Original subtitles

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I don't really like people prying,

no, I don't need people to tell me what to do,

no, don't need no cops, priests, doctors, solicitors or militaries,

For sure those poeple didn't work it out,

A velvet glove inside an iron hand.

I've got only one life don't fool me.

Why all these bars? All these borders?

Why all these barriers? Why ain't you my brother?

You've called the police,

hold the line.

You've called the police,

hold the line.

Things, they can't do,

why as well forbid them to me?

I can't say all,

who has decided that earth would be like hell?

I am going through the looking glass...

and white turns into black,

hope... despair,

agreeing... disagreeing.

If I cut my wings off,

flying will be meaningless,

nothing has been done yet,

we are waiting for you to start.

There are no happy doctors,

there are no happy cops,

there are few drug addicts,

there are many drunkards.

Read carefully, listen carefully,

easier said than done,

no, I don't really like people prying.

A velvet glove inside an iron hand,

I've got only one life,

don't fool me.

Why all these bars?

Why all these borders?

Why all these barriers?

Why ain't you my brother?

Is it by chance...

we are on the same road again...

Time has passed... The sky is clouding over.

The Earth opens.

Lightnings across the sky.

My mouth speaks with thunders...

here we go here we are...

at the music-hall of Metropolis.

Run away from these cities of perdition.

A need for space,

to get out of mental ghettos where one gets stuck.

The great magicien...

Jean Cocteau...

may I pull your leg...

on ice-cold water of calculated selfishness...

...fights that I led.

As far as I know no French citizen...

has been taken to court...

because of what he said or his opinions...

confessing his will to bypass administration...

and to victimize it expiatorily...

and to give it to a disillusioned public opinion...

the international conference opens tomorrow in Geneva...

on the refugees from Indochina...

Thursday 26 of January.

The army opened fire on demonstrators in Tunis.

The toll: Over 250 dead...

most of them kids aged between 15 and 18.

Flash was awaiting war in a blue-wind tornado.

The queen was evpecting him in the shop-window of the drugstore...

streched out light from an opium bed.

A light satin cock telephoned him horrified...

the crime was getting clearer in his gestures...

Flash pressed firmly against her back...

a withdrawal symptom erection.

Put under house arrest,

by this heavy mouth with failed sensuality...

Flash made himself prisoner of crazy love...

and made up a girl riding a white horse.

That was a start of something which no longer evists.

Psychic collapse in sepia light...

Like hell's angels telling over the sea an old Parisian fantasy,

Flash opened up a sick man waiting for him behind the counter.

"I want to know where blue rascal's house is" said Flash,

unfolding his old newspapers in a jug of stout beer.

He peeled his clothes and skin off...

and sat in a bath tub on fire.

She would always think of him as a saint.

She would refuse to make love to him.

She started by pushing him away...

and then she said to herself:

"Why are you being so stupid?"

Making a fuss just because he is a film star...

and you sleep around.

She let him go for it...

saying to herself how much she had wanted to make love to him...

and the way she had reacted was nothing but snobbery.

The way he was making love to her was so rough...

that Gloria had no pleasure.

His sev was inside her,

her head was on the edge of the bed...

on which he had pissed,

her eyes were closed.

Only half an hour later the first sensations came.

She raised her eyes,

evpecting him to stare at her with adoration.

He was watching a war movie sound off.

She told him he was a child...

knowing nothing about women.

That made him laugh.

She stayed with him.

Two days later she became more agressive.

In the middle of the night she entered the second bedroom...

I was eight.

Maybe nine,

when the Organisation took control of the city.

It separated children from their parents.

I hardly remember my relatives.

I think my father is dead,

but I am not that sure.

I don't know what has become of him,

But I don't mind...

since they managed to erase his image off my mind.

I know that my mother was put in a asylum,

but I didn't really care either.

I just went to the town hall to sign a discharged form.

At that time...

she used to live in the quarter I was born,

12 stops away from here.

It doesn't seem that far,

but actually it is.

I don't want to talk about passes,

barbed-wired to jump over to go from place to place...

but about generation gap,

between the old ones,

and us.

Here in the quarter where we live,

in this privileged area,

there are only evecutives,

and members of the Organisation.

No old-timer can be seen,

I mean:

People telling stories of the past.

I will try to evplain...

what has been going on lately,

during insomnia right after Franz's death,

Words,

images, dreams became obvious...

as if springing up out of my memory,

and of my badly washed brain,

in fact they brought release from Franz's death.

I thought my mother would know...

and might help me understand...

the meaning of these words, images and gestures.

Her face and her words started...

to haunt my sleep.

I remembered the song...

she used to sing to me at night.

I remembered the underground station number 12, line 7,

serving the quarter where I was born...

and outside,

the street full of neon lights,

very very bright lights,

and glittering shops.

I saw again beggars lying under the arcades,

outside discos...

Different streets,

different avenues criss-crossed by cars...

and around a corner,

hidden down a dead end,

a grey mansion enclosed by high railings,

our local asylum.

In Soucy,

after spending a few days in Paris...

nervous tension,

maze,

perception,

webcobs,

going round,

lack of space, lack of sky,

lack of skyline...

Love is a mystery,

love is not a definition...

Today the first of June,

the first day of �ric Duvivier's film shooting,

about a diary of a schizophrenic...

Discovering crackled skin on your face,

vision of the unreal in mysterious present...

of the hallucinatory cinema mystery...

short circuits...

lightning allowing to catch a glimpse...

dark room with multinational ideas...

visualizing...

conception...

illuminating lightning... fields of vision...

taking delight in seeing the loved ones...

unlimited happiness... living in peace...

rest of the soul...

perfect...

reunification...

consciousness of realisations...

guessing... perfect...

visions of repetitive illuminations...

sense of perfection, sense of continuation...

reality... point of no return...

self acceptance...

definitive passage...

Who are you?

What are you doing in this house?

What's your name?

Please, stay...

What are you doing in my house?

You don't want to answer...

Wait little girl You make me run...

Great... great...

Today,

I would like to tell you a story...

the story of a real ghost...

NEW OLD or The chronicles of the present

A film by Pierre Cl�menti

Produced with the help of the audiovisual department...

of Georges Pompidou Centre.

Text excerpts by:

Editing

Sound production

Many thanks and expression of gratitude to:

See you soon.

Translation: Asia & Christophe Daoudal.

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