Original subtitles

-Previously on Genius... -I am Max Jacob.

Most days, I am a poet.

-That's even worse than being a painter. -JACOB: I cannot bear

the thought of living in this world without you!

PICASSO: Max, I love you,

but not the way you want me to.

DORA: They have sent the rest of his family to the camps.

You are the only one who can persuade him to get out.

We could take away everything

-and everyone. -JACOB: I am not

a Jew anymore. So I am not leaving.

This is my home. Here with God.

PICASSO: You're a brilliant photographer, Dora.

But there is a painter

-trapped inside of you. -FRANCOISE: Are you going

to tell me what you thought of my paintings?

You have talent.

DORA: You want to paint something new,

and you think getting this young girl

into bed will help you do that.

PICASSO (chuckles): You're just jealous.

Are you sure you are ready?

Yes.

LAURENT: I could offer you work, as a model.

That wasn't our agreement.

If you don't like it, leave.

PICASSO: Love can be dangerous.

Fernande!

SABARTES: If you ask me,

this will not end well.

*

*

(clock ticking)

APOLLINAIRE: What dirty Beelzebub are you!

You horny, stinking Lord of Flies,

fed on dung and garbage stew.

(laughter)

We won't attend your revelries!

You putrid Salonikan fish!

And festered eye

compose your flesh.

Or is it,

as your friends report,

your mother let

a liquid fart?

-(mimics flatulence) -(laughter)

Death to illusions!

(cheering and applause)

(cackling)

PRIEST (chanting): ...et habitavit in nobis:

et vidimus gloriam eius,

gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre.

Deo gratias.

(creaking)

(footsteps approaching)

*

OFFICER: You are coming with us, Mr. Jacob.

Then... set your hand free

and let your instincts

-carry your pencil... -(chuckles)

...to his destination.

(both laughing)

Where are you going?

I have plans.

Well, change them.

I have already seen you three days this week.

You told me we shouldn't spend too much time together.

-I'm just trying to follow your rules. -Rules?

I despise rules.

Do as you please.

I'll take Dora to lunch.

You don't mind, do you?

Have a lovely time.

SABARTES: She is a child, Pablo.

You'll only spoil her for someone else.

You're more narrow-minded than a bishop.

(knocking)

She's totally capable of looking out for herself.

-Monsieur Cocteau. -I'm sorry

-to barge in. -Jean.

I've received a letter from Max.

He's been arrested by the Gestapo.

They hauled him off to Drancy,

but that's just a temporary stop before they ship him east.

Poor Max. You know, I-I tried to warn him.

I've drafted a petition to the German embassy

asking for his release. Everyone signed it.

(clears throat) Morricone,

Cole, Salmon.

I can't.

For God's sake, Pablo, the-the man is sick as it is.

He won't survive in a camp.

The Nazis hate me, Jean.

They have threatened to throw me into a camp,

they outlawed my art and denounce me

in speeches and, uh...

My signature would do Max more harm than help.

Send the letter without my name.

Before it's too late.

DORA: Where have you been?

Chasing after your new, uh, plaything?

I've had a terrible day.

I had my bicycle snatched right out of my hands

on the Rue d'Athènes.

You see that man?

He's been staring at me since I sat down.

I think he's following me.

Did I tell you how René Drouin has asked me to do a...

show at his gallery?

-Mm. -But he wants to change the dates again.

How am I supposed to prepare if he can't make up his mind?

(scoffs)

Have you heard a word I've said?

You are not the only one with problems, Dora.

Something terrible has happened to Max.

PICASSO: Max. What a surprise.

I, uh... I hope you don't mind.

I heard you were back in town, and, uh...

I... I'm glad to see you.

What, uh... what happened between us, uh...

It was a-a hard time for all of us.

I care for you, of course, but I am...

I am not, um...

Yeah.

Max, it's all right.

I have, uh, met someone.

-How wonderful! (chuckles) -Yeah. Yeah.

Um... who is he?

No. No, no, no. No, no. A woman.

-Yeah. Yeah. -Oh.

Her name is Cécile. She is, uh...

(chuckles)

...something. Really, she's...

(keys jangling)

(lock clicking)

Oh.

(clears throat)

I see that you have your eye on someone, too.

Oh. (chuckles)

No, she's-she's just a neighbor.

Just a neighbor. Oh. What is her name?

I don't even know.

(Jacob sighs)

Invite me in!

I want to see what, uh, you've been up to.

And, most importantly, I need a drink.

Actually,

I was just on my way out.

Why don't you come with me?

(chuckles)

SAGOT: 700.

-PICASSO: Each? -(scoffs)

-For all three. -Piss off, Sagot.

I wouldn't let them go for twice that.

(scoffs) If you don't like it, try your luck with Soulié.

But don't forget you still owe me the money that I advanced you

for the pigment.

Let's go, Max.

I know a place

where people actually appreciate modern art.

(bell tinkles, door shuts)

Henri Matisse.

The drawing is rudimentary.

Worse than a child's.

And the perspective is flat.

Clouds are yellow,

-skin is purple? -Yes, it's...

it's all wrong.

But it's magnificent.

JACOB: Makes no sense.

PICASSO: Yet it's completely alive.

(scoffs) You are twice as talented an artist.

No, this artist has more than just talent.

He has vision.

I have never painted anything this revolutionary.

(scoffs) But you could.

(sighs) Yes.

But I need to find a new way of seeing things,

like this man has.

He understands.

Understands what?

That we don't need artists to show us

what people look like anymore.

We have photographs for that.

This Matisse is showing us a deeper truth.

The way things are in our dreams,

not just as they appear to be.

He has bent

all the rules.

I want to smash them.

There is someone you should meet.

-(indistinct chatter) -PICASSO: Apollinaire.

That can't actually be your name.

Judges and tax assessors call me Kostrowitzki.

But Apollinairus is indeed my middle name,

inscribed on my birth records in Rome

and ordained by destiny in honor of Apollo,

the deity of the Delphic Oracle.

You're even more full of yourself than I am.

(laughs)

I think I like your Spanish friend.

(laughs)

Absinthe! The green muse.

(laughter)

As artistes, we must demand nothing less

than the perpetual immoral subversion

of the existing order.

-Oh... -Look out! Hey!

Shit! (grunts)

You'll get yourself killed.

And if he did die, do you know what he might see?

-On the other side? -Tell me.

I will show you instead. (laughs)

-Clowns? -Not just clowns. Harlequins.

-What is the difference? -Look closely.

There is evil behind those eyes.

Everyone thinks that harlequins are entertainers...

...but that is merely their disguise.

They are actually... devils,

escaped from hell.

Your picture is, um,

too symbolist.

-Oh, really? -Mm.

And what have you written tonight?

My poem is, um...

Oh, oh, oh. Right here.

It is just waiting for me

to pour it upon the page.

It is, uh, much too cheerful.

-The acrobat, you mean? -Uh, yeah, he's so pretty.

You might as well be an Impressionist.

Perpetual immoral subversion,

it's not pretty pictures.

If you want to outdo Matisse,

you must use your images the way that I use my words.

You must shatter all the conventions,

you must stun them with perversity.

He's right.

Sweet little dancing nymphs!

They will not rattle any bones

at the Autumn Salon.

Why didn't you say something before?

You draw so damn quickly,

I didn't realize it until just now.

His trouble is, he's too sober.

(chuckles) That's always a problem, of course,

but right now, uh, my trouble is that I will miss the last train.

Oh, you can't leave.

I need more pretentious poetry and heartless criticism

if I'm going to fix this damn painting.

I can't stay all night, every night.

-I've got other, uh, commitments. -(laughs) What commitments?

(kisses)

Where have you been?

Drinking English ale with the riffraff again?

Please, Mother, it's late.

Do you expect me to support you until you are 40 years old?

What more do you want from me?

I bring home a paycheck every month.

Yes! And you waste it all in bars and cabarets.

And now Monsieur Maurice has complained

-about your work at the bank. -(groans)

I don't care about Monsieur Maurice

and his godforsaken bank. I am a poet, not a peon.

The only place you're a poet is in

your gin-addled brain.

Do you know what I had to do to get you that job?

If you lose it,

I won't think twice

about throwing you out on the street.

(rain falling outside)

(kitten meowing)

(kitten meowing)

Well, you're a sorry little bugger, aren't you?

It looks like you're not the only one

who got caught in the rain.

(laughs softly) The poor thing.

Is it yours?

Well... (chuckles)

-I suppose she is now. -(kitten meows)

What should I call her?

My aunt had a cat named Minou.

Perfect.

And what should I call you?

Fernande.

Why don't you come to my studio, Fernande?

Get the kitten some-some milk

and you some hot tea.

I can't, I'm-I'm expected.

(Minou meows)

Poor Minou, she's... very disappointed.

Don't you ever clean?

If I disturb the dust, it gets on the paintings.

Destroys them.

Your paintings must be very precious to you.

They're everything.

Ah. (chuckles) Hold the kitty tight.

Why?

I want to show you my lodger. (chuckles)

You are very kind to strays.

(meows)

-You paint clowns? -Harlequins.

Most of the artists I know prefer to paint naked women.

I prefer not to paint what everyone else does.

I'm submitting it to the Autumn Salon.

I went last year.

This looks...

well... not like any of the paintings I saw.

That's exactly the point. I want to shake the judges

out of their frock coats and cravats.

It's a new century. Everything is changing.

Art must change, too.

Most painters just want someone to buy their pictures.

That's being a whore, not an artist.

There's no shame in making a living.

I've been meaning to talk to you for a long time,

but you're always in such a hurry.

Who are they?

Some people I saw at the Lapin Agile.

She looks like she wants to get away from him.

What's wrong?

It's as though you've already drawn my picture.

No. I don't know if I could

ever draw someone as beautiful as you.

(purring)

(pencil scratching)

-What are you doing? -Drawing.

-I didn't say you could do that. -Sorry. I thought...

People pay me to model for them. I don't do it for free.

Where are you going?

This was a mistake.

Laurent will ask a thousand questions.

Where have I been?

Who was I with?

This can never happen again.

(door slams shut)

The Gestapo don't know the first thing about poetry.

I am quite certain they have no appreciation

for the talents of your little Jew.

Um, he's a Catholic, actually.

I wouldn't repeat that fiction to anyone else.

Of course, Minister.

Now, that's not his only difficulty.

It's well-known that he has certain deviant predilections.

He-He's revered in France. He's, uh, an idol to our youth

and... he invented an entirely new

language of poetry.

Personally, I'm rather partial to the symbolists,

but despite his pretentions,

I agree Jacob's words

have a certain power.

You've read him?

We are not all Philistines, Monsieur Cocteau.

Then you understand how much he means to-to the French.

Indeed. And you do have some rather

influential friends in Vichy.

I'll see what we can do.

NURSE: May I help you?

I have release papers for prisoner 15872.

-Jacob? -Yes.

I'm sorry.

Monsieur Jacob died last night.

What...

*

The service is starting.

I should have dragged him out of that monastery

and put him on a boat to America.

You are not the king, Pablo.

You could not force Max to do something

he didn't want to do.

He died alone.

In a cold room

on a dirty cot.

This damn war is almost over.

If only he could've stayed hidden for a few more months.

He had a good life.

He had God.

Now come inside and say good-bye to him.

No, no, I-I said good-bye to him last year in Loiret. No.

If you don't pay your last respects, you'll regret it.

No, I want to remember him alive, not dead in a coffin.

I'll only see myself lying there.

I wouldn't worry about dying, Pablo.

I'm sure you are immortal like a vampire.

What is wrong with you? Have you been drinking?

-I'm going home. -Why?

So you can climb into bed with your little girlfriend

to feel young again?

What a marvelous idea.

(cheering, patriotic music playing)

G.I.: Hey, toots, I was here first.

-Wait your turn. -How about a date, mademoiselle?

-I got chocolate. -(door buzzer sounds)

(laughter)

Who are all these people, Jaime?

They put his face on the cover of a magazine,

now everyone wants his autograph.

So, w-why are you here?

Oh, well, Pablo invited me to the Catalan to celebrate.

He's not here.

He's with Dora; they're choosing work for her gallery show.

Mademoiselle, you seem like an intelligent young woman.

You must know the kind of man he is.

What do you mean?

He is a genius.

He thinks it gives him the right to demand of everyone,

especially his women,

to cater to his whims.

He's been like this for 50 years.

Do you really think he's going to change for you?

FERNANDE: Should I come back tomorrow?

Why not stay a bit longer?

We agreed on three hours.

Yes, for five francs, but...

...I have ten.

My neck hurts.

I don't think I can pose anymore today.

And I can't paint anymore, so why don't you get comfortable?

I will rub your neck.

Pig.

LAURENT: So how much did he give you?

I earned it.

I don't need to report every centime to you.

So you expect me to pay for everything, huh?

The food? The rent?

FERNANDE: Maybe if you made a sculpture

someone actually wanted to buy,

you wouldn't have to take all my money.

You ungrateful bitch!

PICASSO: Fernande.

-You all right? -LAURENT: Mind your business,

Spaniard, or I'll report you to the immigration authorities.

You don't have to let him treat you this way, Fernande.

Knock on my door any time, and I'll help you.

(chuckles)

Why is he talking to you like that?

Hmm?

Who is he to you?

No one.

Look at his eyes.

He's a lunatic.

Leave us alone.

(sniffles)

APOLLINAIRE: Everything enchants Picasso.

The delightful and the horrible.

The abject and the delicate.

His new masterpiece Saltimbanques strikes

like a sword in the heart of those who cling to history."

Oh, it is powerful, Guillaume,

but, uh, since when are you an art critic?

Since I discovered La Plume pays 25 francs per review.

-What? -(laughs) I submitted it

for the next issue.

Why don't you let me finish the bloody painting

before you try and publish articles about it?

Watch where you're going.

(scoffs) You are the one who's in the way.

You little Dago.

(laughs)

(excited chatter)

Come on, let's go.

PICASSO: Let go of me!

What the hell were you thinking?

That man is twice your size.

You could have gotten yourself killed.

The bastard deserved it.

What is wrong?!

I've never seen you like this.

Just...

exhausted, I suppose.

JACOB: Well, maybe you should, uh,

try sleeping, instead of painting all night.

How am I supposed to paint, when I have to listen

to the girl next door getting screwed

-all night long? -What girl?

Fernande.

Oh, I thought you did not know her name.

APOLLINAIRE: What, the one who lives

-with the sculptor? -I can't understand

what the hell she's doing with him.

Oh, for Christ's sake, you're in love with her.

Of course I'm not.

You can't sleep, you can't work.

You are jealous of the man she is with.

Ah, he is right.

You just do not recognize the signs

because, uh, it has never happened to you before.

Well, if-if this is what love feels like,

-I-I don't want it. -APOLLINAIRE: Good.

Because love destroys, and you must create.

(exhales)

The Autumn Salon is less than two weeks away.

This is your chance to spit in the face of the masters,

to shake the world,

to stun Matisse.

You have worked so hard on Saltimbanques.

Are you really going to throw it away

over some fantasy about another man's lover?

She does not love him.

For Christ's sake!

You forget this tart.

Just go home,

and finish your painting.

(panting)

(grunting)

I need to talk to you.

Did you follow me down here?

I just wanted a moment alone with you.

What happened was a mistake, Pablo.

I told you not to bother me anymore.

It wasn't a mistake.

It was beautiful.

I know you felt the same.

I love you, Fernande.

I loved you the very first moment I saw you.

You're making a fool of yourself.

Well, maybe I am.

But that pig you're living with has no right

to treat you the way he does.

What do you want from me?

Move into my studio.

I'll protect you from Laurent.

I'll take care of you.

I'll be good to you.

Do you know how many men have said things like that to me?

I'm not like other men.

All of them.

-But you're all liars. -No.

No, I swear.

On my mother's virtue.

Why should I trust you?

Fernande.

And why in God's name would I trade

one broke artist for another?

PICASSO: I'll take your offer.

What offer?

-The 700 francs. -Ah.

I'm told 700 is what Vollard has paid for a new Matisse.

A masterpiece.

I'm offering you three paintings.

Ooh. (tongue clicking)

(clinking)

I will offer you 500 for all of them.

Less, of course, the money you owe me for the pigment.

To hell with you, Sagot.

(door opens, bells tinkle)

I'll take the 500.

Ah, that was two minutes ago.

The offer now is 300.

He's a goddamn thief.

300 francs.

What the hell am I supposed to do with a lousy 300 francs?

(chuckles) Two years ago, you would've

thought that a fortune.

We could feast for a month.

Don't you see?

I wanted to show Fernande that I'm not

just another poor artist.

To get her out of Bateau-Lavoir,

take-take a fancy apartment in Montparnasse.

And then what, you'd be blissfully content

and start painting again?

Yes.

Well...

(sighs)

If winning this girl is the only way to get you working again,

we'll just have to make it happen, won't we?

How?

There's something you can buy plenty of for 300 francs.

What?

Black magic.

(bell tolling)

Did you get it?

(exhales)

Opium.

The dark mistress.

(laughs)

(string music playing softly)

PICASSO: I'm surprised to see you.

-You invited me. -But I wasn't sure

you'd be brave enough to come.

I was curious about the art.

The art?

Or the artist?

So how does she rate?

I think she's brilliant.

Tell her yourself.

-I'll introduce you. -No, I-- really,

I just...

I just wanted to see the paintings.

Perhaps another time.

W-Why did you bother to come if you didn't want to meet her?

I suppose I was trying to play along with your Bohemian rules.

I told you, I don't have rules.

Well, whatever you call this game.

It's not as easy as I thought it would be.

I-It's not a game.

It's life.

Artists must be free.

No restrictions of any kind.

Dora is a surrealist, she-she understands.

I'm not Dora.

W-Well, maybe this was the-the wrong place

for the two of you to meet.

Maybe we should try again, in a more comfortable setting.

FRANCOISE: He invited me

to have dinner with him and Dora.

(laughs)

He's got no shame at all, does he?

He doesn't give a damn what anyone else thinks.

In fact, the more he offends people,

the more he seems to like it.

It's scandalous,

but it will certainly be interesting.

It's one thing to look the other way

while he sleeps with other women,

but... I won't be paraded in public as part of his harem.

You're not actually in love with him, are you?

(laughs softly)

Maybe you can have some fun with it.

Give him a taste of his own medicine.

-Bonsoir. -Bonsoir.

I would like you to meet André Beaudin.

It is an honor to meet you, sir.

You are a little devil, aren't you?

DORA: Well, it seems

we need another setting. Waiter?

Françoise, sit next to me.

I have so many questions to ask you.

FRANCOISE: I have seen your paintings.

I think they're extraordinary.

Well.

It's true what you say about this one, Pablo.

She has excellent taste.

He is very handsome.

(tittering)

(laughs)

Waiter, we'll have, um,

caviar, oysters,

champagne.

Right away, Madame.

Isn't this fun?

(snorts)

Yeah.

Another, please.

Garçon.

Just, uh, bring the check please.

(gasps) Did I tell you what happened to me last night?

No.

I was walking across the Pont Neuf.

A man ran out and snatched my little dog.

I'm sorry, that's... that's terrible.

Poor Pepe.

I can't imagine what that evil man has done with him.

First, your bike's stolen.

Then your dog.

How many times are you gonna tell these stories?

I don't understand why you're not more upset.

-You love that dog. -But I am sure Françoise

would rather discuss something more interesting.

Heh.

DORA: It's such a clear night.

Why don't you walk me home?

I am too tired for walking. Huh?

DORA: That's what happens when you get old.

You quit before the fun even begins.

Go home, Dora.

Go home. Eh?

-I suppose I'll see you some other time... -Yeah.

...if I'm not murdered by hooligans on the way home.

Thank you for an interesting evening.

Good night.

I really should go with him.

Look, I am not a fool, Françoise.

All right? It's obvious

why you brought me here tonight.

It's not because you've got an interest in me.

PICASSO: Are you coming?

Are you sure she's all right?

Don't worry about Dora.

Dora will be fine.

(yipping)

*

I told you to leave me alone.

What if I told you

I have something that can take away all your sadness?

You cleaned.

I did it for you.

You didn't seem to like it dirty.

What about the dust?

Your paintings?

I just want you to be comfortable.

Do you know what this is?

For opium.

Have you tried it?

You just want me out of my head

so I'll let you screw me again.

No, you-you don't have to do anything.

I just want you to feel good.

I would build you a castle or sail you away

on a magnificent yacht, but I can't do any of that.

Um, I want to make you happy, at least for a little while.

*

(chuckles lightly)

I want to show you something.

I don't understand.

It's a shrine to you.

But why?

Because I worship you, Fernande.

I know you didn't want me to draw you.

Are you angry?

No.

No, it's...

You make me look so beautiful.

Sometimes I...

can't find the right words to say what I feel...

but I can with my pencils and brushes.

You don't have to.

I want to.

PICASSO: Dora.

What happened?

(crying): A man attacked me.

He stole my dog and my bicycle.

It was terrible.

We found her wandering along the river,

-but there was no evidence of an attack. -These idiots

would not believe me, so I made them bring me.

-(shushing) -Tell them.

Tell them, Pablo. Tell them what has happened to me.

Th-Thank you for bringing her here.

-You can go now. I'll take care of her. -OFFICER: Forgive me, monsieur,

but perhaps you should take her to the hospital.

I don't think she's in her right mind.

All right.

Thank you. Thank you.

(sobbing): Oh, Pablo.

(shushing)

Come, come, come, come, come.

LAURENT: You crazy slut!

After everything I've done for you,

you're gonna leave me for this dirty, little foreigner?

If you come near her again, I will kill you.

(door slams)

We're going to be happy now.

Is she doing any better?

Uh, the doctor gave her a sedative.

Yeah, she'll be fine.

She won't be fine.

She's a Surrealist.

They all go mad sooner or later.

Pablo, that is absurd.

She needs some rest.

A couple of weeks in Antibes.

Can't you see she's suffering?

-A holiday isn't going to solve that. -Oh, no?

What do you suggest then, Mademoiselle Dr. Gilot?

I don't know.

But what I do know is that... this...

what we're doing...

you think she doesn't mind

because she's such a free thinker,

but she does mind, very much.

And it's hurting her and it's making her worse.

Don't be such a narcissist.

It's got nothing to do with you.

I'm sorry. I thought I could do things your way, but I can't.

Maybe Dora was right.

Maybe you're still a child.

(scoffs)

Maybe.

But I am going to look after myself

and I hope you look after Dora.

-DOCTOR: It will be over soon. -Please.

I don't want this. Please.

Please.

(whimpering)

Clear.

(muffled screaming)

I've told you before, no private matters

on company time.

What is this nonsense?

It is my work.

You are confused, Kostrowitzki.

This is your work.

Not anymore.

I'm a published art critic now and a poet.

Throwing his ink towards the heavens,

sucking the blood of what he likes

and finding it delicious!

This inhuman monster,

it is me!

Brushed by shadows of the dead,

the blind man rocks a pretty child,

the doe with all her fawns slips by.

The dwarf observes with saddened pose

how Harlequin

magically grows.

It's wonderful, Guillaume.

It captures the mood of the picture perfectly.

(laughs) We have done it, Pablo.

All of those academic graybeards

will be apoplectic when they see it. (laughs)

When the Autumn Salon opens, you'll both be sensations.

(Apollinaire laughs)

They have to accept my painting first.

I'll be right back.

*

PICASSO: Matisse.

We're leaving.

I don't understand.

I'm not submitting it.

But why?

It's not good enough.

Captioned by Media Access Group at WGBH