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They believe their own eyes!

I've kept my eyes peeled for 60 years

to see a little clearly.

The more I see, the less I know what it is I'm seeing.

A hundred times, to know that,

I've painted my own face.

Often enough, I've scooped

my eye up

out of the mud of my palette.

Often enough

I've found my eye there

laden with tears.

What's with the old loony?

Don't talk of the Master thus.

His mind's in the past again.

Sold!

The painter, Rembrandt Van Rijn,

bankrupt!

For ten years now, before my very eyes

I've seen that hammer slam down.

Open up! Please!

Open up!

I'm afraid. I pity you!

What do I care?

Did you pity my hands

that reached out to you like beggars?

Open up!

I'll show you my bush!

I'll let you feel my tears.

Just let me

show you the wreck of my body.

That's right, my beauty, run.

Tell them I'm stil greedy.

I always was.

I'm an ogre

that stuffs himself

and patiently pukes up a mass of light.

Sold!

The price is absurd!

It's worth four times as much!

Frankly, this is murder!

Now I must convert the horror to splendour.

I'll do it, despite my fellow men.

Afterwards,

I shall rest.

At the climax of the feast

I shall fall still.

I must hurry now,

there's not much time.

I must go back once more

to the source,

back there,

at the wellspring of light,

the golden heart of the mill at Leyden.

Don't leave me! Where are you going?

Rembrandt! What's wrong?

Stop sniffing at the sun, or I'll pee on you.

Don't you believe me?

Lower the paddle!

That's the Westerkerk,

the church of 100 bells.

The colours, the accents of Amsterdam.

Where'll you stay?

At a dealer's.

My partner, his name is Uylenburgh.

He'l shift himself on your account.

Rat poison!

Galleons unload their cargoes at our docks.

The riches of the Indies

spread out before the eyes of the poor.

Yes, my brothers,

if your son is old enough to be tempted

send him away from Amsterdam.

The women here sell their bellies without shame,

there are lustful monkeys...

strange-looking men, they say,

couple together.

Stinking pipes are smoked, full of drugs borne in on caravels,

accursed herbs culled in Satan's pastures.

They light up brains like the Northern Lights.

You are a painter,

you want glory!

Beware the blind, they envy those who know the Light.

Cornelia, my sweet mother,

you were not far wrong, Amsterdam turns the head.

Uylenburgh promised instant acclaim.

It came all right,

like a friend.

It was snowing.

As sure as my name is Uylenburgh...

I'm pinching myself,

but this is no dream!

No one has done this before.

This is life in motion, inch by inch,

the living thing, caught in a split second.

Do your hear, Paulus?

In Rembrandt's studio

work is work.

I know, I know...

The orders are flooding in.

I told you, didn't I?

High society is aching to know you.

The company at Muiden have announced a visit.

One of them is here,

he wants to meet you.

Can he come in?

No, you can't not.

Hurrah! I'll fetch him.

This is Master Rembrandt.

Rembrandt,

this is the Honourable Jan Six,

a great scholar and poet.

I'm no prophet, but I predict a happy future.

You laugh? Good.

Genius is not meant to laugh.

Genius? You do me too great an honour.

Don't conceal assurance behind assumed modesty.

I recognize my own pride in yours.

His pride and mine were not of the same sort.

Jan Six' pride bore the tint of his world,

the world of Muiden, at the gates of Amsterdam.

Maria Tesselschade

whom a burning ember blinded in one eye

reigns over Muiden Castle.

Each and everyone of us keeps a watchful eye for rivals

who might catch her gaze.

Tell me, Huygens,

I hear you're responsible for luring to Amsterdam

one Rembrandt Van Rijn.

One Rembrandt Van Rijn!

You must have been on a long journey.

Know, Sir, that anyone with a care to novelty and 2 eyes in his head

must have noticed him an age ago.

Even I, with only one.

Why have I not seen him here?

He is said to be somewhat exuberant!

So says Six. They are inseparable.

He says his brush is remarkable.

I said both, it's true.

So he's exuberant. Where's the harm?

A little is charming. A lot is vulgar.

He has 20 pupils already!

All exuberant, probably!

- Look at his shoes! - I want to see them!

I must see them.

- They're like lily-pads. - With pom-poms!

He looks wealthy!

He must be, to buy a picture for a carpenter's annual wage.

In Rembrandt's studio, work is work and nothing else.

He says so often enough.

They hanged the coat-thief. He is to be dissected tomorrow.

The commission was for next month!

It has been decided otherwise.

Public dissections are rare.

I gather it had to come before the elections.

So, Professor Tulp moved the execution forward.

What's wrong with starting a commission early?

What man thinks he has the right

to shorten a man's life

by so much as a minute?

Ladies and Gentlemen, Professor Nicolaes Tulp,

Messrs. Matthijs Calkoen,

Jacob de Wit, Jacob Block,

Hartman Hartmansz,

Adrian Slabberaan,

Jacob Koolvelt, Frans Van Lonen. ..

As you see,

I make an incision in the arm, after which

I'll part the tissue.

You'll see, in this man,

whom sin has condemned, the tunnels where flowed an impious blood.

Blood flows throughout the body.

Watch and use this knowledge!

Never get lost in conjecture.

Use this experience and the proof it brings.

We respect proof, such is our rule.

The intangible is valid

only in religion.

We have been given proof of this criminal's error.

He had sto en another's property.

The equilibrium of society

rests on absolute rights of property.

Infringement of this law commands sentences

the frivolous consider severe.

They do not admit the law demands respect

not because it is right but because it is the law.

Let us return to the lesson this man affords us.

It is his penance

that his remains should further the noble cause of knowledge.

Consider the mechanical splendour

of this, God's machine,

a more perfect creation

than the most perfect creations of our artists.

You seem dissatisfied.

Professor Tulp is not natural, he poses.

It's not in his nature to be natural.

That is his strength.

Your painting is magnificent because you cannot lie.

I know, you're working.

There's a girl, my cousin...

my cousin Saskia...

Come, Saskia!

She is but recently in Amsterdam, at her guardian Cornelius Sylvius'.

The Calvinist preacher, a holy man!

She is an orphan.

We'd like you to paint her.

She is very pretty.

Not that pretty!

That's true. She's not that pretty!

Well he's not pretty at all!

He's a bit old for me.

Forgive me,

I'm only a peasant.

I don't have pretty manners to suit a gir of your sort.

Maybe you drink a drop too much beer and gin too!

Me?!

As to my ''sort''...

I'm only the 8th child of a respectable man

who came close to bankruptcy,

then died.

I did not mean your money.

I meant your manners.

They always criticize those!

I can believe that!

You can't stop fidgeting.

Why do you dance about so?

Look at your hair!

This is your tenth visit,

see what trouble this is.

I thought you enjoyed seeing me.

In Rembrandt's studio, work is work.

I now give way to our dear,

great poet, Joost Van den Vondel

who will honour us

with a few recent epigrams.

To our great preacher, Cornelius Anslo.

Cornelius' voice Rembrandt wished to paint,

keen to express

the inexpressible.

But is painting made for this?

Are not words our sole interpreters?

Saskia!

Look to our Master, he will bankrupt himself!

Flinck is worried about your money.

How you smi e at her!

I like Jews!

And Jewesses even more!

Rembrandt!

You make me laugh.

You make me warm.

Shame on you!

A whale, a whale!

A whale is beached on the shore by the port.

My guardian preaches that a beached whale is God's warning.

May God ward us from evil

and protect our be oved land.

God save us from the plague!

The whale-oil trade will grow plump!

They measured its member, it's over 8 ft.

An 8 ft prick, what a dream!

Such beauty makes one thirsty. Come.

I, to a tavern! What wil they say?

Will you buy from me?

He's mad!

It's yours.

Thank you.

I shall marry you.

As I thought, Rembrandt is mad.

Rembrandt, the painter?

Quite so,

this is Rembrandt the painter.

My husband.

I married her.

I married her.

We were married.

For many years, we were one.

Were one, were fused into one.

Painting does that.

Huygens! What's up! Great god!

I'm furious. Rubens is so haughty.

He made me wait two years, now he answers.

He rejects the Prince's offer.

Three images of the Passion! The Catholic devil!

I've asked Rembrandt to do it.

This Rembrandt is wel on his way.

But is he right for such a subject?

He sees Calvinists, Mennonites, Anabaptists indifferently.

He is fond of Jews. He even has Catholic friends.

And a few barbarians!

Prints by Lucas van Leyden,

ast ot of the day.

I'll buy them cheap,

I'll sell them at as light profit,

that way we'll both benefit.

Starting price: 80 florins.

80 florins on my left.

90!

100!

110!

150!

165!

200!

2 1 0!

400!

For the good of my profession!

400!

400 it is!

Have you paid him for his Passion yet?

Sold at 400!

He's mad!

Marriage has not made you wiser. Reckless bidding is unwelcome.

People will frown on it.

You've put Becker's nose out of joint, and he's a powerful dealer.

A slave-trader!

People like him starved

the great Lucas to death.

I sense your disapproval.

Is it not my money?

That's not the point. Our society...

Your society is not mine.

Our friendship is

outside all that.

Why are you not asked to Muiden?

Do you think I wish

to attend your gatherings?

Attend, no. Be asked, yes. I do think that.

This house is worth ten times the price of a good ordinary one.

Do we not deserve it?

13,000 florins, Rembrandt dear. You're mad.

Such a sum would feed most people to the end of their days.

Uylenburgh told you. He says it's madness.

He's an ass.

Tell him we'll spend as much again to furnish it properly.

Blue mirrors in ebony frames!

And russet tortoise-shell!

Nothing wil be too magnificent

for the wife of an artist famed throughout Europe.

And I,

I shall adore you

into your old age.

Come!

We'll have soft beds hung in bright cloth!

Why?

I am enjoying you.

Heavy burdens are not good in your condition.

No, Fabritius.

Beauty is truth.

It's not to be sought for in the ideal,

much better to find it

in what's around.

In what's about us. Once more...

- Fabritius! - Yes, Master!

- Higher! - Like this?

That's it!

Nobody move.

- What was I saying? - The idea...

Ah yes. The ideal.

Beware the grand spiritual charge.

It's not sensible

to look for God on high.

Where then?

In man's humble flesh.

It is in the thickness of things

that I look for God.

There's nothing I hate more

than people who think

they can jump at his neck.

They do!

They don't see it, the buffoons!

Not even Huygens, though I owe him much.

Nor that ass Uylenburgh

who's always in tune with the times.

Listen to me, children,

don't give in to them. Don't.

Why are you so mean?

Saskia, my beauty,

let's celebrate my anger.

- Mind the drawings. - Hurry.

Our finest apparel!

Boys! Tidy those papers, there!

We'll swim in gin!

Yes, swim in gin!

Agatha, Janeke, bring lamps!

Who'll play music?

After this child, I'll make you a 1000 more.

After the pealand plum soup... ox-tongue and green-apples.

What about sweets?

Boys! Out!

Waters break, baby's born.

Get the men away.

Baby's born, husband out! Go on!

You can see his hair!

Welcome Rombertus!

You don't much like these things here.

Is that not Govaert Flinck?

A delicate artist.

He at least has hastened to join our circle!

If you refer to Rembrandt,

you should know he turned down my invitation.

If you're so keen to meet him, why not commission a portrait?

Losing an eye has not deprived me of sight

but of the pleasure of being seen.

May I introduce the painter Govaert Flinck?

Your work is most delicate.

Unlike your master, Rembrandt's.

Perhaps my master chooses to see the weight of things

and not their lightness.

He's dead, Madam.

What world is this

where mothers may not bury their dead children?

Tiny children,

tiny, dead children.

Time will pass

and gently,

very gently, happiness wil return.

Thanks be to forgetfulness,

to hope reborn.

Look at poor Vondel, and he's our national poet!

He lives off his late father's business.

Why on earth be a poet?

My son!

Lord knows, he could easily follow the family tradition.

You who are from a poor background,

if you hadn't had to paint...

Mother!

And between us,

you were too kind to give him those prints for his tragedy.

It was only really tragic

for the four unfortunate spectators in that empty house.

Madam,

no brush

could possibly keep up with your mouth

which does not stop moving.

Light of my ife,

I want to see you smile.

Do you know, Rembrandt,

that our friend Huygens has just pub ished an epigram

which barbs you somewhat?

Really?

It refers to his brother's friend's portrait.

He says it's a poor likeliness.

Do you know, Jan Six,

why men of letters often misunderstand painting?

They don't realize the visible is a language

which owes nothing to words.

In painting, one should observe

exactly that...

the painting.

How old is the noisy brat?

Nearly four weeks.

Is he your first?

The third.

How old are the others?

Mother! Please!

They are deceased.

What is this one's name?

We've called her Cornelia,

after my mother.

She has fine lungs.

May God hear you, Madam.

Cornelia, aged three weeks,

buried this day in August

of the year 1640

beside her brother Rombertus

and her sister Cornelia,

also dead soon after baptism.

Gently, happiness will return.

Thanks be to forgetfulness.

Hope reborn. . .

Hope is a hardy plant.

On these sorry little ruins

it gave us the strength to rebuild,

to make life

and erase death.

It's a boy!

A tall flame means a long life.

Here is your child.

God grant you happiness in him

or let him call him soon.

Here is the father's feather-hat.

Captain Frans Banningh Cocq's company,

it will be his biggest canvas!

Saskia's fourth has a cheerful voice.

- This is the one. - I hope to God.

Janeke, let me fondle your sweet bum.

Stop it!

My Titus, my love.

Maybe we should go home.

It might rain.

You're still very tired.

Geertje, you're a spoil-sport.

Geertje,

be good. Take the little one.

Come with Geertje.

Come baby. ..

let's let Mummy rest.

She seems sweet and devoted,

the trumpeteer's widow.

The trumpeteer's widow?

The new nurse.

She's a trumpeteer's widow.

I'll let you sleep.

What's become of Captain Cocq's company?

It's becoming.

I bequeath to my son, Titus,

al my worldly goods.

My husband,

Rembrandt Van Rijn

will manage such goods for him

having full enjoyment of them

during his lifetime.

If he should remarry,

such provisions are null,

in which case...

We can continue tomorrow...

It'l be fine.

In which case

he must entrust

20,000 florins

to the Court of Wardship

in our Titus' name.

Saskia, you're barefoot.

What is it?

It's ovely.

Life is beautiful, my Rembrandt.

I don't want to die.

Our babies, our tiny babies. ..

Look after Titus...

I remember

when you enjoyed me.

I did ove you, you know.

Cornelia,

my sweet mother,

sorrow snapped my brushes.

Brains stewed in the juices of drugs,

skulls infested with lustful images,

they stagger now

through the fermented syrup of the streets.

Do you know, friends, why time marks me not?

You cheated, rat!

You deafen us with your eunuch's laugh.

I'll flatten your head,

your mother'l think you're Dover sole.

Your Government has voted this absurd law

which says those apes are freed from slavery

as soon as they touch Dutch soil.

You can put up with savages. I can't!

Rather the golden tan of their skin than your flaccid, pink flesh!

Here. This is for you.

For us? Thank you.

It really looks like us.

Have the monkey.

He's sweet.

- It's beautiful. - Thank you.

- Titus? - He's asleep.

Geertje Dircx,

the finest trumpeteer's widow I know.

The sun is rising.

The little one. ..

Titus...

Obviously, one frowns on a wastre such as him.

- His son is dressed as a prince. - He and his maid hold carna . . .

Margaretha is right. Even his friends comment.

They say Saskia's family claim he has spent her dowry.

I cannot accept that, Miss. Saskia had not a penny.

- Who says? - She told me herself.

Bravo!

Trickles of bile thicken fast.

I didn't expect such honesty.

Come on. Come....

It suits him.

Well done, Fabritius!

Welcome, your Lordship!

Quite a dandy!

Have you received summons from Muiden?

We must treat him right.

Muiden dictates right and wrong!

See how he looks down on us!

The Prince's death leaves him vulnerable.

This never-ending war has ruined the art market.

And you, my son, who are his patron?

Patron is a big word. Client.

As my mother insists, I admit, I have another complaint.

What?

I wish he'd reciprocated the enormous esteem

in which I held him.

And you?

Pride leads him to ignore what France and Italy teach us.

It's true his palette has got yet darker.

Uylenburgh, his dealer, complains of it.

Too much shadow...

And if you permit, Father, too much paint too!

Shame a genius should choose such low models.

Indeed. And delights in...

showing the mark of a garter on women's thighs.

He suckled vulgarity in his milk.

It makes him stolid.

He won't rise above the owly.

Shame a genius chooses such low...

Shut up!

The highest function of art is not to escape this world

but help know it better.

Why are you so mean?

They've killed him, Sir.

I found him hanging off the door-knocker.

He's still warm.

Paulus,

fetch me fresh canvas.

The life's still in him.

Don't tell Titus,

let me.

The cushion.

There!

Fabritius says there's not one primed canvas.

Never mind.

How dare you impose this dead creature?

500 florins, we're paying you!

Go to hell!

You, your money, your dog

with its arsehole of a nose.

We should've listened,

they told us he was vulgar and dishonest.

Even his dealer, Uylenburgh, has had enough of him.

There's a feast in the Town Hall. Amsterdam is celebrating the peace.

It's a disgrace our Master is not invited.

He's ill, he's not fit for celebration.

Govaert Flinck is there.

Govaert Flinck has sold his sou to that dog Uylenburgh.

The Master is chesty.

We'll bring his blood up.

Take a pinch of gauze,

dip it in spirits

just there.

Light it at the flame.

And chuck it in.

I'll do the rest.

Seven years I've been with him, he's never been ill.

Let's do it.

They suck up well.

The Master's nice and plump.

My word, they're like teats!

See the nipples sucked out.

Who is the brainless bird

that mocks a dying man.

Hendrickje Stoffels.

Hendrickje Stoffels,

Janeke's gone off to get married.

She's silly

but she's pretty.

Now we have to do it all again.

He must like it.

What's the Master doing later?

He's off to buy prints,

cloth

and knick-knacks.

They say the Master's naughty.

Who is this ''they''?

People your extravagance annoys.

Plenty of them around...

I have loved your son

as my own...

As my own.

The ring...

I had thought...

You had thought...

It was an engagement.

Saskia's ring.

Why did you give it to me?

To say thank you.

I'll look after you for the rest of your ife.

Rembrandt Van Rijn, I shall take nothing from you.

I don't want charity.

I'll drag you through the courts

for breach of promise.

Rembrandt Van Rijn,

you shall marry me.

You are unhappy

and it is I

who wrenches your heart asunder.

Rembrandt Van Rijn,

you shall marry me.

I'll drag you through the courts.

A thousand florins is nothing to you, Six, and it saves me.

I'd be doing you no favour.

You must give up these mad sprees.

I agree.

But this is a crisis.

Have I not proved my friendship?

Friendship above one's station.

The Town Hall fire is a sign! The past is dead!

Fire purifies.

I am the next Regent.

Think, if you should marry my daughter Margaretha...

She is not attractive...

I won't have flattery.

God made her as she is. She has her gifts.

You are not much concerned

with issues of love.

Naturally, if you enter our family,

you must end any relationship that might jeopardize our standing.

You know he has recently done a portrait of me

and I succumbed to the temptation of...

Lending him money. I know.

I know he signed a bill of receipt.

He signed a bill of receipt.

I must warn you that the Elders of our Church

frown upon his culpable domestic arrangements with that creature.

What's that under your dress?

Are you ashamed of the little one?

It shows the vigour of my brushwork.

It's a girl, I know. She shall be Cornelia.

Is it the Elders' summons which make you so sad?

This time, I must obey.

Who cares

about their excommunicaton?

We shall be with the acrobats, the jugglers

and the bankers!

I know you cannot marry me.

If you asked me

I'd refuse:

You must paint in peace.

But they must not turn from you

on my account.

Hendrickje Stoffels,

you are a lady.

Me?

Strange to say.

I am nothing

but you inside me.

Hendrickje Stoffels,

you appear before our Church Council.

You confess to fornication with Rembrandt Van Rijn as his whore.

You shall be punished for it,

condemned to do penance

and banished from the Lord's Table

unless you leave his house and return to your family.

I cannot.

He needs me.

He needs me.

To think it took eight years to make this Temple of Solomon!

A wonder of the world!

Seven years and 8m florins!

You too, you've abandoned him.

The lack of his pictures here will prove it

even before the Town Hall opened,

Flinck was commissioned to do it all.

Indeed, but...

Flinck's painting eads just where you want it to go!

Built on a thousand piles!

This war'll finish the feeble.

And the luckless.

Vondel's in trouble. They say his son

is bankrupting him.

Not to mention lesser fish.

Rembrandt is pressed to pay 8,400 florins, owed these sixteen years

for the purchase of his house.

Have you not, just when his affairs are in crisis,

sold a bil of receipt for a debt of his?

Was the sum not an insignificant one

for Tulp's son-in-law?

Is it true you sold this IOU?

I did.

He did and was right to.

As we talk of your Rembrandt

may I say I fully admit my part in that girl's prosecution?

She has given him a child, I hear.

Cornelia, my darling...

See, Titus, when the brush thinks, it makes mistakes.

It must rummage and chop through the mud of a palette,

perhaps find life there...

caught red-handed in the act of being.

The true story

is what's there.

Right there!

This ox is better than the 1640 one.

It was freezing. The Buschraat

strolled us through the hanging carcasses.

One of them was swinging...

He told us poor women would haunt the abattoir

to favour apprentices in exchange for a steak or two.

Swings of hot meat!

Come in!

This cancels a part of Uylenburgh's debt to the City.

This is about Rembrandt's failure.

Thank you.

I'm sorry,

you were signing...

Yes.

I've come, Father, about that.

If the Court of Bankruptcy has precedence over that of Wardship,

Rembrandt won't keep his house in his son's name.

It will go.

His collections will be dispersed.

It will kil him.

The receiver has ful powers.

You can't cancel Uylenburgh's debts and kill Rembrandt.

Couldn't you?

I wouldn't if I could.

Forgive me, Father.

I'm disappointed, Jan.

You lack conviction.

I did not betray him at your behest.

I did so because I saw his genius and he did not allow me any.

I did so because I gave in to society.

He never did that, because...

He mocks the law!

Your laws are unjust because they do not consider man's true condition.

You are a cold-hearted man.

I hate you.

I can live with that.

It will not affect

our relationship.

You are my son-in-law.

He wouldn't listen. That is why I gave him up.

Do not justify yourself, Uylenburgh.

We could have made a fortune!

He is stubborn!

Now his house is for sale, he must go to the suburbs!

I am surprised at your reluctance.

I hope you do not forget

that Regent Tulp's cancellation of your debts

means you owe the city...

Certain favours.

And we are the city!

- I know. - Quite!

That's all settled.

And public opinion?

Will be pleased to see a fel on punished

for ignoring his creditors' interests.

Will the others follow?

The auction will be as we have agreed. It is settled!

In that case...

A canvas called ''Christ and the Pilgrim from Emmaus'',

starting price 35 florins.

Quiet!

I request silence!

Let us pursue this Rembrandt sale.

You stink like a Frenchman!

Is your scent to cover the stench of this affair?

Do you know the words that come to mind? Tally-ho!

Lucas Van Leyden,

Starting price, 15 florins.

20 florins.

25!

40!

45.

These same prints

were bought by Rembrandt 25 years ago

for 400 florins!

Any further bid?

45 it is.

Sold!

Sold to the Honourable Harmen Becker.

The price is absurd!

A large, ebony-framed mirror, at 25 florins.

40 florins...

For the good of my profession!

40 florins!

Sold!

A spinet, at 35 florins!

35!

35 it is.

Sold!

The spinet is sold to Miss Tulp!

I can't stand it.

So ends the sale of goods

belonging to Rembrandt Van Rijn!

3,000 florins for all this!

What'll become of him?

Losing all he's got won't help.

They will pursue him to his grave.

The following lots were sold,

70 paintings by Rembrandt Van Rijn,

a Miche angelo marble,

a Virgin, by Raphael.

An old man, by Van Eyck...

Titus Van Rijn...

Eat up, darling.

The rats clean our canals.

Don't tell me I don't know the plague.

Listen, rat-face, I know the plague,

my little daughter has just died of it.

Happy resurrection!

He's working!

He must settle immediately.

They've got everything.

Look how we live now!

The order concerns future sales.

It's a question of honour!

Yours as well! Who live in shame under his roof.

- I shall fight for him to work free... - And go where Beauty calls.

Don't talk thus!

This is serious.

Is Art not serious?

Honour is in jeopardy, Madam!

I'm not Madam!

I am a whore!

So say your laws!

A whore, do you hear?

Let me by, Hendrickje Stoffels!

Hendrickje Van Rijn! No woman so deserves the name!

Never mind. I must pass!

You have no business here!

Don't make us use force!

Do you know the cost of thwarting the law?

- Leave this house! - I'll pass, Madam!

By this deed,

you transfer your remaining assets

and such as you may yet acquire

to your partners,

Titus Van Rijn and Hendrickje Stoffels.

This wardship is protection against prosecution.

You shall possess nothing in your own name.

You may, by this deed,

ose the respect of society.

I forego that, gladly,

if it means I'm free to paint.

From this day 21st December 1660,

Hendrickje Stoffel and Titus Van Rijn

become the guardians

of Rembrandt Van Rijn.

They must provide his board,

and in return he brings a knowledge of art and the commerce of art

to his partners.

They'll never forgive you.

Here's proof of worthiness!

Vondel has paid his son's entire debt.

Noble Vonde!

All he had, 40,000 florins.

I heard it this morning.

He's made accountant at the Municipal Savings?

Yes. We have awarded him 600 florins per year.

A pastor's wage!

Nice alms! Lord what charity!

True, it's not easy finding yourself on the streets at his age.

I prefer not to remain here.

Hendrickje has puked green phlegm.

She has two black cherries under her armpits.

I wish to retrieve some jewels. Here's the ticket.

Name?

Rembrandt Van Rijn.

My name is

Joost Van den Vondel.

By feeble light, writing is easier than painting.

You are retrieving goods, that's a good sign.

I'm delighted.

Good news is always we come in this horrid time of p ague.

To tell you the truth,

I wish to pawn this...

in order to retrieve this.

These flies are a nuisance.

They ruin our light.

One day,

I saw the sun

set fire to its own whiskers.

I tried to extinguish it with my spit,

but I didn't dare.

Sun-daisies...

scented

scented...

with turpentine.

At night,

the Master comes

dripping with colour

and ounges across me.

I get all smeared.

The doctor cut into her boils!

I can still hear the screams.

She is delirious.

It hurts less...

Did you see the sun

nibbling at the window?

Pass me the mirror.

The flies make me a veil.

Hendrickje...

Long after you left us,

Titus, little Cornelia and I

often paid you a visit in your place of rest.

I am banned from the pulpit.

They fear Truth.

Still, I shall preach it.

Rats crawl and fornicate

throughout the slums.

Their stinking fur is infested

with vermin that delight in the rags of the poor.

I tell you,

it is through the blood of rats

that death and plague run wild.

Come down!

The rich preach Virtue

and eave the poor to eat with rats.

You, the artist!

Remember me?

I warned you.

The blind envy Light.

Quiet, you!

Don't!

''Since my mother died,

my father, the great Rembrandt, is very quiet.

He thinks only of his pictures.

He goes to bed late, hands covered in paint.

In the morning,

Agatha, our old maid who's remained faithful

brings my father herrings he dips in gin

like sweet biscuits.

My brother

was saddened by the death of the madwoman

who looked after him as a child.

She spent six years in an asylum at Gouda.

Titus says she was a trumpeteer's widow.

10th February 1668. Snow.

Titus is marrying his cousin, Magdalena Van Loo.

He shal be a father soon.''

''Titus, my brother,

my father's beloved son,

died of the plague, aged 27, on this 4th September 1 668.

He will not know his child.''

''My father wanders round the house,

a foolish smile...''

Titus, my son,

I was so fearful for you,

when you were still being nursed.

Tiny bean...

I held you in my arms.

I remember your head resting...

Can I tidy up?

...in the hollow of my hand.

Tidy?

Why?

It was as if I was gauging

the exact measure of my affection.

That's it.

As if my arms could hold love itself

in swaddling-clothes.

My father is dead!

Rembrandt is dead!

The great Rembrandt!

He died with his eyes open, smiling!

Great Rembrandt has died

with his eyes open!

My father is dead!

Great Rembrandt is dead !

To paint thus, one must surely have died more than a few times.

Subtitling Titra Film Paris

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