All language subtitles for Successive Slidings of Pleasure 720P 1974

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What time did you come home
yesterday evening?

Why were the blinds pulled?

Where did you go
on your last holiday?

Do you like eggs?

Can you swim?

Do you know a man named Boris?

How many shoes do you have?

When was your first communion?

What are you? An actress?

Dancer? Model?

Call girl? Cover girl?

Script girl?

Someone came.

Someone else was here.

Someone came.

Nora's dead.

I'm alone on the beach.

The sea breaks at my feet.

Someone else came.

Do you recognise this object?

You don't recognize this object?

No, damn it!

It was found in your room.

Maybe it was Nora's.

They found your fingerprints on it.

No other traces?

Only from the other cop who searched
the apartment after the murder.

Did he take much?

I'm talking about this.

The murder weapon?

Apparently not. You know that.

So what's it to you?

But, it could have
been the murder weapon.

It's a bit of glass,
a toy like children play with.

So, you're still claiming that a man,
about whom you know nothing,

but who seemed
to be following you for weeks,

suddenly entered your house.

How did he enter?

With his key.

He had a key?

A copy, of course.

- How did he get it?
- He had it made.

We always kept ours under the doormat,
when we were not together.

Nora and I only had one.

One day he took it

and had a duplicate made at
the locksmith on the corner.

How do you know?

I don't know. I'm only guessing.

Or he said he had lost his key...

and had the locksmith
work on the door one afternoon

when we were both out.

- Or maybe -
- That's enough.

Your in no position to guess.

You asked me to cooperate.

Perhaps he took our key
and left us the duplicate.

Once we noticed
it didn't have the same band.

If this man exists,
he didn't use a key.

The inspector found
the lock forced.

The killer came from outside.

Certainly not. It could have
been you who forced the lock,

as a part of setting the scene.

Please continue with your version.

With or without a key,
this man entered your home

and he calmly tied your friend to her bed,
so he could kill her at his ease.

I'm the one who tied her.

I told you.
We were playing.

She was the model for a painting.

It's true,
there was no easel in the room,

nor an unfinished or blank canvas.

I wanted to take a photo
and then work alone in oils.

There were brushes and paintings.
The inspector must have seen them?

Only red paint?

Yes, red, why not?

When all was set up,
the killer arrived

and put a knife
in Nora's breast ?

- Scissors.
- Yes, yours.

With only your fingerprints on them.

Of course – because they are mine.

He wore gloves... black gloves.

Why would he do that?

He was undoubtedly insane, driven to crime
because the brothels had been closed.

Perhaps he, too, wanted to play?

Isn't that
what they call a 'transfer'?

And you just sat and watched?

Who are you trying to fool?

Going to rape me
to make me confess?

Leave me alone,
you dirty man.

That's a classic trick.
It won't help you at all.

He tried to kiss you?

Rape me, you mean?

And no doubt kill me after by stabbing
me in the belly and between my thighs.

All men are maniacs.

They say you're guilty of murder.

Ah, not guilty. Accused.
That's different, almost the opposite.

Come in.

They say you stabbed
a beautiful girl right in the heart.

Was she your friend?
Did you love her?

I don't know.
I suppose she loved me.

That means nothing.

She had long hair,

red lips and green eyes.

They're lying.
I didn't kill her.

I only thought
it'd make a pretty corpse.

Perhaps you'll want to kill me too?

You're not pretty enough.
And your robe hides you too much.

You like strangling?
Or what?

Listen, I don't need to strangle,
or anything. I have a magic power.

I only need to utter
a certain phrase, to condemn to death.

I've known it for some time now.

It was at the seaside
with our French teacher.

All the other girls
were foolish over her.

I wanted to be alone with her.

She was fickle and would confide
in anyone, it didn't matter who.

One day we all went
for a walk on the cliffs.

It was too high, and the edge
was unstable, steep, dangerous.

The path was too close
to the edge.

Now, love is going to slip.

Are you mad?

Her heart stopped.

You have blood on your lips.

I tried to revive her.
Mouth-to-mouth.

She didn't drown?

She could have lost her
breath in the fall.

What are you up to, with that thing?

As you can see, listening to music.

This might be a murder weapon.

Your tales are absurd.

So let it drop,
if you'll pardon the expression.

Theme of broken glass.

Talk to doctor about it.

I cut myself.

I had better suck it.

Will you suck it?
If not, I might die.

Now it's you who'll die.

Perhaps you ate some glass.

There was a woman's shoe

under the glass display dome
in your room.

What exactly is it?

A shoe fetish. We dipped it
in the holy water of Notre-Dame.

It's for hustling.

When we're broke,
Nora does a little whoring.

Me too, sometimes. But it's more
dangerous when you're a minor.

We find it very entertaining,
like an adventure or a party.

The blue shoe is a talisman
against bad luck,

police, cranks, VD,
and trouble in general.

Stand up.

Spread your legs.

Bend, idiot.

Arch your back.

Dirty whore.

Maybe dressed like that you'll pick
up a sadist who'll want you to -

Sit down.
Make yourself comfortable.

You're a prostitute too?

Yes, like everybody nowadays.

And you like it?

It's pleasant enough...

and excites the mind,
if you understand.

You mustn't be a slave to it.

I understand.

It's better to ask for
a lot of money

and do things
that are more unusual and dirty.

I'm ready.

We're going to torture this whore...

but rape her first.

We had a wild time that day,

How did she bleed?

A fake African fakir
taught me a trick.

I'll show you one day.

You're a monster.

Here's lawyer David.

What?

- Who are you?
- I'm your lawyer.

You look like Nora.

I doubt it.
Stop playing games, little one.

Likeness, repetitions,
substitutions, pretence. Enough.

Your case is bad enough as it is.

What do I think?
They don't guillotine little girls.

Shut up, idiot.

You know perfectly well you're innocent,
but you try to prove the contrary.

Why doesn't the judge come anymore?
He was nice.

He fell ill.

Yes. It's because of me.
He's going to die.

He ate glass and drank my blood.

Listen. It's useless
to play games with me.

I'm here to help you get out.

Your spoiled brat imagination
is a waste of time on me.

Just tell me about Nora
and your connection with her.

Our exact connection...

Connections, police connections...

sexual connections...
domestic connections...

inverted connections...

Nora was a bitch.

She frightened me.
She was always punishing me.

I had to kneel
and eat my soup on the floor,

nude,
my hands tied behind me.

When she was broke,
she made me sleep with men.

Depraved men,
like all men are.

Sometimes she'd watch
and caress herself.

Days when I couldn't...

because I was bleeding...

she'd tie me on the bed
and whip me with a dog whip.

She'd scare me by playing dead.

You're a beached ship,
an open shell,

a sticky bitch,
a crushed frog.

You'll go to hell.

You'll be burned alive,
disembowelled, impaled,

buried alive.

Fish slipping
through the overly-thick algae...

caught in the iron bars
of the sheetless bed,

reddened on the spearhead
that rips the silk beneath the skin

when the sea is receding...

with dead algae in the evening,

a black border edged
in white foam.

Without moving the other hand
nor looking to the sea...

in the sand
it drowns the violent wind

and the pale, slow, cold knife
slips into the flesh.

The body pauses in a last sigh.

I am the sole cause.
Death passes.

Blackbird.

Black beauty, weary seagull.

Of course, that's nice and cheap.

There. It's over.

It doesn't hurt anymore.
Don't cry.

It'll be all right now.

I'll paint you that way,
as St. Agatha.

- Why St. Agatha?
- She was the prettiest.

She was martyred
on her wedding day.

They tore her white gown

and tore off her breasts
with red-hot tongs.

She's always painted that way.

What do you do in bed at night?

I say my prayers.

Afterwards,
all alone in your bed?

You caress yourself?

Maybe you do it wrong?

I'll teach you.

I read an article by a doctor

who gave advice
for both singles and couples...

with scientific words:

vulva, algolagnia,

cunnilingus.

That's really disgusting.

What have you done?

Sister, you'll be punished.

Here's your lawyer,
daughter of a demon.

The Sisters look upset.
What's wrong?

It's their problem.

You know how nuns are.
They have odd private relations.

Really? What sort?

Sado-masochist.

You should change your hairstyle.
Would you like me to do it?

Stop playing.
This is serious.

What is serious?
That I'll be guillotined?

Will it hurt?

Listen.
You must help me.

What's the story with the shovel?

What story with the shovel?

Don't start acting like an idiot.

The one found
in your cupboard.

The investigators are curious

because you couldn't explain
its presence.

It's odd to have a shovel
in a city apartment.

So come on, tell me why.

To kill the killer.

Explain yourself.

The man who spied on us, and stalked us,
had a duplicate key

so we wanted
to defend ourselves.

Where did you find the shovel?

In the basement.

A shovel was in the basement?

Must have been.
How do I know?

I'm trying to help.

So you refuse to leave here
when it could be so easy?

Yes, I want to get out.

You've no idea what goes on here.

Everything seems normal.
The cells are very clean.

So are the nuns
and the prisoners too,

but for the least error, we're
taken below by a secret staircase

to the underground dungeon.

And there - it's horrible.

It's medieval.

Come on.
Calm down. I'm here.

You've had a bad dream.

Hello, my child.

You're not as I expected.

- You have heard about me?
- Of course.

I'm the shepherd of all lost lambs.

I'm interested
in every new member of this flock.

Sister Julie says you want
to confess a crime -

That is my client.
I'm only her lawyer.

Ah. I see. I'll begin again.

To confess a crime
that mankind doesn't punish enough:

invention.

Are you hurt?

No. Why?

It's not blood.
It's red paint,

A splash of our young artist's work.

I see.

You have reassured me – a little.

I'm going now.

That's a hard chore,
what you're doing down there.

Oh no, it's good exercise.

I wanted to ask you something.

I heard that...

is there corporal punishment
if you do something wrong?

Punishment?

Don't worry, my dear.
I'm a lawyer.

I heard of subterranean dungeons,
chains, whips... even worse.

No. I've never seen such things.

Pity.
It sounds like fun.

You think so?
For whom?

I don't really know.
For the spectators.

Are you hurt?

No, it's nothing.

I must have been scratched
by a button, or bitten by a mosquito.

I didn't notice.

- You're a lawyer?

Is there anything I can do for you?

No, it's not that.
But you don't look like one.

How so?

A lawyer is like a judge?

Yes, you could say that.

Or perhaps completely the opposite.

This lawyer appeared to me
to be very strange.

The devil's advocate perhaps.

- You chose her?
- No. She was appointed.

Ah, not a holy appointment, certainly.

Beware of these people.

Beware of this place.

Why, Father?

Accusation is just a prologue to crime.

Imprisonment breeds vice.

Religious prisons are also, alas,
schools of sin.

Is it of vice, Father,
that you wish to speak?

I'm not your Father.

I'm pastor
of the Non-United Church.

This place is hell.

Don't act holier-than-thou.

I saw your game
with that Devil-branded creature.

But Father, I don't understand.
Where's the evil?

Evil is there...

and there...

It's true, Father. There is one
Sister who often touches me there.

I thought it was by accident.

What are you saying, poor child?
Tell me the details.

As many as possible,
for your salvation.

I've seen acts
I don't understand.

Is that what you mean?

Acts between whom?

Nuns and prisoners,
mostly the pretty ones.

Tell me. Quickly.

Describe it all,

or the God of Anger
will burn you alive over a slow fire.

Father, I dare not.

Speak, you whore.

So I told him
what he wanted to hear.

And it was to do that,
that you requested paint and brushes?

Yes, Sister.
Isn't it pretty?

Perhaps you don't like modern art?

Get dressed immediately.
And wash your body,

if that's possible.

But Sister, how can I wash my soul
in such a small pail?

All the perfumes of Arabia
couldn't purify -

Don't touch me.
Slimy, shameless, criminal!

One only needs to look at you
to know that you're an assassin.

I don't understand.

Jesus was innocent

but condemned because he had
a talent for irritating people.

I'll tell my lawyer
what you said.

Tell her. Do you know
where she is right now?

And what she's doing?

Come. Follow me.

That's an order.

Look, Sister,
it's St. Veronica's cloth.

Now.

I shall have revenge.

Caress me.

- Here?

Better than this, idiot.

Last night I dreamt of the pastor.
He was celebrating my marriage.

But when I knelt to pray,
he caressed me under my dress.

His hand groped through the lace
and up my thighs to my genitals.

I knew he was sexually obsessed.

He won't last much longer.

Now, he'll commit suicide.

All who approach you
are insane, liars, perverts.

But it's all
in your little mind.

While on the subject,
how's your girlfriend?

You have too much imagination.

I don't know
what you think you saw.

Sister Julia was with me.
She saw too.

I saw only you, in a nightgown,
like a sleepwalker.

Talking of Sister Julia,
you pretend she hates you,

so she'd say anything to hurt you.
- Who talks of hurting me?

That's not within your power.
And you can stop being so familiar too.

The re-enactment is tomorrow.

Try not to act foolish for once.

I'll take you
to your apartment.

The police will meet us there.

The judge too,
but probably not the same one.

Probably not the same one.

Listen.

Father, listen to the blood
pounding to escape.

Hear the flow
of pleasure no love can purify.

Have you seen a young girl's blood
streaming on her flesh like fire?

Touch my breasts and hips.

My body's a sweet,
violent sea slowly flowing

away and beyond me.

Father, you must exorcise me.

Leave me, devils.

I'm already sick and old now.

Exorcise me.
Rip my dress.

Claw my delicate skin.

Crush my flesh
in your hands and arms.

Leave me.

Leave me in my tomb.

Punish me, Father,
if you still are able.

Once you'd have
burned me as a witch

after pricking my body
with needles to find the Devil's mark,

hidden always
in the most secret spot.

You would have thrilled
at my cries and gasps.

It's too late.

Leave me, demon.

Libertarian.

Offence.

Structure.

Disorder.

Relapse.

Evidence.

Re-enactment.

Pleasure.

Recidivism.

Permutation.

Relapse. Disorder.

Toad.

Rape.

Parricide.

Division.

Inversion.

Bitch.

Games.

Sperm.

Sloth.

Whore.

One pair of shoes...

two pairs...

three pairs...

Theme of broken glass.

Blood.

The sea breaks on the beach.

So, what do we do?

We wait a little.

Wait for what?

Well, for the prosecutors,
the police superintendent,

all the people who have to be here
for the re-enactment.

Who will play the murderer?

I don't know.
A policeman probably.

Maybe that fellow
who's on guard at the door.

And who'll play Nora?

They surely have someone.

When is it supposed to start?

It's supposed to be right now,
but they are always late.

We're always waiting
for someone, or something.

What are you doing?

Well, the re-enactment.

Aren't they going
to arrive any minute now?

In my opinion, if they are all here
in an hour, we'll be lucky.

I'm thirsty.

Do you want some?

It's amazing
how much you look like her.

You are insane.

Here, put this on.

Damn.

Above all,
do not scream.

It's going to stop
and they won't know anything.

I think I'm going to -

You have no more blood.

You're going to die.

You're beautiful.

There. It's over.

The re-enactment won't take place.

Your innocence is finally proved.

We found the murderous voyeur,
and he made a full confession.

Are you injured?

Then everything will start
all over again.

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