All language subtitles for Cezanne.et.Moi.2016.FRENCH.EG BRD 1080p.HDLight.x264-SMaLLHD

- Are you succeeding?
- No, and that visit is very bad.

You've been waiting for him for two years.

- How is it going?
- Good. And with you?

- Gorgonzola.
- Parisian sloeber.

Spaghetti roger.

You can not be ashamed of yourself.

What do you interfere with?

What is going on here? Get out.

Just wait.

- Paul.
- Émile.

Thank you.

That was panic.
You had them good.

Batistin. And this is Émile...

- Zola.
- That is not a French name.

An Italian from Paris
and still chicken.

Does your dad work on the dam?

- All Italians work there.
- He is dead.

Did he also lose weight?
- He was an engineer. He had a lung disease.

- Does Paul live here?
- Are you looking for Paul Cézanne?

Hey, Italian. Come on in.

- From my mother. To thank you for...
- Are not you an orphan then?

Yes, half.

Look at that.

Who will be the first? A whore?

A virgin? A widow?

I live again.
Those colors that smell.

- Paris is terrible.
- Do not you rinse?

Day, Pink Hat.

- He did not even dare to kiss her.
- The romantic.

See you tomorrow. We're
going to sea, are not we?

See you tomorrow.

- Dropped for my exam.
- Is not bad for a poet.

- Ha, heart friends.
- Hello, Achille.

- Paul, hurry up.
- Wait, Achille.

- Where are you going?
- To Gilbert. Art class.

- You can not sign at all.
- That's why.

Paris 1860.

I caught four of them.

We can eat.

- Please.
- And?

- Did you resign?
- It's dabbling in the harsh cold...

in exchange for a tip.
And when you step out, you are ungrateful.

The port is not for you, Émile.
And your appointment with Mr. Hachette?

At least it was sunny there.

No letter?

You miss him, do not you?

He wants to get out of Aix, and
I want to go back. How ironic.

How old are you, Mom?

I will soon be forty.

'Your father says: With talent
you die, you eat with money.

Do not listen to him. Say:

"Do not lock me up in your couch, I'll
suffocate there." And so on, and so on.

"Your friend Zola."

I never liked that poor little fellow.
He is not even French.

A bad influence on Paul.

'I recently dreamed that I had
written a beautiful book...

that you had beautifully illustrated.

Our names in gold print...

brotherly and inseparable
for posterity. '

Nice is not it?

I was to the river with Batistin.

- What does 'Arabic' mean?
- That refers to Émile in Paris.

In order to eat, he has
pledged his clothes.

He is sitting in a blanket rolled on the
ground to close. He calls that 'in Arabic'.

Do you read my letters?

The latter is beautiful again.

If I stay here, I become mad or alcoholic.
Because of me, the bank is still going bankrupt.

- Mr. Gilbert agrees with me.
- That bag looks purely as a teacher.

Do you think they are
waiting for you in Paris?

- What a cold.
- I still saw your flower salesman.

She walked back again.
When do you speak to her once?

She makes artificial flowers.

What a pity.

I'm going to buy coal.

How about this?

Do you remember? "You have to paint roots."
- Carrots?

- There he is.
- The old Courbet once said:

Very successful.
Do you know Christ personally?

- Do you know Paul?
- I believe so.

- Not in Switzerland, Camille?
- I'm looking for my friends.

- You're right.
- What are we drinking?

A minute of silence. A big win.

- We are all rejected.
- Next year again.

In ten years.

There is Père Tanguy.

Mr. Pissarro, I have
something for you.

Your own mixture:
Carmine and vermilion.

- Everything good?
- Mr. Renoir.

Père Tanguy is our own paint grinder.

- Mr. Cézanne.
- Mr. Cézanne, that's my dad.

Have a nice evening.

But that is how the world really is:
Violent, ugly, cruel.

I got my manuscript back.
They were horrified.

I do not get that Titian but copied.

Damn it, Francesco, think of something new.
Stop copying.

Something else does not sell.
I have to eat.

We used to do that too.
Titian, Ingres...

Ingres?

Hangers, pale bodies,
flowers in the hair.

Ingres, that is exposed to the bourgeoisie.

Amateuristic fiddling with which they want
to make good decorations. Copying Ingres...

I am bored with you.

What do you have? You say
that Manet is groundbreaking.

- I'm waiting for my girlfriend outside.
- Always the same with him.

Camille, Achille, Francesco, Auguste...

Emile. And Mr. Manet,
a great artist.

Peppermint lemonade for the young lady.
A very big artist.

Gabrielle. The flower vendor
about who I was talking about.

- I'm no longer in the flowers.
- Excuse.

Laundry woman. And she plays mandolin.

Linen miss.

Are you also an artist?

I am...

- I pick up books from a publisher.
- He is a poet, a very good poet.

Are you posing, Gabrielle?

Why not?

A round of me.

Solange, bread and olive oil.

Unfortunately I could not come for your father.
Although you are now traveling by train...

Yes, it is fast. We have
not done about 28 hours.

But you could not stand that old bag.

And you together?
How did that happen lately?

After years of hostility, I
hoped for some goodwill.

But I have been content
with indifference.

One day he said: Now marry her.

Old mistresses are
ultimately the best wives.

She finally hit me on the hook.

It's about time. How old is my godson?
Ten? Eleven?

Sixteen.

Sixteen already...

- Everything turned out well.
- Everyone relieved.

- Hortense, your sister, your mother...
- Your wife.

Alexandrine?

Receiving a sinful woman is
for a well-to-do citizen...

- Alexandrine has been accepting for years...
- She accepts, yes.

Shall we not talk about
you and Alexandrine?

Alexandrine does not get used to it.

For me she always continues
to be called Gabrielle.

I'll come...

There you are.

You still smell good.

Congratulations. Has Hortense come along?

- She's unpacking.
- You're going to stay a few days anyway?

- If you want to pose for me.
- If you do not cut my portrait to pieces.

Then I can not promise.

Radiant.

That garlic breath...
Fortunately, it smells like Provence.

But those oblique jokes,
that arrogance...

My corset...

And the guts to walk into your
room, knowing that you detest it.

How long will they stay this time?

- You do not know and do not ask.
- I'm reading, Alexandrine.

Thank you. That stew rabbit has me.
And three patties...

Stupid of me.
You did taste them too, Jeanne?

Yes Madam.

And that woman who keeps on switching.

Cold.

Come here, nice wolf.

I'll warm you up once.

I use teasing words
from his Nana.

You do not like that, do you?

See you tomorrow, Jeanne.

Good night, Jeanne.

A bit medieval and worm-eaten.

Revenge on our rotten youth maybe.

And 'medieval and worm-eaten'
are my own words.

Even my father read your books.
Unimaginable.

"Your friend Zola..."
The bag never said Émile.

"At least he has success."

And that is true.

You always knew what you wanted.
And you succeeded.

Shut up, Paul.

Good luck, a nice house...
Will there be another wing?

No. We keep it here.

Diabetes. What I wondered:

You write so modern. Do not you
get tired of those old stuff?

On the contrary.
We are happy to walk away from outbidies.

It's just treasure hunt.

But no more paintings?

We have refurbished.
They are not hanging yet.

But I did see a small
Manet in the corridor.

- Are you starting again?
- No.

Perhaps if it had hung here. But besides
the plee, that makes me rather virtuous.

Is this from the rue Soufflot?

You kept it.

Why does that make you virtue?

What is this?

"I thank the author of Rougon-Macquart and
would like to shake hands with him..."

in memory of the past. '
Since when are you talking to me like that?

The beginning.

- What do you mean?
- The beginning of the letter.

"Dear Émile.
I received The masterpiece . '"

The masterpiece, a
meaningless title.

"I received The
masterpiece that you sent.

I thank the writer..."
- It's a nice note.

Why does Mrs Zola say 'my greeting'?

Who are you kidding?

Never mind. It does not bother me.

This time you did not
make it complicated.

You did not have to enter mines.

Your friends did not have to go
to the whores in preparation.

No, you were guided by memories.

"Paul, help me, with your weakness,
your fears, your inability."

I still share in the proceeds?

Characters are not
a specific person.

They are based on
stories, on other books.

Good, also on
memories, on notes.

Show your file.
My name is fixed on every page.

Writing is not the truth.
A novel is not the truth.

- Courage is needed for writing.
- To belittle others.

As if I saw myself in a distorted mirror.
Who is that monster? I?

Yes that's me.

- And my head on your paintings?
- All destroyed.

- Just be proud of it.
- You must hear.

"They ran through the field,
the earth red from the iron."

They ran and ran.

Nowhere under the brass barge.

Only olive trees and almond
trees with spindly leaves.

A collection of poetry
always in their pocket.

The three heart friends made
long walks from the first class.

In that remote region, in those
languid, slow, sleepy towns...

lived the painter, the
writer and their friend...

isolated but full of enthusiasm...

and feverishly longing
for art and literature.

At first they were under the spell of Hugo.

Then Musset carried them
with his passion and tears.

Enthusiastically they
splashed in water basins...

and allowed their naked bodies
to dry in the burning hot sand.

They returned home as
trudging mischievous boys...

on those exciting hot July nights.
Later...

Goddamn it, what are you a bastard.

And you write it all beautiful.

- Your diabetes.
- I do not care.

Tell me...

Have you seen Pink Hat yet?

She died last year.
She weighed a hundred kilos.

And you never dared to kiss her.

You went to bed with her, did not you?
Say it.

It was a slump.
Everyone went to bed with her.

Only you did not succeed.

You find me very naïve.

Do you still have it?

That you get a rigid writing.

- Who told you that?
- You yourself.

Paris 1862

Paul? I am Frenchman.

Welcome to this klakkand.

- What are you doing?
- No jerk.

- I'm going back to Aix.
- And my portrait?

Here.

- Posing 32 times.
- Do I have to pay you for it?

Paul is anything but stingy.

- Because of the Beaux-Arts?
- That old bag will stop my allowance.

I have failed. This is a
decline for an upbeat father.

You must not stop.
Not everything succeeds immediately.

Not so patronizing.

Can I bring mine?

- Please.
- That's not nice.

Not nice?

- Go after her. She is crying.
- Right.

I fuck her too fast and
paint her too slowly.

Allright then.

Squeeze it out.
Go laze in the sun.

Maybe you have talent.
But as an artist you do not have any balls.

Here you have 32 pose sessions.

They were dreams, stupid
childhood dreams.

Dreams that you deny at the age of 20.

Paris 1863.

'Salon of the Rejected.
The emperor has received complaints...

about work that was rejected
for the official Salon.

The public can now judge for
themselves just how right... '

- Get lost.
- Unfortunately, good idea of that erotomaniac.

- The first Salon of the Rejected.
- And the last.

- And that beautiful painting of you?
- Has been slit.

Auguste!

Exciting inside.
Do you know Bazille, from Montpellier?

Frédéric, are we going in again?

The official Salon is better.

In a brothel, fine.
But here they get pneumonia.

- Dirty fucking.
- The maker is probably short-sighted.

Mrs. is warm and Mr. does
not want to catch a cold.

Blue trees, blue breasts...
Manet is crazy about blue.

- Not suitable for children.
- Bunch of idiots.

I found mine. There it is.

Scandalous. You do not
see anything like that.

Yes, in the Louvre. Never seen a
naked woman? Take a good look.

Stay away from me.

- Émile. Paul.

Why did you step up?
It was cozy?

- The bouillabaisse was for you.
- Too busy, and not my kind of people.

I wanted to start over Gabrielle
in Aix, but I was not sure if...

- Is it worth it?
- Paul, that's it.

- No problems with Manet?
- How so?

Naked in the grass, between those men.
That is she?

No.

I also posed naked. For you.

But that coat on the
painting is mine.

Brave piece of you, in
which you defend him.

You put those markers on their number.

- I am always behind the weak.
- Then we are condemned to each other.

That woman, you said yourself...

Nostalgic, soulful,
high-quality article.

But you do not call me. I have been
rejected for the Salon of the Rejected.

- There are 2000 rejected.
- I have been doubly rejected.

The scandal revolves around Manet. First
admitted, now taken through the mud.

We have to use that.
It can help us all.

I also want some mud.

You take it for him.
You like his work well.

- He still copies the Spaniards.
- Yes, you say that. Paul...

That woman is just
one of many for you.

For me... For the first time...

I'm not afraid.

She has brought peace and harmony.

Also fun in bed, I hope.

Pink Hat, Berthe, it did not mean anything.
I waited for Gabrielle.

Thank you for the assignment in the book.

'For my friends Paul Cézanne
and Batistin Baille.'

- I was almost in tears.
- Forgive us, me and her.

Because of our friendship.

A beloved forgive your deception.
This is more difficult for friends.

- Where are you going?
- Back to Aix.

As usual.

'Dear Paul.

I write this few pages
especially for you.

I know you'll read them
with your heart...

and that you will soon feel
even more affection for me.

Paris did not do our
friendship well.

Perhaps the Provence sun
is needed for that.

You say you sometimes throw away your
brushes if you do not feel in shape.

As you say: If I were in the
neighborhood, I would comfort you.

In desperation I sometimes
drop the pen from my hand.

I am not the evil genius...

that brings you bad luck
by bragging about art.

I feared losing you
several times.

That seems impossible to me now.

We know each other too
well to grow apart.

Like a drowning person clings to
a shelf, I have clung to you.

You comforted me,
protected me...

when I was rejected and
laughed at by everyone.

Fortunately those who have memories.
You are my youth, Paul.

You are part of all my
happy and sad memories.

Do you remember the time
that life was one big dream?

The sultry summer evenings in Provence?

Imagine that we are walking
around there again...

like old friends who have
enough of a single glance.

Remember yourself.

And pick up your brushes again.

Let your imagination run free.

I believe in you.'

the official Salon 1867.

- Out of the way.
- Are they expecting you, Paul?

I do not think so.

- Here's that bottle.
- He's gone.

- Who is that mess?
- One Cézame.

Cézanne!

Greet him for a moment.

I do not give you a hand, Mr. Manet.
I have not washed for a week.

Wait...

A bit dirty, is not it?

Look, almost as beautiful as at home.

The water in Achille.

She said: In order to live with my
great love, I accept that person.

Two counts. Stand there.

- You will not get to the Salon.
- It can be stolen me.

Older than he, not a penny, weak.
And she sold fake flowers.

- Already tasted her stew?
- You do not marry.

Just d cotton wool.

A kiss, Morisot?

Sorry, we are drunk.

- Damn.
- Do not catch cold.

It's about a family.
Ten years, ten parts.

- After Balzac?
- There are no workers in him.

Four environments:
That of the royal houses, nobles, the rich.

Then the bourgeoisie: Merchants,
speculators, strebers.

- I know that one.
- And then the outsiders.

Whores, murderers, clergy.

And finally: The workers.
Nobody talks about that.

I was already shocked.
Fortunately, you forget the artists.

- What do you call your painting?
- Plein air.

Too sawn off.
It means nothing more.

- Manet has been for you.
- Turn off with Manet.

Plein air means 'outside'.
Feeling, emotion, damn it.

Get rid of all those paintings from
workshops where the sun never enters.

We want flowers that smell, with
genitals, wind in the trees.

- That means it.
- Do not do that, we'll skip later.

Slome.

With you I never know
who I'm dealing with:

With a dog, a cobra or a butterfly.

Today with a carp.

You deny everything with this book, Émile.

Your origin, your struggle, your passion.

Where did you go?

In your old vases?
In your garden, under the fresh eggs?

All those citizens who detested
you are now your friends.

They always had the plague on me.

They are disgusted by my books.

Only you are now one of them.

Because I am not hungry anymore?

Because someone helps
my wife peel potatoes?

Who, by the way, is that young
thing that I saw? Good gracious.

Everything revolves around you.

The most rejected of the rejected.
Only you doubt.

Your tears, your apples, your fears.

Only you get up at night to
replace a dash of blue with red.

I also get up at night to
replace a word or comma.

I am also terrified that I
only wrote a mess last day.

You describe that very
well in The masterpiece.

- Unbelievable, that title.
- Did you recognize me?

You are not my only
source of inspiration.

Do you have Le déjeuner sur I'herbe
sometimes painted?

Page 239.

Four apples, a bottle, a pot on a cloth.
Whose is that?

Auguste, Claude, Édouard, Camille...
Did you recognize them too?

Of course not. It's about
painting, so only about you.

You do not read my books
anymore, you judge them.

Very aptly said.

Pissarro is right:
Paintings are too dark nowadays.

When painters ask for black now,
I say that that color is gone.

This is how I prove them a service.
Please.

Draw here.

And they think that
painting thick is modern.

- You paint better, Mr. Cézanne.
- Stop that gentleman.

- Are they soft?
- Hell yes.

Please. 1700.

If repayment is difficult, we'll see.
Besides...

I asked 20 francs for it.
But the man did not have enough money.

Because he liked your apples so
much, I cut out a few of them.

That way we could still do business.

This is...

for you.

- Nobody wants this. Are you taking it?
- Not now.

- Not in Marseille? And your play?
- A disaster. Hence.

All right, Père Tanguy?

- Will we eat together?
- My paintings are already framed.

- Goodbye, Père Tanguy.
- Wait a second.

For someone who works
outside, this is a godsend.

Just try.

Then I take blue, red and yellow.

- But no black.
- Certainly not.

Best.

- What happened?
- Cracked.

"'Zola's women are similar to those
of Manet: Brown mud, pink make-up."

My mother, Gabrielle...
I am broke.

- And your fee?
- Appears to bepers and coals.

I recently saw La comédie humaine.
Hopeless.

- Fortunately, you still have the newspaper.
- I had to come on the mat this morning.

'Nice pieces, but it's enough.'
I got my congé.

My so-called fierce criticism,
my 'radical' defense of you.

- Not mine.
- The piece was dedicated to you.

But not a word about my work.
Clearly.

You are my best friend.

- Saying something positive can work against you.
- I'll take it everywhere for you.

You act arrogantly and aggressively
against everyone. That is one sat.

- That way it will never be something with you.
- You sound like my father.

Please admit that you would like to
become a member of the Academie.

Thunder with your Académie.
You on the other hand...

I admit.

The Beaux Arts, the Academy,
the museums, collectors...

You want to be part of it
with all the violence.

To show your father how successful you are.
That is your big dream.

But who is a member of the
Academy is really successful.

Just eat by yourself.
I am tired enough already.

Wait now. I have money to pay.

L'Estaque 1870.

Careful, you know.

There they are. Paul?

You have to see it.

- Good to be here.
- All right, Zolaatjes?

- I knew you would be here.
- Not too exhausting, the journey?

Paris is one big havoc.

Cannons everywhere, explosions.

A nightmare.

- Welcome to the land of the sea urchins.
- Thank you for being welcome.

This is Hortense.

A paradise after the hell of Paris.

How wonderful.

- Nice huh?
- Delicious.

Now with the war my series is quiet.
I can not concentrate well either.

Happy. He had almost been
arrested for that article.

Praise peace in wartime and
insult the emperor. Brave son.

- The emperor is gone?
- Fortunately.

Our time has come, Paul.
The republic is back.

- The mentality, everything will change.
- Is there still anchovy sauce?

Enough about war and politics.

When is the wedding?

What are you interfering with, Gabrielle?

The sauce is on. I am going already.

Yes, what are you, Alexandrine?

- We talked about it. I thought...
- Silence is better, baby.

- She will offer an excuse.
- Well.

Stop, mother.
Tell me, do you love her?

She can pose for hours without moving.

And she leaves me alone. The woman
who hits me is not born yet.

Loonatic.

Revolt revolted in
Paris city hall.

I leave my women here.

I'm going back.

The uproar calls.

As usual.

He will never look for me again.
Is he here? In Paris?

He is restless. You know him.

In the last months, years
we play hide and seek.

He is always retiring.

People say:
So, so your son is a painter in Paris?

- I pretend to be proud, but...
- He has talent. Have faith in it.

The biggest prutsers are successful.

But Paul? Nothing.
Has he sold one painting?

He does not want to make concessions.
Commerce would paralyze him.

- He is not very diplomatic.
- Yes, and then the Salon...

But this year, with your
friends, Manet, Minet...

Monet.

The young Renoir.
And the other, that Jew...

Do you mean Camille? Camille Pissarro.

Even he. All allowed.

Sir, Paul is desperate.

He can hardly get by. I sometimes help,
but if you give him something more...

I had few expectations of you.
But bravo.

- I should say 'sir'.
- I also get a lot of criticism.

How much did you sell
from that last book?

The blowjob? That went well.

- You're married, I hear?
- Before the war. Paul was my witness.

And he himself? Nothing
that I need to know?

- I wanted to discuss something with you...
- Émile. I heard you were there.

- What is that?
- Received from Paul.

I thought: Maybe nice for you.

- A clock.
- At my home in Batignolles.

And my inkwell.

A clock without hands.

A symbol for our friendship.
Our eternal friendship.

Very nice. Do not you think so?

Come on, I'll show you
the vegetable garden.

For him.

Is the little one still such a sweetheart?
I secretly see them when they are around.

I miss the most beautiful years.

- Five years already.
- Paul loves him.

Do not say anything.
He is able to...

He already gives him so little.

And they? What do you think of her?

It's a good girl.
She really hit the hook.

Absolutely. A child is forever.

- And Alexandrine?
- Still not.

He wrote last:

'I would like to represent the icyness
of the air, the heat of the sun...

"the hardness of the rocks."

- Will he succeed?
- He is searching.

Gradually I will succeed, I hope.

God damn it still.

Damn.

It changes constantly.

- What?
- Your skin.

Yesterday was that pink,
today gray and gray.

The legs are going, but those
breasts, that's nothing.

I do not know, those breasts...

Just what I thought...

There is blue in it, from the veins.

The bulging of the abdomen.
A shadow...

Gold? No, rather carmine red.

Look at me.

To me.

I am your wife, Paul. The woman
you never fuck or touch.

And she, that's a thief.

A slut. A whore.

Instead of me, you fuck her.
I torture you.

I'll help you keep
that whore alive.

Beautiful woman, that mistress of yours.

Go to bed with her.
It's like a corpse.

Monstrous. A wilted
flower, pale and deadly.

What about me? Am I old, Paul?

Get the colere. I live.

I am young and handsome.

I'm tired of yearning
for a kiss, a touch.

You should be ashamed.
You look at me like I'm dead.

I'm ashamed when you put
some red on her cheeks...

some gold in her hair.
Then it will work, will not it?

You'll still get a stiff of this.

Fuck your painting. Come to your
convenience in your stink cloths.

More and more color.
But it continues to be tinkered.

Stop it.

- Sorry.
- Come back, Paul.

Go live again.

Stop painting. Burn everything.
Then we leave and we try...

Why are you crying, Mama?

I will never stop.
I will die painting.

Mama has dreamed about.
Be nice, Paul.

Curious, just his 'swagger
period', as he said.

Do not mind the mess.
I can not sweep because of the dust.

I am very tired.

According to Alexandrine, I force myself.

- But you have success.
- Comfort...

- And member of the Academy.
- No.

Twelfth rejection. But oh...

Starting a novel is a nightmare. And
once ready I want to tear everything up.

Hold on, Paul.

What have you become big?

I'll come back next month.

- This self-portrait is really...
- Terrible, is not it?

Well.

Take a good look. No
tenderness or love expresses.

There is more humanity in his
apples than in his eyes.

Have you seen her?

This is how the man I
love keeps me looking.

He does not like anyone.

Comfort you. He does not
love himself either.

Emile, he is there.

Everything OK, beauty?

Good to see you.

- Come.
- Your son is getting fat.

- Have you had a good trip?
- Yes, very prosperous.

We have chickens, rabbits.
Fresh eggs every morning.

And that's Mouquette.

Are they waiting for the train?

- You have become a farmer.
- Too much noise and crowds in Paris.

- I work much better here.
- That will be another novel about farmers.

Hey, he's done.

The Germinal Tower?

Oh, yes, it was still under
construction last time.

Paris - Le Havre.
Every ten minutes.

Delicious.

Just stop, Gabrielle.
Apples can do it too.

- Would it ever succeed?
- Not if you wobble like that.

To call me Alexandrine.

Gabrielle is in my head.
And not only there.

- And your father?
- Do not get broken.

Did you speak to him?
You have to tell him.

How old is the boy now? Six?

- What does Hortense think of it?
- That does not suit you.

So you find 'Alexandrine'
sound more upscale?

Do not eat my still life.

Finally.
The sky becomes light gray.

My back is very, I am sweating.
I want to take a bath.

- Not you?
- I stink?

Do not you take anything else? You're
just a scarecrow. And that beard.

Well, I should have
had a woman like you.

Nonsense. You are perfect for Émile.

Perfect is the right word.

Handsome, efficient, musical, discreet.

Especially about your past.

You can not really give compliments.
It always gets false.

Tricky, someone from the past,
when you were called Gabrielle.

I was in love with you then.

But I bless the day I did
not love you anymore.

You will never make a woman happy.

Your wife... She is not even your wife.

Your friends: The more you care
about them, the more you hate them.

Your work: Then again you are the
best, then you are disgusted by it.

You're eating here full.
But soon you will say:

What do those Zola's live worthless, with
that rotten train every ten minutes.

Émile?

- How do you get to the boat?
- Gift.

- Are you crazy? It is a cruise ship.
- Guy calls it Nana.

Everyone wants it.

- How is it going?
- Hello, Émile.

Nice water?

- Good to see Paul.
- Who?

Cézanne, our childhood friend.
You can finally meet.

- Do you see him often?
- He's hiding.

- Is Hortense there too?
- Not for the time. I'll be right.

I am extremely hungry.
That rhubarb pie from her...

- Does she cook herself?
- Before, when they did not have a cent.

And everyone was welcome.

So... Guy right from me.

Auguste left.

Angèle next to Batistin.
Newlyweds do not get you apart.

Camille next to Auguste.

And Paul next to Émilie.

So Émile begged
me to come along.

- You do nothing better.
- I like to come in brothels.

- But he finds it scary.
- Right.

- But I had to do field research.
- Yes Yes. Some truffle salad?

In the brothel a girl asks:
Do not I know you?

- I do not like to read it.
- Émile very neat: You are mistaken, ma'am.

- What is his last book?
- Boule de Suif.

We could also have a bit of it
in Aix, was not it Batistin?

Degas always paints
cheerful board scenes.

- I find it rather sad.
- Encountered wrong whores.

We fell on maternal types, did not we?
We had not yet outgrown the chest.

- Flaubert has defended you.
- To shut down Desgenettes.

He said: 'What is also opposed
deserves admiration'.

- I'm going to use that against you.
- I like to read Mérimée.

Sorry Angèle, I prefer to read about
a society full of sex than Mérimée.

- Where is the truffle salad?
- On.

Great, that scene in which Nana
Muffat rattles and calls 'dog'.

Frédéric also hung
at the exhibition?

- We miss it.
- Who is Frédéric?

Fallen in the power of his life.

Frédéric Bazille, a size.
You shared a studio anyway?

In the war all
idiots were killed.

Then you and mother the woman
would sit alone at the table.

- Everybody thymus?
- Sales are going well, are not they?

50,000 on the first
day, and so on.

- May they sell a lot of gingerbread.
- Spice cake?

At the fair they sell pigs of
cake with 'Zola' or 'Nana' on it.

Caricatures, terrible.

- It's not funny.
- Yes, ma. That is part of fame.

The scene in which you clamber
naked on a pig is to scream.

- Horrible.
- He's right, Émilie.

Spitting is part of it.
Nothing worse than silence.

What are you exhibiting this
year at the Salon, Paul?

- A jar of shit.
- I do not envy artists.

- What is an artist?
- Someone...

who suffers poverty all his
life for short-lived fame.

- Is it going, mother?
- Let's grow museums to stations.

The Louvre is empty,
the trains are full.

We stood an hour before
The raft of the Medusa.

I like to have such a
painting in the bedroom.

I should not think about it:
Wake up with a view of a shipwreck.

Paul and I walked through
the Louvre in days.

- You were away from the realism of Géricault.
- Right.

Especially those realistic
bare balls in the foreground.

If you had such a
painting, dear Angèle...

you could enjoy
it every morning.

- Enough.
- Calm down, Batistin.

Take that sweetbread stain away from
your expensive grocery costume.

Calm down.

Excuse me.

The bride is rich, I hope.

- Very rich.
- But an ice lump in bed.

If you were still drunk...

Do not invite me anymore.

Why are you closing up?
You isolate yourself and...

My Triomphe de la Femme
is based on your Nana.

But you think Manet's
is more beautiful.

You have so much talent, Paul.

But sometimes there is no
expression in your portraits.

I can say that, as
your brother, do you?

Did you tear up Alexandrine's
portrait again?

It is too much.

If you describe a crowd of people,
you feel carried away as a reader.

We caress Nana's skin,
smell the coal Germinal.

If only I could paint as you write.

I have always believed in you.
One day you will see it.

Or maybe not.

People have been scared,
economical, since the Commune.

They buy books because they are cheap.
But paintings...

I like to sell them for
the price of a book.

Come with me.

Île flottante for dessert.

Tell Gabrielle that I
am leaving tomorrow.

As a child he was unhappy.

Ugly paintings, dressed
like a wanderer.

And that rough language.

He is not average.
And he is too proud to spread syrup.

Misplaced pride.

Last year he was
admitted at the Salon.

- Stop.
- Tell me.

After a lot of rejections Guillemet had...

to whom Paul looks down, but
that is a different story...

allowed him with one painting.

I'm going to the Salon. Paul was
watching a sheet of white cloth.

A huge list. A lot of pale
pink nymphs, sat monks.

And above that there is little cloth.

A skull? A stomach?

You could not see that without a viewer.
I had to do with him.

In order not to embarrass
him anymore, I left.

I was devastated.

Very nice.
But your friend is a failure.

It was plump, awkwardly painted.

He is just as annoying as before.

Wherever you come with
him, you fly like this.

So friends with a smile
we point the door...

while strangers are welcome?

Émile believes in eternal friendship,
more difficult than everlasting love.

- Someone herbal tea?
- Is he always so rude?

- Actually, he is shy. Also Émile...
- Nonsense, Émilie.

Émile is only rude in his books.

As soon as he is gone, his
paintings go to the attic.

Chamomile and verbena from the garden.

- Is everything alright?
- I almost suffocate. Release it.

You're stifling too, are not you?

Sorry.

There you are...

Is it going, mother?

- And now?
- Turn right.

It smells delicious.

Just stop.

Are you crying?

I am very sensitive at the moment.

- How long ago is it?
- Long.

Two years?

Where is your hair?

In that big belly of yours.

Do you have a will?

My mother is dead. I do not have
children, only Alexandrine.

I'm not talking about notaries.
I am 46, have diabetes.

My sister got married to an idiot.
In addition, a bastard.

My father is senile.

I have to think of my
mother and my son.

- And Hortense?
- We are not married.

That's why.
You have been together for almost 15 years.

She lives her own life.

Like me.

Pine nuts?

They are tasty.

This is delivered to you in Médan.

Whores do not write.
We are too old for virgins.

Is it a widow? A duchess?

- A maid.
- Keep it.

I'm being watched, spied on.

- Does she still live her life?
- By my mother and sister.

- They want me to be loyal to Hortense.
- They hate her.

- Less, now that the other is there.
- Then it is not a duchess.

- How long have you been sleeping with her?
- To sleep? I kissed her.

And sat on her breasts.

- You're no longer twelve.
- Yes.

I hardly know what I am doing.

I can paint. A miracle.
Are you coming?

I have my studio at home. But I often
sleep here because of the light.

Her name is Fanny.

Have you ever cheated Gabrielle?

Sin of my time. Too much hassle.
And with Alexandrine I feel...

In harmony. I know.

Watch out. You laugh at me, but you
yourself are a rookie in love.

You have always been economical.

You still have whole supplies in
your heart. And not only there.

Alexandrine is my base.
I wobble without her.

Look. What do you think of this?

- Do you really want to know that?
- The other side, sluggish. The text.

"I saw you and you
allowed me to kiss you."

Since then I have been seriously confused.

Is not it better...

to express my feelings
than to hide them?

Allow me and so on...

Because we try to alleviate
our spiritual pain...

"declare our love by
an adored one."

You are not going to send this anyway?

Better not, huh?

- Will I 'flirt' something for you?
- Do you want to do that?

Your new book seems to be about artists.
That worries me.

We are talking about that.

His palette was next to him. In one hand
a candle, with the other he painted.

Wide open eyes like a sleepwalker,
small, stiff movements.

Every now and then he bent to
the ground to get some color.

No sound. Only deadly silence
prevailed in the dark room.

The more relentless he worked,
the more incoherent the result.

Thickly applied somber colors, the drawing
itself became increasingly blurred.

She took a few steps back
and threw her blouse out.

There she stood naked, motionless.

She pointed to the canvas and said:
'Open your eyes and take a good look.'

"It is hideous, grotesque. Do we have
golden thighs and a belly full of flowers?"

"Compare it.
I am younger than them."

"Even if you adorn her skin with
jewels, she is like a wilted flower."

"I am still 18,
because I love you."

The masterpiece.

Mr. De Maupassant?

Can I get a signature?

You are a thief, Émile.

A voyeur and a rapist.

I write novels.
And I also write for my bread.

I never received a fine
monthly allowance.

I have not heard that
for a long time.

Now that your father is out of
the pipe, you can stop painting.

- Is that an advice?
- No, pure luxury.

I was also hungry, though.

But thanks for all those times...

Suffering hunger is very different if
you know that you are getting rich.

You eat too much.

You lose your hair.
I can stop eating.

- I lost eight kilos.
- Well done.

Can I confess something to you?

I sometimes went to Manet to
borrow some money from him.

And I gave that to you.

You are kidding me.

Go and paint. I have to write.

At least that is as
clear as the mistral.

I feel most comfortable here.

You can not deny your past.

A new girl? Nice to see.

She is sweet and shy.
She was an orphan early.

She works hard and is very engaging.

I want to take her from
the summer to Royan.

Dangerous: Dear shy orphan girls.

You were handsome,
orphaned and linen girl.

But not sweet and shy.

The most beautiful scene
in the book is the dinner.

Do you think? Good to hear.

When Lantier hears how he is
slated, it is very scary.

We have a lot to do with him.

It reminds me of the last
time I saw your mother.

She asked me if I wanted to untie her corset and
said: You're almost suffocating, are not you?

I had once again misbehaved.

We talked for hours in her room.

Whenever I look at that
window, I can cry.

Her coffin has gone through the window.

The staircase was too narrow.

Did I thank you already...

that you loved her so much?

For your sympathy afterwards?

Nothing for you.

Alexandrine was great too.
Those two had laid it down.

My mother idolized me. Alexandrine
loved me too much or not enough.

- Mother did not forgive her.
- Especially the child.

You are lucky.
We miss it immensely.

Is it her? To me?

- That's just the way it is.
- For your mother, it was a punishment from God.

Punishment of God?

Because of the girl that
Gabrielle long ago renounced.

- Did you know?
- I know her longer than you. Do you remember?

- Right. But she left you.
- Let me go.

You hate her, you hate everyone.

No word about it against
my wife, or I...

It was beautiful.

- Is everything alright?
- The actors asked for you.

They have become so much better.

The woman who plays
Catherine is great.

Busy?

- Full.
- Half full.

After that we drank
hot chocolate.

A woman asked, and
I also wonder:

What does the title Germinal mean?
Actually?

Spring. It is a metaphor...

Sorry, Hortense. Tonight is...

- So you are going to live in Switzerland?
- No way.

You promised that.

We can pay it now. Because Aix...

A trip maybe.
Stay calm, but without the little boy.

How did you come up with that?
Without my son.

Imagine.
No, you can not imagine that.

Keep your mouth shut and go to sleep.
You talk too stupid.

Portraits...
A little while and you, painters...

Do you see my 'milkmaid'?
Vermeer can pack up.

You can count the tiles.

I see the milkmaid, the tiles...

But the artist? Nowhere.

I've knuckled.
Even literally, remember?

But now, those light colors...

those speckles, that
reflection, I'm tired.

- You know, me and the Impressionists...
- And the last Salon:

Wet one pot.
Walls full of washed cloths.

One big obsession:
Square air, plein air.

This is only new.

Have you seen the last Monets?
Dots, vagueness. Fainting.

Do not talk.

So that's the woman who sings all
day without being bothered by it?

Yes, that is Jeanne.
She looks like Pink Hat, is not it?

She is the sun.

She exudes so much zest for life.

So intense.

To become desperate.

Is it that far?

Well.

Then fuck her.

Without guilt.

- Romantic, at your age...
- Ridiculous, yes.

And dangerous.

Your artist commits
suicide for one painting.

I burned daily and start again.

- Not just you.
- You describe us as failures...

who commit suicide because
they make a mess.

It really happened:
Holzapfel when the Salon refused him.

Justly. It was a mess.

Who took you under his wing
when you were rejected?

And you let my son die.

He goes dead on page 375.

And you put me down like a motherfucker
painting the body of his son.

- There is nothing with your son.
- Do you deny it?

The streets, houses, smells, the dreams...

the trees in which we
climbed, the girls we fucked.

Killer. On every page
it is about my death...

and you kick me further into the ground.
Your protagonist is a prutser.

A prutser? Stupid bag.

My Lantier is an idealist.
A great creator.

A real artist.
Do you know why I let it die?

For his excessive ambition,
his destructive egoism.

Therefore. Is that familiar to you?

Is that you? Is that me?
Find it out.

Even impotent in bed.
What do you call that again?

"Secret nightly grief."
You do not mind anything in return.

Sick and hysterical, okay.

But impotent, talentless, failed?
Is that me? Do you see me like that?

There is more to it than some awkward
details based on your demented life.

I have not changed the
name of my house.

I carried this book
with me for 20 years.

And do you know why I did
not write it before?

About you.

If you wanted to wait with your knife in
my back until I had broken through...

then it took a long time, yes.

I am the failure here.

The torment of writing...

my impotence...

my doubts, death on every page.
It's true, Paul.

Lantier commits suicide because
he refuses to cheat with art...

with life.

Yes, he is a hero.

Because he refuses
to write colorless.

To paint.

The emotion of Germinal
I will never feel again.

I can no longer write Nana .

I am powerless.

Mother is dead.
My friends are going to die.

Only a few old enemies
take it for me.

The Académie, bunch of
arrogant pockets...

I am vulgar, obscene.

That word has been haunting
me for a long time.

I'm repeating myself.

I write for the money.

Maybe they are right.

I do not fuck anymore.

It's over with me.

I am madly in love with a
girl who is 27 years younger.

And you...

my brother, my best friend...

you do not see anything, you
do not understand anything.

- Yes.
- You will come back after months.

To give me the death blow.

To insult me.

I do not remember why I used
to care about you so much.

You are heartless, Paul.

That is why you will
never be a great artist.

Just fall dead.

My husband's sister
worked in the big house.

- Are they buying something like this in Paris?
- The big house?

The house of Cézanne's father.
Never mind.

The painter lives and works there.

Beware. Careful.

1000 franc.

Here is another one.

- Will I come up?
- It's fine this way.

- Let me.
- You are too small.

Monsieur Vollard.

- How do you do?
- Good. And you?

This is a study.
These are my son and my mother.

- And? That exhibition?
- Many buyers. Foreigners, Americans.

So he used to poke holes
in your canvases?

- He liked that.
- Is not your wife there?

He was here twenty.

1860.

We were twenty.

I have progressed, have not I?

Forward, at work.

When I was with him recently,
he was talking about you.

He was very affected,
loving even.

- I wanted to see his Cézannes.
- So you had to go to the attic?

Go visit him again.

I do not get much more in Paris.

The plastron begins to come.

He can also come here.
Although, now with that affair...

Would a painting of me
ever come to a museum?

The director of the Nationalgalerie
in Berlin was with me.

- The emperor is horrified by the Impressionists.
- Me too. Did you say that?

Do not move, damn it.

Apples do not move either?

The stupid bag.

I care a lot about Zola.

And from where that... onmin?

There has never been anything wrong.

Waiting staff, reprinting
talk about print runs...

That monumental agency...
As if I was visiting a minister.

So I did not go there anymore. Point.

And then... That book.

Which book?

Paul!

He's there.

In the Beaufort.

- Émile is in Aix.
- Still hoop, Achille. I'm working.

We are not here... But I myself
have always been pro-Dreyfus.

- Good to hear.
- Thanks to you.

- Do you think he is released?
- Mayor...

Let's not talk about that now.

I fled Paris.
Also to relax with Jeanne...

and to show Denise and Jacques
the environment of my youth.

Not true?
We're going to my old school.

- And also to the river, Daddy.
- And the dam that grandpa built.

Yes, agreed.

I assume you are going to have
dinner with your friend Cézanne?

My friend Cézanne...

Does he make it right?
Do you ever see him?

No, he is very alone.
We do not see him very much.

What a rot character.

He had talent.

But it has not become anything.
Eternally sin.

- Denise, are not you eating your sprouts?
- Stop, children.

Denise, daddy is teasing you.

Émile unexpectedly still found happiness
with Jeanne and their two children.

Alexandrine accepted his double life.

Zola has gone down in history because
of his work and his commitment.

In 1902 he died of carbon
monoxide poisoning.

Paul would have been crying for days.

In 1906 Paul died of pneumonia.

Thanks to Ambroise Vollard, he
still made a name for himself.

Matisse said: Cézanne is a
kind of god of painting.

Picasso said: He was our father.

Of the thousand paintings
that Cézanne has made...

there are over 700 in
museums around the world.

Translation: Jolijn Tevel