains the genetics books you seem obsessed with.

These days, epigenetics and the study of paleo-history

using DNA is as thrilling as it gets.

Especially since this is just the beginning.

The possibilities for discovery are breathtaking.

"Thrilling! Breathtaking!"

Don't make fun of me.

I'm not.

Match!

You can get your revenge.

Stop.

Stop scraping the pan, it's unbearable.

Have you tried white vinegar?

It's been soaking for three days.

No results.

Toss it.

It's a lost cause.

- I'll manage. - Toss it.

However long it takes!

I'll manage.

What's the neighbor's name?

- Which one? - In the woods where I make calls.

Mr. Le Malinois.

Mr. Le Malinois is a very rude man.

He interrupted my session with my shrink.

We're not allowed on country lanes.

We are now, as long as we social distance.

But if you take the country lane,

you end up at the Le Malinois' place.

And that's private property.

- I warned you. - But he was obnoxious.

Asked who I was, what I was doing.

I told him to fuck off.

You told him to fuck off?

Yes.

Couldn't you call from the Régnaud's?

I call from those woods every day.

It's not woods, it's a hunting reserve.

I'm showering. I'll set the table after.

We'll do it!

Half an hour?

The app says 25 minutes at 210°C.

If anyone's interested,

I looked into the garbage situation.

Swell.

Shall I explain?

I can't wait.

Our container doesn't meet their standards.

That's why the truck won't take our trash.

What's wrong with it?

So, I got in touch with the Hurepoix IFCOW.

Hurepoix IFCOW?

I know, we're in the Chevreuse Valley,

but the Hurepoix IFCOW handles our waste removal.

Hurepoix is the region.

IFCOW?

"Intercommunal Federation for the Collection of Waste."

They supply standard containers,

which remain their property.

Same where I live in Côte d'Or.

Standard only. Very strict.

I ordered the cans.

But they're not delivering now because of lockdown.

So, for our household waste,

we can put our bags in a neighbor's can.

What if it's full?

No problem, there's always room...

at...

the Mourghes' place, across the street.

Sorry, this is fascinating, but I have to check the roast.

Recyclables are the trickiest problem.

We're sorting now?

The recycle truck comes on Fridays.

I wasn't aware we were sorting.

We'll start. I ordered a container with two compartments.

It'll be here in a day or two.

How do you know? Deliveries are backed up.

I'm tracking it online.

Look, here we see

the garbage can has arrived in France

We're left with the glass problem.

Is it really a problem?

Haven't you seen all the glass

out there behind the kitchen?

I don't go behind the kitchen much.

If you were to go...

I do go, I just don't monitor it.

I'll take you.

I believe you, but I don't care.

I want you to see it.

Come.

I'm sitting this out.

- See? - You weren't kidding.

This is unexpected.

A new neighbor listening to salsa all day.

Especially at lunchtime.

Right when we're in the garden.

He's allowed to listen while he eats.

Remember last year? We were in Cuba for your film.

Yes, it was salsa morning, noon and night.

And every time we crossed the hotel lobby.

Silence is beautiful.

There used to be planes.

Cars in the distance.

Now, nothing.

It's magical.

Capone, let go!

Magical indeed!

So this neighbor, when not listening to salsa,

is training dogs!

Seems so!

Capone!

Wait. Want coffee?

Yes I do.

I want coffee, I want coffee!

No, no!

I sleep in what was my mother's room.

Our parents had separate rooms.

They divorced when we were children

but slept apart even before that.

My mother moved to Paris.

We stayed here with our father and Hungarian nanny.

We spoke with her in that language. She never learned French.

Our mother came every weekend.

Like a metronome, she arrived Friday evenings

and honked from the gate for us to come get her bags.

Only afterwards would she park her car.

During the week her room was inaccessible.

We had no business in there.

It was the largest room by far,

with the finest furniture and most beautiful paintings.

One noteworthy painting, though small and dark,

is a Northern landscape attributed to Ruysdael

or perhaps his teacher Allart Von Everdingen.

The other painting, less interesting,

has a story I never tire of.

My Milanese grandfather, Guillaume Assayas,

wanted to buy a painting.

I guess he would have defined it as an investment.

So he asked his friend, the curator at Brera Gallery,

who made two suggestions.

The more reasonable, safer choice,

was a pretty 18th-century landscape by Tuscan artist Francesco Zuccarelli,

in a simple, classic, timeless style.

The riskier choice was by a young Jewish-Italian artist

living in Paris

and painting in the modern style of his time.

You guessed it. Amedeo Modigliani.

My grandfather did not display much discernment.

He chose Zuccarelli.

Shortly before she died,

my mother said she hoped that after her death

- she used to say, "When I'm in China" -

I would take her room.

It took me years,

so intimidated was I by that forbidden room.

I've always felt places were haunted, inhabited,

especially that one.

I'm used to it now,

though I still feel I'm living in my mother's room.

And no matter what I do, it will always be hers.

Does this mean I've made peace with my mother?

Did I need to make peace with her?

Perhaps.

She wished I'd had children, like my brother.

One year for Christmas she gave me a copper carpenter's ruler.

She made her message clear by saying Saint Joseph was a carpenter.

As fate would have it, my daughter was born 3 years after my mother died.

The room next door is now a child's room.

So, to be close to my daughter, I finally adopted my mother's room.

After orthodox theology with Father Chrysostom,

we now turn to a very different subject: rock and roll.

Are you with us, Etienne Berger?

Good evening, Laure.

Good evening, Etienne Berger. What have you concocted for us tonight?

Well, Laure, for our confined listeners,

a ray of California sunlight

with part one of my series on The Beach Boys.

You'll be making surf lovers very happy...

Others too, I hope.

...now that the beaches have reopened to swimmers.

Can't you stay a few more days?

I haven't seen my daughter in a month. We've never been apart this long.

Bring her here.

School's starting back up. I have my house, my yard, my parents.

- I know. - You could come to us.

I'm not allowed yet. It's over 100 kilometers.

You said they'll lift the restrictions.

It's hard to be sure.

Who expected we'd be confined for three months?

Try to be patient with your brother.

I am patient.

You bottle it up.

Yes. He has a knack for spreading his neuroses.

You see the pandemic very differently, that's all.

Understatement!

I won't be sucked into his inept anxieties.

Inept? Isn't that harsh?

No. We're in the country, we respect the rules.

What's the problem?

We don't know anything about this virus.

He may be overly cautious, but I can understand why.

I have enough worries as it is.

- Did you speak to your wife? - Yes.

As soon as we're allowed, she'll get her things

and move them to her place in Normandy.

Are you at peace with that?

It's complicated.

We married young, had 25 years together. Peace won't come fast.

You know I sleep poorly.

Not when I'm here.

True, but you're not here often enough.

I could say the same.

This is our first whole month together.

It's a step forward.

A strange step.

A step, nevertheless.

An unexpected step.

Unhoped for.

Yes.

Unhoped for.

Nice of Morgane to give me flowers.

She stole the neighbor's wisteria.

And broom.

Everyone's sad you're leaving.

Especially me.

I hate long goodbyes.

I'll call when I get there.

Stop!

Why?

Don't walk on my clean floor!

I'll just get my coffee.

Seriously, wait till it dries!

Fine.

Why bother mopping the entrance tiles?

I do it every Sunday,

in case you hadn't noticed.

But it was clean.

We track stuff in, it's unhealthy.

- Unhealthy? - Yes!

I put up with your OCD, I can mop this floor!

No one said you couldn't.

You sounded like you did.

Total respect.

Enough. I'm fed up.

I say one thing,

you hole up and sulk for an hour!

I could sulk too, I have reasons.

But I suck it up and shut my mouth.

Go on, tell me your reasons!

I don't want to talk about it.

- I adapt to your obsessions. - What obsessions?

I simply ask you to leave the boxes outside

and not shop in any store where people don't wear masks.

Is that too much?

And I do it, I adapt!

I mop the entrance. I ask you to respect that.

Did I make the rule about leaving boxes outside?

Those guidelines are on all the websites.

Screw your paranoia.

I checked. You're not in the high-risk category.

It's the obese and the elderly with underlying conditions.

I'm sick of your anxieties! I'm suffocating here.

I need to feel free, take my car and go where I want!

Etienne,

I'm not stopping you.

But your endless worries weigh on me!

Fuck that shit!

I believe in being carefree.

And it boosts your immunity!

Stay calm and be healthy!

So you're saying

we must stop all worrying?

All ruminating, yes.

When this is over,

I'll live as I please and not have to answer to anyone.

Sorry, but enough.

My patience has limits, dammit!

No need to raise your voice.

I'm not the one brooding.

Sorry if I raise my voice,

but it has to come out.

I keep it bottled up.

I'm done.

I got it out.

See? The magnolia recovered.

Yes.

I thought the frost had killed it.

The flowers died but the sap rose back up.

Meanwhile, the lilacs are fading.

We've seen them bloom and fade.

First time since childhood for me.

He's right.

You shouldn't have sulked.

I never sulked.

Sure you did, you holed up in your office.

I had work to do.

At lunchtime?

He made lunch and picked flowers. No reason to be mad.

I never got mad.

I just went to get some coffee in the kitchen.

Should've let the floor dry.

Listen, I tiptoed in,

in sneakers. It's fine.

He likes a well-mopped floor.

Seriously? "He likes a well-mopped floor"?

Stop. What's the problem?

I clean the house without bugging anyone.

What's your point?

Your coffee could've waited, no?

Dunno.

You bicker like children.

Well, this place takes us back to childhood.

Right, but you were the big brother then.

Now, you're the same age. You're both adults.

- I wonder sometimes. - Me too.

And that's not a compliment.

It's the shared memories.

Hungarian words we thought we'd forgotten.

A childhood spent in the country

creates conscious and subconscious bonds.

And doesn't a lifetime lived independently make you strangers?

Strangers? That's an overstatement.

Not at all.

You forged your identities in your own ways

in worlds that are similar, yet totally different.

No doubt.

You shared countless moments in childhood,

so you think you're basically the same.

But the trees are hiding the forest.

So tell me,

what's the forest?

Life, existence, time.

That's all there is.

All there is? Well...

Want your childhood to define you?

No, no.

So, then?

Well,

our father died when we were relatively young.

In our twenties.

We had to face it together.

Ok. So?

Nothing.

Just that our childhood lasted longer.

Until when?

Until my brother got married.

Want my diagnosis?

Yes, I'm interested in what you have to say.

There's nothing more banal.

All right.

Making crepes?

Yep.

For lunch?

For anyone who's not sick of them.

- Managing ok? - Yes.

I'd had it with this door.

It's been making me crazy.

Scraping the floor for years...

Maybe even decades.

Done.

I had my way with it.

Last week things were fine. Not this week.

Things were fine?

I was comfortable confining, it reassured me.

What reassured you?

The idea that everything had stopped

and I could isolate from the world with no guilt.

- It might've made you anxious. - But no.

There's so much pressure to be part of the world,

to keep up with its pace.

When it grinds to a halt,

there's a powerful sense of liberation.

It reminds me of Year 01. Know what that is?

Not really, no.

It's an anarchistic utopia,

imagined by a cartoonist for Charlie Hebdo,

Gébé.

The slogan was,

"We stop it all. We start over. And it's fun."

You seem comfortable with the first part.

Yes. We stop it all.

A bit less with part two!

True.

They say they'll announce the end of lockdown.

That it'll be gradual.

But barring a catastrophe,

the government will stick to its timetable.

But as for me...

I liked...

living in suspended time.

I liked the idea of living

in a sort of miraculous time-out.

Miraculous, you said.

I like the idea of starting over

if we start everything over.

Whereas the current plan is to pick up where we left off,

but with surgical masks and social distancing.

Less appealing.

Yes, it makes me anxious.

I had...

a quarrel with my brother.

About what?

About nothing in particular.

I think it's more of a symptom.

A symptom of what?

A symptom of where we're at.

And where exactly is that?

Actually, where I'm at.

Despite my anxieties,

I've enjoyed confinement.

Your brother hasn't.

No, not at all.

It felt to him like an attack on his freedom.

That's not your fault.

No, but since I took the threat seriously,

I became the vector of the lockdown.

I legitimized the lockdown.

He and his wife just separated. He wants freedom. You're in the way.

No.

Not you, what you embody. Your positive take on it.

Yes, it felt like a utopia.

And that utopia had to end.

If it even existed.

You're right.

It didn't exist.

Immobility can't be a utopia.

Immobility is a void.

Lockdown too.

Saddest of all is realizing nothing will change.

Are you sure?

Alas, yes.

Do you fear the end of lockdown?

Yes.

Healthwise?

I'm afraid to live in the world of the pandemic.

You do seem terrified.

"Terrified" is a bit too strong a word.

Actually, no it's not.

I'm terrified!

Hello.

Two more to come.

The grocer came out without a mask. Is it ok?

He's usually careful.

Well, not this time.

You had yours?

Yes. Of course.

Did you talk?

Socially-distanced...

I don't know, he rushed over.

I forget if he spoke or not.

I don't remember.

Was this outside?

I think it'll be fine.

Are you sure? I've been worrying.

No, I mean, there's no reason to.

- I think. - You think?

No, I mean, I'm sure.

I wanted to tell you...

I was very happy confining with you.

Me too.

I wouldn't have wanted to confine with anyone else.

Me neither.

- How long has it been? - Confining?

No, that we've been together.

Two years.

Well, a bit less. Summer of 2018.

We never spent much time together.

You were always location scouting, or at film festivals.

Then you shot in Cuba.

- You came to Cuba. - But not for long.

It seems lockdown

forced us to live together for the first time.

The results are conclusive.

Totally conclusive.

We've never said it out loud.

It's better to say it.

So basically this means we'll keep confining together

even when we're unconfined?

I have no other plans.

Nor do I.

- You know, David Hockney... - Enough about David Hockney!

David Hockney...

said he's 83 years old

and he's going to die.

He said

we die because we're born.

And he said what matters most

is love.

It is love.

Sometimes it takes a while to understand that.

This time the message got through.

Yes.

- It got through. - It did, yes.

Can I go see Dad?

Wait in the car, I need to talk to him first.

C'mon, Mom!

Give us five minutes!

Help her with her suitcase.

Careful with Moritz in the sun.

Hi, Louis.

- How are you? - Fine.

Louis' parents got Covid.

Fuck.

I thought they were cloistering.

They shopped the day we were in Paris for the pediatrician.

But they wore masks?

Homemade masks, sent by a cousin.

There's your reason.

Right, and with a baby it's too risky to stay,

so we're going back to Paris.

Are they symptomatic?

Yes, they have a fever, and lost their sense of taste and smell.

But don't worry, we were in separate buildings,

I took a test, I'm negative.

I hope that's enough to reassure you.

Why do you say that?

I know you. We lived together for ten years. You're scared.

Scared?

Scared you'll die of Covid.

I admit I'm wary of Covid.

It's a new illness. I'd rather not get it.

That's my point.

There's a big gap between that and a fear of dying.

I can guarantee Britt is negative. We've been reclusive for two weeks.

I didn't expect you to.

When we spoke, you asked if we were careful.

It's only normal to ask.

And I answered. She can go without a mask.

That's what I wanted to know.

But then you insisted.

We may not follow the same guidelines.

Better to be clear.

No reason to get heavy.

- Me, heavy? - Yes, you. Heavy.

I have no time or desire to argue.

I'm seeing the notary.

The notary?

Yes. I'm selling my apartment.

You bought it two years ago.

It's no good, now that I have Moritz.

I get that.

A baby...

takes space and energy.

How do Britt and Moritz get along?

Very well.

She loves her brother.

I let her care for him. Creates a bond.

Where will you move?

We found a house in Pré-Saint-Gervais.

It has a garden with a fig tree.

What's your plan for Britt's middle school?

It's near my place.

She'll take the Metro.

She's ten years old!

For now, schools are closed.

It'll be next year, if that.

If that?

We have six months of renovations.

Is this the right time to take on such a project?

No, far from it.

But I have to make it work. It's tough.

Some days I break down.

I know.

No you don't. You have no money problems.

When I was young, I did.

Not real problems.

You're right.

I had no kids so there was no pressure, I know.

That was your choice.

Mine is different.

So we agree?

Three hours minimum for the online classes.

Mornings.

What online classes? Never heard of them.

Excuse me,

sorry if I wasn't clear.

I meant the exercises the teachers put online.

On the school website. Aware of that?

I keep an eye on it like you do.

She has a report on Pericles.

She and her friend Edwarda are doing it online.

Pericles?

I know, I was surprised too.

You know, I wonder if it might be a ruse

to steal my tablet,

supposedly for homework, but actually to surf dumb websites.

- She works hard. - If you say so.

Britt!

Dad!

How I've missed you!

- All good? - Yeah.

Mom!

Promise me you'll do your homework?

Promise.

I'll call, and you'll show me.

Ok.

So...

Bye, then.

Bye.

Was it fun with Mom?

We watched all the Screams!

- Is that all? - No.

We played Scrabble and Monopoly.

I went shopping with Mom and Louis.

That was pretty reckless of you.

- Getting Covid is no big deal. - Yeah, well...

Personally, I'd rather you didn't get it.

Mom says you're scared you'll die of Covid.

I prefer to avoid getting it.

You're not at much risk.

I'm interested in hearing why.

Seatbelt.

Did you like Louis' parents' house?

Totes! They're so nice. They put a trampoline in the yard.

I see.

We had jumping contests.

- And you won? - Of course, I always win.

Can we have a trampoline in Montabé?

- The yard's too small. - At the Régnaud's?

That's not our property.

It's huge, there's room.

Right, but it's not ours.

Got all your school stuff?

Yep.

If not, your mom will kill us!

Let's go.

Did you do this week's homework?

Yeah, with Mom. But I have a report to finish.

Right, I know.

About Peri-clay?

Pericles!

Exactly. Pericles.

So why Pericles?

We had to pick a great king. We almost chose Ramses II.

What made you pick Pericles?

Well, he built the Pantheon.

Are you sure?

The Parthenon!

The Parthenon, yes.

Edwarda toured the Parthenon with her parents.

Cool.

His wife was Aspasia. A liberated woman, for her time.

I didn't know that.

She was even accused of procuring.

Is that true?

Pretty disreputable. Know what it means?

I sure do.

So tell me.

A woman who sells other women.

Fair enough.

That's indeed one way to put it. Nice job.

We want to talk about Aspasia and the wars.

Pericles was a strategist.

I see.

Meaning he was a war leader.

That's why he always has a helmet.

I'm very impressed.

Don't be: Wikipedia.

Can you print photos for me?

Sure, no problemo.

Why'd you stop?

I want to tell you something important that you need to understand.

You can't say it while driving?

No.

Ok, I'm all ears.

I wanted to tell you,

I've seen a notary.

What's a notary?

The person you see if you want to buy or sell a house.

Like Mom did.

I love the new house.

I can't wait. There's a fig tree.

You know the house in Montabé? It was your grandfather's.

You told me.

It was a farm in the old days.

And when your grandfather died,

the house passed down to his two sons.

Your uncle Etienne

and me.

- So you own half? - Exactly.

The notary and I wrote a document that says my half...

is now yours.

- Mine? - Yes.

You're saying the house...

is mine?

- Half of it. - Half, right.

So I can invite all my girlfriends?

Yeah, if your uncle doesn't mind.

But for now,

I'm the usufructuary.

You lost me there.

I'm the one who's in charge.

So I negotiate with you when I want to invite my friends?

Exactly.

Can I invite my friends?

Not during Covid.

Please, Dad?

I said not during Covid.

So why own a house?

I thought you'd be interested.

You stopped the car for that?

Shall I drive, then?

Off we go.

I figured as much anyway.

- What? - That the house would belong to me.

You, and your cousins.

And my cousins.

- That's how it works, right? - Right.

- So it's normal. - Yes.

It's normal.

SUSPENDED TIME