All language subtitles for Love Rites(1987)-10101

LOVE RITES

This is Nora Nix.

Is that Hugo Arnold?

- The dresses are ready.
- I'll be right over.

You'll love them.

They're all Fortuny models...

and very rare,
I assure you.

Made of the finest silk,

long, accordeon-pleated tunics
that hug the body.

Some are split on the side.

All are decorated
with colorful floral designs.

Plunging necklines front
and back, sleeveless...

- Sleeveless?
...with narrow straps.

To be worn with nothing on
underneath.

- You may have to disinfect them.
- Disinfect them?

Imagine showing
these magnificent gowns

to your selected clientele.

- Is the fabric intact?
- Don't worry...

you can touch it up...

A charming address

which, before the war,

housed what Larbaud roguishly
referred to as

"The Academy of Harlotry".

An address always given
with a sly smile

to prove one's savvy.

How ironic that Hugo Arnold

is unaware that
this famous brothel

was on his street.

In Rome and Venice,

the famous
"Bocca della Verita"

was a stone lion's head

whose mouth received
whispered betrayals.

In Paris, on the other hand,

the subway sewers
have "mouths"

that are no more
than underground entryways.

But the old metropolitan line
has retained

a bit of the mystery
of its founding days...

some 90 years ago.

It would be cowardly,

if not dishonest,
for a red-blooded male

to ignore such an elegant
invitation to debauchery.

Everything happens
too quickly.

Like the ride from the prison
to the guillotine

for aristocrats and their ladies

whose fine necks
were exposed to the blade.

Madam!

May I please
speak to you?

Our platforms are separated

by an impenetrable
electric barrier.

What a pity.

Was it you watching me

as I played at making up my face
in the subway?

My pantomime.

But here, the arched ceiling

can carry our voices perfectly,

offering actor
and spectator

better acoustics than in most
Parisian theaters.

I speak from experience.

Are you an actress?

In a manner of speaking.

I'm often out of work,

but I don't mind.

Do you happen to know
who once said that an actress

was half prostitute
and half poet?

I am loath
to slander the noble poet

whose art delivers us
from darkness.

Thus far, I have been only
a spectator in this play.

My ambition now
is to share the stage with you.

Would you be so kind?

My name
is Hugo Arnold.

Mine is Miriam Gwen.

We need no audience
for what we have in mind.

If no one notices us,
that's just as well...

or too bad.
It makes no difference.

I couldn't agree more.

Still, you surprise me.

Doesn't an actress crave publicity
as a panther does flesh?

And isn't publicity
her very life's blood?

That is correct.

The poet may despise publicity
with all his might,

but the prostitute
avoid it like plague.

The lady of the night blooms
in the shadows

like a pungent
desert flower.

Why did you choose
to sit and wait for me

under a poster proclaiming

the horrible message:
"Everything Must Go"?

Because everything must be
destroyed, laid to waste!

I chose to wait
for you here.

"Everything Must Go".

A fitting title
for our little adventure.

"The Brazen One" might
better describe your person.

Are you Jewish?

More or less.

Enough to qualify
for the ovens,

if that's what you mean.

Think I'd make
a good martyr?

But your name sounds Gaelic.

My mother was an Irish beauty.
It's her name.

My father refused
to give his name to me:

The fruit of a one-night stand.

Did I ever meet him?

I have no idea.

I don't even know
his name.

My mother says he was a man
of many identities.

A businessman?

More like a gangster.

They say he came
to a bad end.

My mother
was fond of drinking.

The bars' neon signs
beckoned to her.

She drank in noisy,
backstreet dives.

She hated
to drink alone.

Then she'd disappear
for a day or two.

She'd come home
happy and tired,

bringing me leftovers
from fancy meals.

When I was 16,
I ran away from home...

and that dismal
seaport town.

Do you ever hear
from your mother?

She never writes. Nor do I.

We see each other
even less.

If one of us had money,
it'd be different.

The poor one would
sponge off the rich.

Think of me
what you will.

I don't fear your scorn.

But if you were a gentleman,

you'd cross the barrier
separating us,

and join me over here.

Use the overpass.

Don't waste a ticket...
you can jump the turnstile

like you did
when you were chasing me.

Here I am.

Here you are.

As I was applying
my makeup...

Using the mirror
you keep in your vanity case...

So you noticed
my vanity!

It's one of the few things
my mother ever gave me.

Bought in an England shop,
though she hated the Brits.

She was full of surprises.

What about you?

So am I.

But my tastes are even more
surprising than hers.

I love the luxury
of living in poverty.

Did you know

that we are not alone
in this subterranean world?

Creatures of all kind
live down here

in vast, empty tunnels
that have never been used.

There are the rats
they try to exterminate

without much success,

as they flee from the metro
into sewers.

Dogs and cats long lost
in the darkness

resurface with blood
in their eyes.

Boa constrictors
and garden snakes...

and even vipers, set loose
by terrorist pranksters.

Not to mention
other creatures...

From the time the subway closes,
after midnight,

till it opens the next day,

this underground menagerie
crawls out of its hiding places.

If you're trying to scare me,
you're wasting your breath.

I've always felt at home
in the metro.

I fear neither rats
nor serpents,

but prefer the latter
for their venomous beauty.

Not long ago,

a colony of crows,
carrion crows,

escaped from the Bastille station.

They must have hatched
from eggs laid by a female

who'd sought refuge
in this oldest

and most tangled
network of tunnels.

- Black birds fleeing the darkness.
- That's right.

They ended up settling

in the lime trees,
lining the Place des Vosges.

The male crows,

in a springtime frenzy,

ravished the pigeons
living there.

And a strange bastard breed
now perches awkwardly

atop the statue of Louis XIII.

Think of what those gentle birds
went through!

How could they stand it?

Quite willingly, it appears.

Enough, Madam!

We will now kiss
with open lips,

and you will surrender
your pink-tipped tongue to me.

My lips are yours.

Press them against mine.
You heard me!

Your wish is my command.

Let's go in.

I always stop by
when I'm in the area.

The architecture of the human body
has been the subject of debate

for centuries but only truly exists
in the symmetrical forms

of a woman's body.

The twin orbs of her breasts
matched by those of her ass.

Isn't entering St Germain-des-Pres
with Miriam like entering her very body?

Or like the promise that we'll soon
be offered a glimpse...

and invited in?

Do you often come here alone?

Alone, yes. Often, no.

Dressed like this?

Sometimes.
Sometimes not.

You remain alone?

Not often.

Do you talk?

No. This is a holy place.

The first move, the first "nibble"
as they say in fishing,

is always timid...

barely perceptible...
as if by accident.

Nothing like your obvious
pick-up in the subway.

Don't you stop them?

No.

I don't move,

I pretend not to notice.

Even when their fingers
become more insistent

and wonder above the knee.

It's a scene
that I play to perfection.

For me, life is a stage.

That's why I find it normal
that "everything must go".

How does the scene end?

After feigning not to notice
his advances,

our heroine walks slowly
out of the church

so that the man has time
to catch up with her.

- Then what?
- Then a new scene begins,

just as compelling as the first.

The stage is set,
if you'd like to see it.

The first scene's decor
was ill-suited to lovemaking.

The stone virgins supporting
the church's vaulted ceiling

are robed in discolored plaster,

evidence of last century's
regrettable restorations.

You forget the frescos
of Hippolyte Flandrin...

A contemporary of Baudelaire.

"The Last Judgment,"
for example.

That moment
when everything must go.

Those fatal words
that united us.

"Abraham's sacrifice."

A murderous tale
with no bloodshed.

Unusual in the Bible.

I wonder if you know
Belli's version of the story?

Isaac, worried as he reached
the mountaintop where his father

had told him they would sacrifice
a large sheep, asked:

"Where is the large sheep?"

And Abraham answered:

"You, my son, are the sheep."

Of course I read Belli,

whose anticlericalism is
the work of rebellious angels.

My learning is much deeper
than you seem to think, Sire.

Then there was Joseph,
who was sold by his brothers.

First, they stripped him
of his coat of many colors.

If they strip you,
you command a higher price.

To sell yourself,
you must also be laid bare.

Or tied up.

I seem to remember
being sold by my brothers.

Like Joseph.

Until I decided to do it myself.

- Do you have any brothers?
- I had two brothers:

Rubin and Benjamin.

Born before me,
of a different father.

I don't know if
they're dead or alive.

I've wiped clean the slate
of my past with acid.

I hate families.

But thinking back,

the acid must've been too weak,

as a memory of my adolescence
comes back to me.

My brothers and I
were playing in the woods.

They grabbed me,

and tore my clothes.

Laughing,
they tied me to a tree.

Then they stroke me,

and took turn raping me

...over and over again,
as I begged them to stop.

Later on,

when we returned to town,
they sold me to rich men...

forcing me to submit
to their every desire.

Life wasn't a stage,
in those days.

That's why I tried to erase
all memories of it.

But some remain.

You could write a book.

It might become a best seller.
The public loves juicy memoirs.

I'm not poor and don't need
to sell my memories.

I wouldn't change my life
for a million dollars.

How commendable!

This holy place is too cold
for your scanty garb.

Come out in the sun
where it's warm.

I'm not as fragile
as you think.

Let's go before
the faithful arrive.

What have you got
against the faithful?

Nothing.

Individually, they're fine.

But I avoid them in flocks,
especially if they're singing.

Same with soldiers.

Vive I'amour!

We failed to create a scandal
at St Germain-des-Pres.

I don't know why.

I thought we played
our parts very well.

I address you as familiarly
as I would a fellow actor.

I have reason to think
that pretty soon

we'll be even more familiar.

I know what you think.
Now, what do you know?

You amaze me!

I can't believe
you're really a whore.

But if you are,
you sure are a pedantic one!

There's an odd assonance

between "pedant"
and "prostitute,"

as in "pedant"
and "pederast."

Even the expression
"cultural exhibition"

has sexual overtones.

Today, everything
hinges on sex.

You sure think about it a lot.

I'd prefer to be having it.

The day is young,
we have plenty of time.

What if I picked up
another man

and screwed him
while you watched?

- I'd kill you!
- Bravo!

But don't forget
that in my little play,

I do the killing,
not my partner.

Let's go to a hotel!

I have a better idea.

Let me take you
to paradise on earth.

Your place?

My friend and mentor
Sarah Sand

has a private boudoir
she lets me borrow

when I entertain men.

Who's Sarah Sand?
Where's she live?

The boudoir is
by no means her home.

When I use the word "boudoir,"
I think you know

what I mean.

Let's go.
I'll get us a cab.

No, we'll walk.

You mustn't know
where we're going.

Avoid looking
at street signs.

I forbid you to do so.

No problem,
I'm nearsighted.

And my mind's
on other things.

It's time we got down
to business.

Walk like a blind man.

Look within,
and forget what is without.

Pretend you're in a trance.

Miriam will soon
share his bed.

For lacking a stage career
where she could

display her beauty in front
of an audience

in dramatic roles,

she makes her living

selling her body to men
who buy her favors

for an unspecified
amount of time

and at a negotiable price.

This is it.

The door's open.

Watch your step.

Once over this threshold,
you're the master of the game,

and I'm your servant,
as decreed by Sarah Sand.

She demands that
I call you "Master" now.

She'd be proud of the way
I've handled you so far.

This is her realm.

We are but actors
performing on her stage.

Her boudoir is at the top
of the stairs,

behind the third door.

Submission is the rule here.

And Sarah Sand's protegees
must not only perform it,

but feel its sting
on their flesh.

How like an actress

to suffer on cue.

Actress, harlot, poet...

a theatrical trio.

Upstairs, Master.

I'll make love to you
as if you were my sister.

If you mean that,
leave your shoes behind.

Your friend invited you
to use her boudoir today.

But if we hadn't met,

if I hadn't kissed your hand,

you'd have paraded your painted
beauty at St Germain,

until you found
a man you fancied...

and taken him
to your pleasure parlor.

That's right.

You forget one thing:

I might have invited
more than one guest.

It's not only ex-jailbirds

and tattooed gentlemen

who notice me
at St Germain-des-Pres.

I'm glad you have
no illusions about us.

What you might find
hard to understand,

is that with you,
or any other man,

my actions are controlled entirely
by the invisible Sarah Sand.

Let the orgy begin.

Act two.

Get up.

Come here.

Come here!

Come here.

Give me your hands.

Turn around.

Who did that?

My butterfly?

Sarah Sand's slave boy.

He's Cambodian.
And mute.

We call him Ping.

When he was taken prisoner
in his country's civil war,

his captors cut out his tongue,
larynx and vocal cords.

Total ablation.

Sarah met him in Marseilles
and fixed him up.

Today he's well,
and her devoted slave.

But he's a sex maniac,
an insatiable brute.

She keeps him in line
by offering him her girls.

He takes them to his garret
and abuses them.

- He's had you?
- Just once...

but he wants me again.

That horrible gaping mouth,
empty of all its organs...

endlessly filling with saliva.

And the outrages
he forces me to commit!

- I'm sorry I brought it up.
- Not at all!

Your story has postponed
the slaking of my desire.

And knowing of your past suffering
excites me even more.

If Ping is mute,
how does he give his orders?

He writes them
on a magic slate.

According to the rules,
you have to be naked

on bended knee
to receive his instructions.

If not, you're tortured.

Sarah knows Ping is cruel,
but humors him anyway.

He always leaves the girls
in pretty bad shape.

- What about you?
- Me?

I play along

and submit passively
to his depravity.

That's a Caligo.
Sarah imports them from Brazil.

They're exquisite.

They feed on flowers
she soaks in sugar water.

That one's a morpho,
also from South America.

He doesn't seem attracted
to my juicy snatch.

Maybe he's jealous?

A word to the wise:

Don't stroll naked

through this exotic paradise.

Sarah also collects reptiles.

Poisonous ones.

In addition to butterflies,
she loves plants.

Her favorite flower

is the fabulous Night Queen
that blooms in the heat of the night.

Its flower opens

with a slow abandon
that reminds me

of childbirth.

At daybreak, the flower
slowly contracts

in post-orgasmic spasms.

A fabulous flower.

Nicely put, for a whore.

Stop talking

and take a look at the cock
that has sprung up for you

like an arrogant mushroom

standing proudly
in the middle of a clearing.

"Dog's phallus"

is the name
of a mushroom

whose smell is as repugnant
as the Night Queen's is sweet.

But it's nothing like
the member you've shown me...

which looks and smells
much more inviting.

Open your mouth.

This way,
I can keep an eye out

for any surprise attacks
by those reptiles.

Luckily, we don't seem
to interest them.

His stiff cock
glides into the hilt.

Once again,
Miriam is subjected

to the rhythmic hammering
of an enormous tool

rammed down her throat.

She is forced to take
that throbbing demon

in an orifice located
just below the brain...

realm of the spirit.

Like a city taken over
by an occupying force

that it comes to admire,

Miriam forgets
her humiliation

and revels
in this familiar pleasure.

With each new thrust,
she offers the intruder

the wet caress
of practiced tongue.

A rush of emotion
fills her soul.

Her heartbeat quickens
in rhythm

with his urgent thrusts.

Sensing his strokes tightening,

she matches her cadence.

You've teased me
long enough, artful wench.

Try as I may,

I can no longer contain
the tide of jism rising in me

that you must now
drink down.

A professional job.

You've licked my cock,
clean as a whistle.

"Carnal knowledge
is a fabric of secrets,"

as someone once said.

They then added,

"But with a single snag,
the fabric unravels."

The ritual is over,

but is there more
yet to come?

She sucks dry
his mighty cock,

which, as it slowly retracts,

she holds in her mouth
like an obedient dog

until her master
removes it himself.

Use me as you will,

but I'm a better actress
than a whore.

Kneeling here, I've just
given my best performance.

For that, I thank you.

That butterfly of yours!

- Won't it fly away?
- It can't.

It's part of me.

It watches the comings
and goings.

- Open up!
- All my doors are wide open.

It's your aim that's off...

like that of a bumbling virgin.

My butterfly's scared
your cock!

What an amusing thought!

To silence her mockery,
he plunges his rigid tongue

into her mouth.

As she lets her tongue
slither around his,

her snatch suddenly yields,

and without further ado,

his cock plunges into the hilt

...right up to his balls.

He keeps stroking
her creamy cunt,

as she submits
to his slow rhythm.

Like a nymph
taken by Jupiter,

she will obey
her master's desires

so as to retain her beauty
and eternal youth,

the most precious gifts
for a demigoddess.

To control his senses

and to tame the volcano
about to erupt in his loins,

Hugo stops.

His manly lava,
forcing its way

up the volcano
about to explode,

finally shoots out.

During those eight
to 10 thrusts,

he revels in the sensation
of the secretion coming out

through his swollen prostate,

to find refuge in Miriam Gwen's
warm, moist insides.

The sensation is different
from the passive pleasure

earlier given by
his submissive beauty.

Feeling especially virile

and not eager to put
an end to his escapade,

he keeps coming and going
inside the gooey receptacle.

For you own sake,
be quiet!

Not a word,
or you're dead!

Isn't it ironic that love making requires a
"hard" member

that tenderness
would render impotent?

The words "tender" and "hard" are thus
ill-suited to the language of love.

An interesting paradox.

His cock stirs

and stiffens inside her.

The feminine orifice
grips him

as if the victim
were trying to help him

enter her again

and perform anew
the love sacrifice.

But to what
unnamed divinity?

Wait here.

Don't move!

No wisecracks!

I should warn you
that this boudoir

is equipped with
cameras and microphones.

Everything
you've done or said

has been recorded
and can be used against you.

My subservience
is history now!

Sarah Sand has
no pity for men

who refuse to relinquish
their male pride.

Once they've served
their purpose,

we throw them out,
sullied and shamed.

But we're not through
with you yet.

This is no act.
I only told you it was

to lure you up here

so we could use you.

With Ping the slave,

you'd be in
for harder times

from start to finish.

Lucky for you,
I'm afraid to call him.

That's right, lover boy,

the worst
is yet to come.

Don't move!

I'm the one
who calls the shots

and changes roles.

Put up your hands.
Higher!

Higher!

Hurry up,
or you'll be sorry!

Rip me apart!

Make me burn!

Your prick is
as limp as a rag,

a flaccid reminder

of its past glory!

That's right, lover boy,

the worst
is yet to come!

Don't move.

I'm the one
who calls the shots.

Hands up!

Higher!

You'd better hurry up!

If you were a nobleman,
I'd treat you even worse!

Black slaves

would strip you naked
and beat you!

You'd tremble
beneath me

like a whipped dog!

Stick out your tongue!

Come on!

Open your mouth!
Do as I say!

You've got no choice!

Get out of here!

Not a word!
Shut up!

Miriam doesn't exist
anymore.

Maybe she never did.

Forget my name!

Get out!

You're a bad actor
who's being fired

for botching his role.

You live only
a semblance of a life.

You're a pitiful
excuse for a man.

I can't even
despise you.

That's a blessing
in disguise.

Get out.

Get out!

I never said
I was an actor.

Let alone a bad one.

That was no act
I put on for you!

I'm just a man...

a simple man.

I was wrong to take you
for an actor.

You're no poet either.

You have no place
in my little game.

Get out while
you still can!

The doors are wide open.

Unless Sarah has locked them,
which I doubt.

Downstairs, turn right
and walk straight ahead.

Go towards the river.

Once there,
you'll be given a new life.

The Seine will wash you
clean of your past

as it has for others.

Get out.

Leave all that.

Ping collect such things,

tokens left in haste
by occupying forces.

He also collects watches.
Hand yours over.

You should've
done so before...

out of respect
for Miriam.

But it was clear
from the start

you were a cad.

A simple man,
you say?

"Vulgar" is more like it!
You're a spiritual cripple!

You'll never know the thrill
of playing life's game

right to the bitter end!

A quick fuck
and a bottle of wine...

that's all you care about!
Now clear out,

before Ping robs you
of more than just your watch.

Namely, your cock!

Go!
I offer you a reprieve.

Go down to the river

and wash yourself clean.

No small task, I admit.

What the future holds
in store

is beyond
your wildest imaginings.

Go back to
your Fortuny gowns

that you prefer to the women
who wore them!

Get out!

You pathetic fool!

Thank you.

I'm Meriem Ben Saada.
Who are you?

Hugo Arnold... I think.

I'm no longer sure.
Where are you from?

A land near
the river Jordan

on whose banks I offered up
my naked body

- to men passing by.
- You were a prostitute?

- Not another one!
- I was forced to obey

my father and brothers.

Besides, I enjoyed
giving men pleasure.

- When was this?
- Too long ago to be certain.

But uncertainty leads us
closer to the truth.

- You're bleeding.
- I almost died.

"It's best to die before dying."

That's what happened.

The water has cleansed you,
body and soul.

The poet Ghazali said,

"I'm a bird, and this body
is my cage."

This is something women
and poets understand.

My wallet, identity papers
and gold watch...

have all vanished
into a mysterious boudoir.

The only vestige
of my former life

is this key.

The key to my apartment.

Watch this!

Your destiny
is in your hands.

Answer "yes" to every question
you'll be asked.

A simple "yes"
will designate you

as the nameless author
of the ultimate crime.

Your life will henceforth
be in the hands of the State.

Such shall be your fate...
and your salvation.

She's dead?

- You killed her?
- That's right, Officer.

Yes.

- With what?
- He stabbed her in the chest.

Yes.

He plunged the knife
in to the hilt.

He killed her.

I saw him do it!

He pulled out a knife

and ripped open her dress.

Lock him up!

Killers like him
should be put away!

It's all over now.

Kill him!

Kill the bastard!