Original subtitles

Based on the works and correspondence of Paul and Camille Claudel

and Camille's medical records.

Originally from Villeneuve in Picardy, Camille Claudel is a sculptor,

born in 1864 and sister of the writer Paul Claudel.

Student and then mistress of Auguste Rodin for 15 years,

until 1895 when she leaves him.

In 1913, following her father's death

and after 10 years shut away in her Paris studio,

she is confined by her family, first near Paris,

then in southern France in Montdevergues.

1915, Montdevergues Asylum, near Avignon

Mademoiselle Claudel, please.

Come for your bath now.

You're very dirty.

Come and have your bath. It will do you good.

Let's have no trouble today, Mademoiselle Claudel.

There.

You're always dirty. You have to wash.

Come on.

It's always the same.

There.

You see how dirty this hand is?

And it soothes you too.

Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?

You aren't with the others?

- Join the others. - Mademoiselle Claudel!

Doctor, please.

Mademoiselle Claudel is allowed to prepare her food

due to her fear of being poisoned.

- May I eat in the yard? - Yes.

Mademoiselle Claudel,

could you look after Mademoiselle Lucas?

Come.

Thank you.

What are you doing here?

You're watching me cry?

What's going on? Thank you, Mademoiselle Claudel.

Are you all right, Mademoiselle Claudel?

Come on, I'll take you back to your room.

Mademoiselle Claudel...

Mademoiselle, what happened in the kitchen this morning?

I was told

that you apparently threatened to slap the intern?

He doesn't know the danger I'm in.

He tried to make me leave.

I have permission to make my meals as you said.

Yes.

You have permission but it is an exception.

For your own good.

I know.

But I have some good news for you.

This Saturday,

your brother, Monsieur Paul Claudel,

is coming to see you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

My God...

My sole desire is to be with my family.

My dear little Paul...

Bring all this to an end.

Let me return to my work.

Glory to God and all His saints.

Pray for His saints.

Five apostles arrived in Bethlehem

to save Jesus.

The Rome Romans in the days of the Romans...

Dame Danielle, you'll get told off. You mustn't stay here.

What are you doing here?

You're not allowed in the residence.

You're over there?

Are you all here?

I think dinner's ready. We can go in.

Line up there, please.

Come with me, please.

Come over here, mademoiselle.

Regarding next week's meals,

three fewer residents for Tuesday and Thursday.

Yes, Sister.

Mademoiselle, don't be afraid.

No one wants to poison you here.

Mademoiselle?

- What's your name? - Blanc.

Would you post a letter for me in the village, in secret?

Do you have an address where a reply could be sent?

At my mother's.

Widow Blanc,

Tour Philippe le Bel in Morières-lès-Avignon.

Thank you.

My dear Henriette,

I'm writing from far away

and no longer from my pretty studio in Paris.

Since the day I was taken via the window,

I've often tried to write to you.

But I'm watched day and night like some criminal.

I don 't know if this letter will reach you.

After an asylum near Paris,

I was brought here to Montdevergues

near Avignon.

Imagine how I've suffered since being taken from my studio

to be locked in these horrible places.

My cousin Charles tried to get me out at first,

but I've heard no more from him.

Dear Henriette!

If you could write with news

of you and your dear children, I'd be very happy.

Do not talk of my letter or it will bring me problems.

If you wish to reply, use this address:

Widow Blanc,

Tour Philippe le Bel in Morières-lès-Avignon.

That person has kindly offered to help me.

Use a big envelope with that address

and a smaller one inside addressed to me.

With all my best wishes to you and your dear children.

Paul is coming here on Saturday.

I hope to get out of here one day.

Well, mademoiselle, how are we today?

- Is there a parcel for me? - No, we have nothing for you today.

Here, sister, I'll leave her with you.

Now then, mademoiselle...

How are you?

How are things going?

I'm here without knowing why.

Is this joke going to last long?

Will it be much longer?

I'd like to know.

Imprisoned like a criminal.

Worse.

Neither a lawyer...

nor my family will help me to get out of this hell.

I'm deprived of my freedom...

of a fire...

of food and of the most basic comforts.

They do with me as they want.

Even my relatives have abandoned me.

They answer my complaints

with nothing but complete silence.

It's horrible being abandoned in this way.

I cannot resist the sorrow that overwhelms me.

Mother and my sister

have confined me in the most absolute manner.

Not one letter, not one visit.

They are particularly keen that I never leave this place.

They take my inheritance.

What do they accuse me of?

Of having lived alone?

Of spending my life with cats?

They have a mania for persecuting me.

I understand those fine gentlemen who took my studio,

seizing all my works

and leaving me in prison as long as possible.

They're eager to extinguish

this poor woman who'd be a living accusation for them,

the inconvenient phantom of their crime.

There's no risk of them letting me out.

Rodin has them in his clutches.

Rodin used them to seize my studio.

They're in his clutches

and cannot move without his permission.

The whole thing had been sewn up long ago

so that I couldn't do a thing.

I hadn't dared go out for ages.

Each time I was away,

gentlemen broke in,

searched my sketchbooks and drawings and took them away.

Rodin trained them to do the same work that he'd done for years.

In them, he found accomplices and an excuse.

Please do all you can to release me.

I don't intend to make demands.

I'm not strong enough for that.

I'll be content to live in peace as I always have.

The life I'm living here doesn't suit me.

It's too hard for me.

Forgive me for speaking so frankly.

Even so,

your relations with Monsieur Rodin

came to an end 20 years ago now.

Very good.

We'll see each other next week, mademoiselle.

Mademoiselle Pierre. It's time to go back.

Mademoiselle Pierre...

No!

Mademoiselle Pierre...

Hello, Mademoiselle Claudel.

Mademoiselle Lucas, do you want Mademoiselle Claudel to come?

Do you want to take a walk with us?

Come on, come with us.

Come for a walk. Come with us.

Lift your feet.

Come on now, mesdemoiselles.

You're nearly there. You've done well.

Come on, let's go back now.

Watch where you put your feet.

Mesdemoiselles, you know the lines by head.

Now, I want the tone,

the gestures,

a very gallant Don Juan

and a Mademoiselle Charlotte who is a little wary of him.

Let's start again.

Hello, pretty peasant lass.

Don Juan, do the gesture again.

Do it properly, with gallantry.

Charlotte, step back a little.

There. Perfect.

Hello, pretty peasant lass.

Hello, monsieur.

- Where are you from? - The village.

- What's your name? - Charlotte.

A Don Juan.

"I'm Don Juan."

Start again.

Hello, pretty peasant lass.

Hello, monsieur.

- Where are you from? - The village.

- What's your name? - Charlotte.

I'm Don Juan. I...

"You're pretty, with pretty eyes."

You have pretty eyes, a pretty face...

- Give me your hand. - No. I didn't wash it. It's dirty.

You have pretty hands.

There, that's scene one.

Now, we're going to do scene two.

Hello, peasant lass.

No!

Don Juan: "Will you marry me?"

No!

I thought we were doing it all.

No, not all of it, just scene two!

- Are you married? - No.

- "But --" - But soon I'll marry Pierrot.

What? You're marrying a peasant?

Never, I love you too much. Will you marry me?

- No. - Why not?

"Why not?"

Because.

Start again. "Will you marry me?"

- Will you marry me? - Yes.

No! Not right away. Not right away, Charlotte.

- Will you marry me? - You already said that!

She says yes, then she says no,

and after I don't know.

You're a bit lost.

Start again then. Start again.

You're Don Juan.

You're a seducer.

No, unless my aunt wants that.

No!

Charlotte, all you say is no.

No!

Why not?

You're a skid-chaser who'll deceive me.

Deceive you? Never.

"Me? Deceive you? Never!"

- I love you too much. - Do that line again.

Me? Deceive you? Never!

Look at her!

They're not just idle words. Look at her.

I'm looking at her, aren't I?

- You're looking at the floor. - No, I'm not.

Look at Charlotte.

- Look at me. - All I'm doing is looking at her.

"Me? Deceive you? Never!"

Me? Deceive you? Never! I love you too much.

Will you marry me?

Start from "yes."

- Yes but... - "Only if..."

Only if you don't deceive me or chase skids.

Never. I love you too much. Will you marry me?

No. "Give me a kiss."

- Give me a kiss. - Step closer, Don Juan.

"Give me a kiss."

Give me a - Give me a kiss.

Charlotte. "Not before we marry."

- Not before we marry. - Give me your hand.

After, I'll kiss you as much as you want.

Give me your hand.

I think you can do better.

After, I'll kiss you as much as you want.

Give me a kiss.

No!

Get lost! I don't want to see you!

Get away from me! I don't want to see you!

Get lost!

Get away from me! I don't want to see you!

I don't want to see you! Get away from me!

Mademoiselle Lucas. What's wrong? Come with me.

What's the matter, Mademoiselle Claudel?

I can't take any more!

I can't take any more.

I'm no longer a human being.

I can't stand the cries of these creatures.

They turn my stomach.

Perhaps you can talk to your brother. He's coming tomorrow.

Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle.

Can you help us back to the commons?

Come, I'll take you back.

Thank you, mademoiselle.

Amen.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,

I'm ready, it's me.

My God, I have risen again

and I am with Thee once more.

I was sleeping...

I was sleeping like a dead man in the night.

God said, "Let there be light!" and I woke as if I were crying out.

I arose and I awoke.

I am on my feet and I am beginning.

With the new day that dawns.

My Father,

who has begotten me before the dawn,

I place myself in Your presence.

God,

who is one being in three,

the true account of Christ crucified,

the Word in which all is speech,

whatever You say, I believe.

You are the given Word, studded with iron nails,

the Title in which I place my hope,

whatever You say, I believe.

I am the finger in Your wound,

I am the hand on Your very head.

You who are all-powerful,

You cannot prevent me from loving You.

Know that someone to whom I am close

has committed the same crime as you

and has been atoning for it for two years now in a nursing home.

Killing a child in one's immortal soul

is horrendous.

How can you live and breathe

with such a crime on your conscience?

Perhaps I have misunderstood you.

Be that as it may, I do not write with the indignation of a Pharisee

but with the compassion of a brother.

Night at Frigolet Abbey

near Tarascon.

A visit later to my poor sister Camille in Montdevergues.

Deep down, I am convinced

that like most so-called cases of madness

hers is one of genuine possession.

It is strange that almost the sole forms of it

should be pride and terror,

delusions of grandeur and persecution mania.

She was a great artist

and her pride and her contempt for others

were without limit.

That only became worse

with age and misfortune.

I have the same temperament as my sister,

albeit a little weaker and more meditative,

and without the grace of God,

my story would have been like hers or even worse.

Is it possible to exorcize her from a distance?

God has said no

to my joining the Benedictine novitiate.

If I had truly been a saint or a hero,

perhaps I would have ignored God's prohibition.

What if, despite everything,

I could not have truly been a saint?

Forgive me.

At the time, I had completely forgotten religion.

I approached it with the ignorance of a savage.

The first light of truth

was granted to me through the works of a great poet

to whom I shall be eternally grateful

and who played a crucial role in the molding of my thinking,

Arthur Rimbaud.

The reading of his "Illuminations"

and of "A Season in Hell" a few months later

was a decisive event for me.

For the first time,

those books cracked the walls of my materialistic prison

and I had a living and almost physical sensation

of the supernatural.

Such was the unhappy child who, on December 25, 1886,

went to Notre-Dame in Paris

to attend the Christmas service.

I had started writing and I felt that the Catholic ceremonies,

viewed with superior amateurishness,

could provide a suitable stimulant

and the material for a few decadent exercises.

After you.

It was in that state of mind, jostled by the crowd,

that I attended high mass

with little or no pleasure.

Then, with nothing better to do, I returned for vespers.

The children of the choir were in white robes

and the pupils of the seminary

were singing what I later learned to be the Magnificat.

I was myself standing in the congregation,

near the second pillar

at the entrance to the chancel, to the right of the sacristy.

And that's when the event occurred

that has since commanded my life.

In a flash, my head was touched and I believed.

I believed with such power of adherence,

such an uplifting of my being, such conviction

leaving no room for doubt

that, since then, no book, no reasoning,

no incident in this turbulent life has undermined that faith,

nor even so much as touched it.

I had the sudden harrowing impression of the innocence

and eternal infancy of God.

An inexpressible revelation.

I did not become a Christian to delight in religious feeling

or in some mystic pleasure.

I have always loathed that.

That is not why I became a Christian.

I became a Christian out of obedience and interest,

to find out what was expected of me.

But I never thought of delighting in God,

of deriving some son of enjoyment or pleasure from Him.

I would have considered that rather base, you see.

I felt that God was solemnly taking His place in my head.

He reminded me of His past blessings

and showed me that my vocation is to make Him known.

And, to do so, He urged me to acquire

deeper and more intimate awareness of Him.

Monsieur Claudel, we expect saintliness of you.

The secret of saintliness is letting God do His will.

Let's go to the chapel.

Why?

We're going to pray.

We're going to see the good Lord.

What's the good Lord?

He's in heaven. He's the one who answers our prayers.

- Gently. - It hurts!

- Let's go slowly. - My feet!

Let's go slowly.

Hello, Mademoiselle Claudel.

You look happy today.

- Is it your brother visiting? - Yes, this afternoon.

Thank you.

Paul!

Camille.

Dear little Paul!

They cry out, they bawl,

they snivel, they laugh.

It's unbearable.

A sort of creature that even their parents can't stand.

Why am I here? Take me.

Take me away from here. They've tried to poison me.

Camille!

What are you thinking, Camille?

What are Mother, Louise and I doing?

We're trying to make you better.

We offer you the best care while our country's at war.

You're unfair.

I'll stop being unfair when I stop being honest.

Yes...

I heard that you had sent

a large sum of money to the director here.

And you were right to because he's someone...

who has a fine reputation...

who is full of benevolence...

Just like the sisters.

I know you want to soothe me.

You have such great expenses.

You make huge efforts for me.

You have four children to raise.

You stay in hotels, you have terrific expenses.

I don't know how you manage it. I could never do such a thing.

But, you know, it's very difficult here...

to live.

You understand, Paul?

Because of the rules and the way in which life is lived -

It's very difficult to change things.

There's too much noise.

You know, I'd like to go back to Villeneuve.

I'd like to live with Mother.

I don't understand why you won't have me back.

Here, first class is unbearable.

I'd rather be in third class. But I follow my regimen.

I don't need so much money to spend.

It's of no use.

I'd be...

I don't know. Talk to the director.

Ask him to put me back where...

It's cold here.

The mistral blows.

You should tell Mother to come and see me.

I'd like to see her one more time.

Will you tell her?

Paul?

With a fast train, it's less tiring than they say.

She could do that.

Your wife and the others didn't want to see me

but I've given up hope of seeing them again.

You're being manipulated, Paul.

It's Berthelot.

You know, your friend Berthelot.

He took all my works.

It seems my little studio, my humble furniture,

my little home and my tools

aroused their greed.

A fine thing,

those millionaires pouncing on a defenseless artist.

Their fortune is forty times greater.

Since imagination,

feeling, novelty

and the unexpected of a lively mind are an unknown land

for those dull minds,

nervous, obtuse spirits

eternally shut off from the light,

they need someone to provide it for them.

They said it.

"We use a lunatic to find our subjects."

Some could be grateful for what they have received

and give a little compensation

to the poor woman they have deprived of her genius.

Paul...

This is female exploitation.

They want to make me sweat blood.

It's Rodin,

Rodin's diabolical mind.

He only ever had one goal: stealing from me.

He was afraid I'd become greater than him

during his lifetime

and probably after his death.

He wanted me to be in their clutches.

He wanted me to be unhappy and now I am.

It may not bother you much but I am, Paul.

I'm fed up of this enslavement.

I'd like to be at home and close the door.

You tell me, "God...

God is good.

God has mercy on the afflicted."

Let's talk about your God who lets me rot away in an asylum.

God allows for experience, Camille.

He pulls back His hand.

He lets us fall into sin to confirm the secrets of His wisdom.

The secrets our hesitant and perplexed minds

were unable to convince us of.

Everything on earth is a concrete or distorted translation

of the meaning that is in heaven.

God is everywhere.

He is in all natural phenomena

that all teach us about Him.

In all human feelings, Camille,

in all human deeds.

There isn't a single one that He isn't interested in,

that doesn't concern Him,

that isn't related to Him,

be they good or bad.

Everything is a parable, Camille.

Everything shows the infinite complexity

of creatures' relationship with their Creator.

In actual fact, Paul...

they'd like to force me to sculpt.

Since they cannot do that, they impose boredom on me.

But that won't make my mind up. Far from it.

Promise me...

that you'll look after me and that you won't abandon me.

I promise, Camille.

For 20 years now,

every evening, every morning, I pray for you.

I'm still sick with the poison in my blood.

My body is burned, Paul.

That Huguenot Rodin has the dose administered to me

because he hopes to inherit my studio.

I'll be going now.

Yes.

Perhaps, once the war is over, I can return to you?

I'll sit in the light. I'm in peace there.

Hello. How are you?

What a terrible thing...

There's no worse trade than art

Genius comes at a price.

What a life! What a tragedy!

The artistic vocation is an excessively dangerous one

that very few people are able to resist.

Art speaks to particularly perilous faculties of the mind,

to imagination and sensitivity

that can easily unhinge a person's balance

and ruin a life without composure.

At the age of 30,

my sister realized that Rodin wouldn't marry her.

Everything collapsed around her

and her mind was unable to resist.

Her conscious life came to an end.

Yes.

Mademoiselle your sister

feels as persecuted as ever.

The same old fear of being poisoned.

Despite her genius, her life is full of setbacks and dislikes.

True, but

Mademoiselle Claudel is calm and docile now.

She is very bored here.

She sincerely wishes

to move closer to Paris

while living alone in the country.

And I think

that perhaps the time has come

to try to grant her wish.

Camille Claudel will spend the last 29 years of her life

in the residence of this asylum

and die on October 19, 1943, aged 79.

Buried in a group vault, her remains will never be found.

Her brother, who dies in 1955, will continue to visit her.

He will not attend her funeral at the asylum.