Original subtitles

In 1880, at age 40, Rodin obtained his first state commission

for The Gates of Hell, inspired by Dante's Divine Comedy.

Come, Mademoiselle Camille.

Is there more fire and depth in Dante's poetry?

No...

The fire is there.

I chose his Hell so I could make small nude figures.

I want them to swarm all over the Gates.

See those figures?

The romance of Paolo and Francesca.

I may not leave this Kiss among the damned.

They're far too happy and joyous for that.

Yes.

She represents trust...

in betrayal.

And him?

He's enamoured of her.

And determined.

And impatient.

Seen in profile, your Dante looks like a bird of prey.

Is he satisfied with their suffering?

I don't know.

Ask him.

You're more compassionate than Dante.

Why do you say that?

Because your Gates are closed.

They don't open on to Hell.

Yes, but the Gates represent Hell.

It's as if you were making them without an initial design.

And yet I spent a year drawing them.

But the shapes come to me in clay.

I have so many more figures to create.

So many figures.

I could be a modest presence by your side.

I'm not sure I like modesty in this craft,

but...

always say what you think.

I'll tell you everything.

And help me combat preconceptions.

I will.

Your Gates are not made for the edification of young girls.

Although all that flesh, tormented by desire...

Master,

the models are here.

The other Abruzzesi, Adèle's sister?

- Is she here? - Summoned.

- Yes, but is she here? - She's coming.

- And Pretty Feet, Nice Thighs? - The' rèse Fontaine.

- And is Pretty Redhead here? - Mademoiselle Octavie, yes.

And Pierre Louÿs' model?

Also. But Monsieur Louÿs will be angry.

I don't care.

Shall I show them in?

- Yes, show them in. - Very well.

And tell them I want them crawling around,

I want twisted mouths, clenched fists, heaving breasts,

as if the Devil were about to carry them off.

Your upper belly... ready to rise.

That's it.

Like that. Stop writing to me.

- Yes, but... - No buts.

- You're ravishing, but don't abuse it. - You abuse it!

In the hierarchy of materials, first is gold,

then bronze, then stone,

then wood

and last, clay.

But I've inverted the hierarchy.

For me, clay comes first.

So,

here are my conditions.

My house is open to you.

Come for luncheon,

and you may make drawings like others take notes.

You'll see, that will suffice.

A few brief sessions, Victor?

No I will not pose!

I don't even want to see a pencil!

I got Hugo!

Do you know how?

Juliette Drouet got him to do a short sitting.

Yes, she lured him to the parlour.

But then, how did I go about it?

You managed to wield your compass

above his head without his noticing.

Even better!

I questioned the proportions of the bust David d'Angers made.

I thought he'd kill me.

He rushed over to the bust

and stared at it for a long time.

I seized the moment to measure his head.

Your story doesn't hold water.

And Hugo'd never have let you criticize David d'Angers.

So...

I bribed his favourite maid.

And got my 45 minutes with him.

I think it was Juliette

who got you a short sitting.

And after meals, when he dozes off,

you sneak over and measure him.

That's right. During meals,

Juliette was kind enough never to seat me in the same place.

That way I got all the profiles I needed.

But

how did I get close to the head

of the giant of the century? How?

That will be our little guessing game.

If you agree.

The curricula and teachers are essential.

School and church must be separate. Both stand to gain,

even if the church will need persuading.

You dash around a lot!

So I don't forget what I've just seen.

That's how I learned to work from memory.

What is nobler than educating the people?

And imposing the French language throughout the land

is a fine thing.

Don't think he looks down on you, even if all he says is

"Good evening, Monsieur Rodin.", or "Hello, Monsieur Rodin."

I don't,

and in fact I don't care a whit.

I just want to make a true Victor Hugo.

You seem sad.

Hugo showed me the door.

He made it clear that the bust was finished.

I'm used to it.

With Age of Bronze, I was accused of deception, of having cast from life.

I showed my model's photograph to point out the differences,

but it was no use.

The harm had been done.

It's my fault.

My sculpture has too much life in it.

You mustn't be angry with Hugo.

Mademoiselle Drouet is very ill.

There's something of the tiger in him.

Or a lion.

So it's not a failure,

because Victor Hugo is immensely animalistic.

What are you writing?

That questionnaire the British call "Confessions".

I know it,

but I won't answer.

I'm going to.

My favourite occupation?

I'd say, stone carving.

Doing nothing.

You, do nothing?

If you start by cheating...

If not myself, who would I be?

Joan of Arc. You'd want to be Joan of Arc.

A carriage horse.

I hate how coachmen treat them so badly.

My favourite artist?

Auguste Rodin.

Myself.

True, if I had any sense,

I should have guessed.

What personal fault do you tolerate most?

First a kiss.

Cheat! It was to shut me up!

Go on, answer for me.

Your insatiable appetite for women.

My mad love for Camille, you mean.

My mad love for Camille.

Look.

A snail crawled by here.

See the design it made with its track.

It's so nice.

So light.

I saw Dr Vivier

about my heart.

Did you know about his horse?

The one whose tongue hangs out?

Tuesday a crowd stood making fun.

It got Vivier's goat.

He couldn't get by.

So he took out his scalpel

and cut off the bit of tongue.

You don't say.

I hope it won't ruin your appetite.

For a good bacon omelette and white wine? I doubt it.

Remember the Sonian Forest?

There was a downpour. You shielded me with your umbrella.

Of course.

I'd opened your paint box. You couldn't do it.

You said you were too slow.

Because the sun always painted faster than I did!

And then you went back to Paris.

One day I was thinking about you

and started to hum that song

we always sang together. Remember?

She had a leg made of wood

That she liked to hide if she could

On the end she put a rubber tip so that her leg would grip.

She had a leg made of wood But she was also wearing hose

So actually nobody knew If they didn't feel her shins and toes

Wood, wood, She had a leg made of wood

The best years of our lives were in Brussels.

Rose.

And the damp cloths

on your models, remember?

I learned well, didn't I?

You know,

I was thinking...

If I'd continued to paint,

my painting would have resembled a minor Corot.

Don't you think?

Why ask me?

- Poking fun again? - I'm not.

You know, Rose,

I'm not much better than you.

I'm just a manual worker who learned to read.

You see, Dante...

is like a sculptor,

but he sculpts with words.

Do you see?

You don't see.

"Dear Monsieur Rodin,

The sculpture conveys a sense of endless despair."

"A martyr and a burgher doesn't go to his death like a criminal."

Yet they cut a fine figure.

That may be, but the people of Calais said the opposite.

The chamber of commerce,

lacemakers, ship owners,

even the municipal choir! All have criticized me.

Without exception.

"This is not how we see our glorious citizens

going to the King of England's camp."

"Their cowed attitude offends our religion."

"Eustache with his head bowed looks pathetic."

"He's too weak to carry the rope wrapped around his neck."

"It looks more like it's protecting him from laryngitis."

I must ask Geffroy to write to them to defend me.

My writing is far too sloppy for that.

He'll write that their faces register sadness,

the ineluctable nature of all great works.

"Ineluctable", that's perfect. Jot it down lest we forget.

They have just left the city.

Their proud bearing before the king will come later.

That's why the group looks like it's starting to walk,

like it's moving.

I must tell Geffroy to write about movement as well.

Walk with them.

Walk with them.

The Commission doesn't care about movement.

When they're cast,

they should be seen at eye level.

- Or higher. - Higher?

If only they'd let me work with my heart,

which yearns to make a masterpiece.

Your Burghers of Calais are fine-looking.

Monsieur Rodin?

That's Estager.

Is your Balzac from southern France?

You won't make fun when you see my chap.

Does he write, too?

He's a draft horse driver.

I need Balzac's physique.

I couldn't keep working from copies of portraits.

And he was born here in Touraine.

So it was here I'd find him.

Strip to the waist.

You've already made all these figures?

Look. All these, too.

You work incredibly fast.

But I still don't have my Balzac.

And as long as I don't, I don't.

Take your place.

- Where does the basin go? - Here.

Stand in profile.

The other profile.

Face me.

Isn't my bathing costume pretty?

Yes,

but not as pretty as you.

You're sweet to have bought it,

since I asked for one.

It certainly amused the salesgirls.

You make me do inconceivable things!

I wish I could have been there.

Tonight, if you've done a good day's work...

Come I me!

Kiss you again?

My mother never kissed me, but you never stop.

- If you touch me, I'll scream. - Really?

Come here and kiss me now!

Kiss me now!

Kiss me now!

My dear stubborn one,

You've even stopped coming to the studio.

Where were you the other night?

I looked everywhere.

Running away again?

Camille...

When you run away, I can't work.

Do you know why I run away?

Yes.

Because you're an evil goddess.

Or because you want a notarized contract

in which I declare you my only pupil.

That's not enough and you know it.

I'll take you to Italy, I promise.

And we'll live together

and after, I'll marry you.

Will that do?

I love you furiously, Camille.

A contract.

Write it down and sign it, now.

Come on!

We'll start again. Write:

1) Sole or exclusive pupil, as you wish.

Though you'll never find another artist with my talent.

2) Introduce me to everyone you know.

3) Solemnly promise to take me to Italy.

4) "And after", as you say, "you'll marry me",

In short, a marriage promise. Write "marriage promise".

Marriage promise.

- There. - And 5)

don't forget to swear to be faithful.

There.

It's signed.

Faithful doesn't take a double "I".

I see where your problem is.

Another thing:

you'll gladly give me a marble figurine, "if Miss Camille accepts!"

I'll add that by hand.

You just embellished my Thought.

And you may visit me four times a month.

Outside the contract, it's not valid.

I know you won't honour any of it.

Your servant Rose is far too convenient.

As you say, no risk of tyranny.

You're mistaken.

As you love me furiously, put that fury in the contract!

Thank you.

Higher? Lower?

Higher.

There.

Plaster.

Put some here.

- Here. - I'm holding it.

Take it down.

Take it.

He's coming to life.

Soon you'll know BalZac as well as if you'd spent years with him.

Will I know you soon?

Make a dent in his forehead,

emphasize his pout and it'll work.

I'll leave his face in peace now

and start work on his body.

With his big belly.

Monet!

Rodin.

Hello, Paul.

Do you know you have fine rejections in common?

Three by the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.

But C 'ezanne was only turned down twice.

The teachers are all eunuchs

and jackasses. They have no guts.

I don't know if they're jackasses.

But you're right, you learn nothing there,

not how to model, nothing about light.

Your bronze in my studio

is so alive.

How do you explain that their ideas have no flesh to them?

C'ezanne!

C'ezanne!

When I was 40, I was no one.

My Man with the Broken Nose, rejected.

My Saint Jean, rejected.

Projects for monuments... All rejected "with regrets!"

So a word of advice, Cézanne:

Don't listen to anyone.

Get back to work.

We only find beauty by working.

Without it, we're doomed.

Stand up.

Stand up.

Forgive me. I'm a bit shaky these days.

Gentlemen,

come to the table. Clemenceau will join us later.

When I tell people I shook your hand...

You helped me understand light,

clouds,

and the cathedrals I'm so fond of.

That's exquisite, Monet. Exquisite!

It's like real flesh.

Look at those little ripples.

So light.

Scarcely visible.

How splendid!

Touch it.

Can you feel?

Tiny little shudders, little bumps...

That's what brings this marble to life.

All those fine little dimples.

As if kneaded by caresses and kisses.

Only the Greeks had that adoration for the human body.

I'd like to make you an offer.

Don't take it the wrong way.

Your lovely Young Girl with a Sheaf...

- I'd like to use her... - For a different version?

Not at all.

I don't intend to change the position of her arms

or her legs...

You flatter me.

Take her, but she mustn't leave your studio.

Remember our contract?

"You will gladly give me a marble figurine,

if Mademoiselle Camille accepts."

Remember?

You're right.

So,

do you accept?

Let's say it would be a kind of tribute.

From teacher to pupil.

You haven't been a pupil for ages!

I want to try out an idea.

I want to make your young girl emerge from a rock.

And then, who knows?

She might reach out to my young girl...

She'd have to like your young girl.

And if she doesn't?

She'll reach out and smash her skull.

You will be my best pupil.

Ask my advice if you run into problems.

Can you feel that I can't wait?

Camille...

You fled to England for months.

I'm weeping.

And you don't believe I'm suffering.

Nothing moves or enthralls me.

Have mercy.

Have mercy, my sweet.

It's good night prevents you from working.

Yes.

But my Danaid also haunts me at night.

Like you, she seems exhausted.

I know, but what else can I do?

This back has to shiver and shake.

I must bring it to life.

It's flesh,

and you know one is never done with flesh.

Still, when I show up at dawn she's glad to see me.

Forgive me, Jessie

for hounding you in England with my letters.

Camille wouldn't reply.

At least now you have news of her through me.

When she found out, I almost faced the firing squad.

I wanted to join her, but she said no.

I was in total despair.

Did you know she gives sculpture lessons?

And do you know how she stole my pupils?

She said she'd give lessons

that are as good as Monsieur Rodin's and cheaper!

She told them that?

Thank you, Jessie.

Now let's get to work.

Not answering?

Why did you flee to England for so long?

As I wrote long ago:

"You're a good and honest man, and you do fine work."

Otherwise, you're like your brother Paul.

Always lording it over everyone.

I know, I'm a real pest.

Paul must have had enough

of going to fetch you clay.

Like the rest of the family.

"Fetch some clay! Camille needs it for her work!"

At 16, I was already a real tyrant.

Remember when we were at Islette?

You'd doze off with your mouth on my breast.

We played games with all the figures of the Gates.

Are the games over?

I hope not.

We were fine sculptors.

You were a joyful exclamation mark.

And now?

Now I'm a question mark written in a child's shaky hand.

How can you keep going on that?

I'm sure I still can.

I'm moving back to Villa Payen.

Will you come see me?

The inspector from Beaux-Arts wants them dressed.

What does it matter?

Just drape them.

You'll do it beautifully.

He said the closeness of the sexes

exaggerates the nudity of the human details.

So he banned them from public display.

The perspiration I imagine on the woman's buttocks

will make her all the more desirable.

They didn't bother you about your Kiss.

But never could they accept a nude figure made by a woman.

You won't leave Rose, so why keep seeing one another?

I didn't marry Rose

and I never acknowledged her child.

But you'll never leave her.

She waits quietly for you at home. Why would you leave her?

Well?

I don't know.

Come see my Waltz.

That imbalance is magnificent.

The woman's abandon...

And him,

how he breathes her in!

How I've had them spin and spin!

Again and again...

As if I danced with them.

Where are my dancers heading?

To love?

Or to death?

What are the three beats of a waltz?

Embrace.

Vertigo.

Passion.

The approach.

Torment.

Death.

Those two are exquisite.

As if they were trying to hold back time.

They certainly whirl around!

Camille.

Camille.

You don't even know how to dance.

- Do you want me to hum a waltz? - Yes.

I want to breathe you in.

So your train was on time after all?

When I told the driver you were waiting, he beat his record.

Grubby hands off! The Châtelaine might be watching!

Let her watch!

Come here.

It'll do her good.

Let her watch.

And you say you were shy as a boy?

Success has made you bold.

You were born to remain quiet. But you said it better.

Excuse me?

Say that again, articulating

more clearly!

"Mouth!"

"Shut!" "Mouth shut!"

You were born to keep your mouth shut!

- Mouths aren't for chattering. - So I chatter now?

I'm just saying

I want to see our new bedroom!

Come on. Come!

"My dear little Rose,

"Keep writing to me in Tours, poste restante."

"Don't be bored,

and please, look after yourself."

"You know I think of you,

who are so obedient when you choose

and when you want to make me happy."

"I'm working

and I'll be here a while yet."

"I send you a kiss of great endearment,

your true friend."

"Your true friend"?

Monsieur Rodin,

Monsieur Rodin, have you married?

Has Monsieur Rodin married his Claudel?

Will the announcement...

be in the next letter?

I won't even answer you.

Poste restante!

So your mind is made up?

Absolutely.

It's decided.

Are you ready?

How could she work with a child on her hands?

And I already have a child.

It's too complicated. His mother takes care only of me.

And Camille wouldn't manage either.

What would become of him?

We'd have to hide him

or foster him so her family wouldn't know.

- Take me to her. - She'll say she's punished.

She'll say she doesn't want it, then that she does.

She knows we both agree.

Nothing must happen to her.

Nothing must happen to her.

Madame Courcelles will take you.

This time I've got you...

If only you'd accept your body.

Zola obtained this commission for me,

but he has no right to badger me.

I'll finish you when I can.

Then I'll put you on a plinth.

To gaze at you as you dominate us,

us and all the lowly beings in your way.

May I say what I think?

You've reduced Balzac to a shapeless mass.

It can't be called satisfactory from an artistic standpoint.

It's indescribable.

Monsieur Rodin, sorry to be so blunt, but it's very unsightly.

Good. I'm not trying to please.

Pardon me?

I'm not trying to please.

All I want is to be truthful.

Are you truthful with an ogre like this?

We want a young and slim Balzac.

Look at the bust by David d'Angers on his grave.

Then you'll understand.

And why inflate his testicles?

BalZac was a great author, known for his magnificent works,

and not for his genitals.

He'll need a neck too.

Dress the next version

and above all, consult us.

My dear Rodin, your work is overdue

and you seem to be on the wrong track.

Why not say you wanted him holding a quill and inkwell?

I can do inkwells.

Goodbye, gentlemen.

Monsieur Rodin...

The committee was here.

They were outraged, I'm told.

They want a less paunchy Balzac, of course.

That cut there

looks like a caesarean.

He has 2,500 characters in his gut, remember.

They have to get out somehow.

It's odd all the same.

No one will see it once he's clothed.

You're not the first, Claudel, or the last!

You housekeeper!

My man's an ogre.

He fucks you? So what?

The bed of iniquity!

Of course.

Get the hell out!

Go back to your kitchen!

Get out!

- You'll get nothing! - Out!

- Nothing. Understand? - Out!

Get the hell out!

- Think he'll marry you? - Get out!

- Recognize your brats? - Get out!

- You'll get nothing. - Go away!

- Not a thing. - Get out, you shrew!

- Nothing. - Out!

You'll get nothing.

Still muttering about the children.

No.

First one, then four.

Now only two... What's going on?

I can't follow you.

Where are they? Who looks after them?

You should know!

Imagine whatever nonsense you please.

But keep it to yourself when I'm around!

You recognized them.

Not like our boy.

- Your Auguste Beuret... - Yours!

Who signs his pathetic sketches with my name

and sells them!

What a son!

Idle gossip!

If what you say were true...

the mother

would be my wife now.

And the whole brood would bear my name.

And let me tell you...

I'd be glad.

I'd be glad!

I wanted to see you.

Your Rose came to pick a fight.

If that shrew comes back, it's over.

Paul is taking his position in New York.

The beloved brother abandons the sister you dishonoured.

Here...

I amused myself drawing you.

I think you come across well.

Stuck together!

You really can't get free.

You clung to the tree,

but you were still stuck.

This same blackness to sully our love affair...

I'm going for a walk.

Take the drawing for your old hag!

You're the first sculptor

to lend such importance to women and their sexuality.

With you, they're no longer tamed animals.

Such a pretty head. You can't decapitate her.

You still believe the face mirrors our feelings.

Here.

But a well-made torso,

when truly accomplished,

contains life in its entirety.

Come with me.

You see...

For me, it lacks nothing.

It represents Meditation.

That's why it has no arms or legs.

But if a work does not have four limbs and ten fingers,

it's considered unfinished.

Do you perfect a tree?

And are cathedrals finished?

Michelangelo's finest works...

are the "unfinished" ones.

So you see...

Forgive me, I must leave you now.

You don't come to the studio.

No.

You're working for yourself.

I don't begrudge you that.

Do you remember our contract?

What's left of it?

"Introducing me to your contacts" was point 2.

I did that, Camille.

I introduced you to them.

I still do and I'll keep doing it.

As your pupil.

Not as my pupil.

Not one article

about me that doesn't mention you. I'm stuck.

Stuck to you like glue!

And your promise to take me to Italy?

We went to Touraine instead.

And your promise to marry me after Italy...

Remember that?

You're so spiteful, Camille.

And do you know why?

You're not recognized for your worth

and you can't abide that.

Where as I am lucky enough to be.

It's unfair, that's true.

But it harms our relationship.

I work hard.

I hardly ever show anymore.

I sell virtually nothing.

What should I surmise?

That I cause all your misfortune.

Does that suit you?

It's always the same with you.

It's a roller coaster, up and down,

heading down ever faster now.

It may be tumbling faster on my side, but it rises ever more slowly for you.

You came for a romp.

Enough, Camille!

Bring me plaster!

They all want to see me finish.

But I can't stop my Balzac.

Seven years of thought and work.

Well, Pompom...

do you like him that way?

You've nailed it.

Buy me five dressing gowns.

We'll try them out...

and I'll choose my final model.

It's so humiliating

that people keep asking for my bust of you!

Is that my fault?

What can I do?

The bust is an excuse.

You thrive on conflict!

Our child was a conflict?

You wanted it?

No.

Just like you. We agreed.

I know what you'll say.

"I live for sculpture, so do you. It's our life."

Yes, our children emerge from clay

to become children of marble. This is our life!

I shared everything with you.

We grappled with intimacy like no one before.

As artists, we're a masterpiece, but we're pathetic human beings.

What I make from now on won't be Rodin.

Do as you wish, Camille.

This pride and these fits of yours...

completely throw me.

A fall on your arse will do you good!

Remember the future St Paul,

thrown off his horse?

He heard Christ saying,

"Paul, why do you persecute me"?

I persecute you now?

You won't suck me dry anymore.

Never again.

I love you as Camille, but as Claudel, I hate you.

- I don't care. - You scare me.

I don't care.

You don't need me anymore.

Finally.

Finally, you've said it!

Mademoiselle Claudel says, "Goodbye, Monsieur Rodin!"

Goodbye, Monsieur Rodin!

When we were together,

you modelled for me three times.

After we parted,

your face has featured five times in my work.

I don't accuse you of persecuting me.

Far from it.

Leave the chin pressed down.

Very good, master.

I must leave foul Paris.

I'll move to the country...

to forget my misfortunes

and work beneath the sky

with my tribe of statues.

Meudon Near Paris

Auguste!

You said "Papa" at lunch again.

It's "Master" or "Monsieur Rodin", as for your mother and others.

She calls you "old girl".

That's between Madame Rodin and me. Just do as I say.

You dropped a button.

I know I did.

Buttons roll.

It amuses you.

Why so grumpy, kitten?

You should find help.

I don't need anyone.

Do you want to hire a maid now?

- Stop! - To seduce her.

We won't hire anyone!

There. Happy now?

Being here...

Does it please you at least?

You know I like living in the country.

So smile then.

Let me sew the button on.

Let me sew it on.

- Where's your needle? - There.

I'll call you Farewell.

I like you.

Only natural as Camille was your model.

With your fingers before your lips...

Do you want to tell me something?

Is it "lips sealed" forever?

Or do you want to stop me from touching your lips?

Good night, Camille.

Wherever you are.

Master!

I was at the Salon.

Everyone returns to your Balzac.

Yes.

Only to attack it.

But they return to it.

I've heard it all. "A rampant polar bear"...

"A ghastly plaster nightmare"...

That's what people are saying.

I'm the Michelangelo of the goitre.

Master,

I heard people say you should wait ten years before showing your work.

Maybe one day, no one will understand me at all.

Despite my progress.

Your Balzac deserves the finest square in Paris!

They predicted a triumph.

But when the President stopped at The Kiss and then ignored my Balzac,

I realized it was hopeless.

Now the Literary Society...

is protesting against this "study by Monsieur Rodin"!

Monsieur Monet said you've never gone so far...

It's a terrible defeat anyway.

And yet I know I'm right.

- Am I right? - Yes.

Notre Dame rises to the sky despite dogs pissing at its feet.

Do you want the Catholic newspaper's opinion?

I read it.

Personally, I quite like it.

"Take Zola, take Rodin. Base literature, base sculpture."

That's not all.

"Neither one is of French origin."

They're calling you a half-breed.

It's not true.

Rodin is a Christian name from the Middle Ages.

It's totally untrue.

You could be Prussian for all I care.

You're inflexible when creating,

but, away from your work, to put up a fight,

you're incredibly timid.

It's easy for you, Mirbeau.

You're the polemicist everyone fears.

Yes.

There are fights to be fought.

You and Monet are like gods for me.

It's true

your Balzac revolts the general public,

along with the conformist critics

of the damned press. So what?

You should be delighted.

It's the century's last scandal, after Manet and Courbet.

You don't realize.

Your Balzac is a complete work of art.

Compared to it, other sculptures

look like hairdresser's dummies.

Your friends have launched a subscription

to erect the statue on a Paris square.

Bourdelle, Maillol, Toulouse-Lautrec,

Gauguin, Renoir, Monet, Cézanne, Sisley,

and even Debussy, Mallarmé, Valéry, Gide... and others.

You're in wonderful company.

It terrifies me, Mirbeau.

It terrifies me.

Rodin,

stop disappointing your friends.

I'll move the statue to my home.

It's the only thing I trust.

Since my Balzac, I've become a different man.

He's my beloved child, forever and ever.

Bourdelle was right.

I was wise to take you as a pupil.

I didn't know I'd learn other things here.

I'd never quivered like that before.

I'd like to start your bust today.

No, master.

My naked body is only for you.

This studio is always busy. I'm not

a model "drawn by day and cuddled by night" as Zola says.

I'd like you to love me a little.

I was a slave to feelings for so long.

Now I want my freedom.

Look...

Do you see how she balances?

If I were a great sculptor,

she would fly even more

and her toes wouldn't touch the ground.

Bourdelle says you embody sculpture.

- He does? - Yes.

- Bourdelle says that? - Yes.

Run and get dressed.

They'll soon be here.

- You'll come to see me? - Thursday.

I'll come on Thursday.

Carry on, Hilda, carry on.

So I catch you stealing my model...

Mary,

weren't you Whistler's pupil?

Yes, like my brother.

I ask because London wants me to do a monument to him.

I have an idea for a muse for the statue.

Would you be that muse?

Yes.

Are you still coming to see me tonight?

Why else am I here?

I imagined you on top of me last night

and your thing was inside me,

that it was there, rather than my finger,

and it gave me such pleasure.

It sent shivers all down my legs.

Kiss me.

Hilda, you know Carpeaux's Dance?

Do you know it, Mary?

Yes, it's that pretty sculpture on the Opera House façade.

It's like a farandole of women.

- Naked women. - Yes, naked women

around a young man.

If you'll allow me to be an aging young man,

we could pay tribute to Carpeaux.

It took me three years to get over that affair, Blot.

I felt like doing nothing,

as if my brain were gone.

Now, I can finally sleep and work.

Tell me what I can do for her, then leave me.

Camille believes you're plagiarizing her.

That's absurd.

I don't see her anymore.

Neither her, nor her work.

She just wrote to say she found my Balzac beautiful.

That's the only news I've had.

She blames you for everything.

And with such fierce hatred.

"Rodin comes to my window,

climbs on a chair and watches what I do."

Like this?

Master, please...

Get down.

Let me spy on her.

It's what she wants.

I have no more authority over her.

Pay Pompom's bill for her.

I'll remain her anonymous benefactor

to pay her expenses.

I'll write to the ministry

to obtain the marble she needs.

I don't intend to terminate her lease.

As for the Salon,

she can send one of her pieces

and I'll withdraw mine.

If a journalist takes an interest in my work...

send him to her instead.

I came to tell you she's not at all well.

Her effort not to make sculpture like Rodin will consume her.

She no longer needs me.

Isn't that what she wanted?

Leave me now.

And never come back, Blot.

Here, Rilke...

From my last visit.

A colossus...

Your Balzac will be as mighty as your cathedrals.

Look at the damned cast into the inferno

and the angels all around

imposing order.

See that one,

poking his tongue out at the angel...

and his neighbour insulting his.

What a wonder!

Each of them waits to be cast down.

Without the jostling

and confusion of your Gates'figures.

This is Joseph.

On his pedestal.

Potiphar's wife...

Look at how she listens so attentively

to the demon of temptation.

And that dragon.

Look at the movement,

the forms...

When Joseph rejected her advances,

she had him thrown in jail.

And Joseph didn't give in?

Fancy that!

Rilke...

This stony solitude can express so much.

And for centuries now,

they've been viewed as the work of barbarians.

Not one Rousseau,

not one Chateaubriand, no one!

No writer to defend them.

Ever.

Is this where you learned sculpture?

Yes.

By looking at trees too.

And by watching how clouds form.

Beautiful clouds drifting across the sky.

Peasant girls have firm flesh.

That's what you'd say

when I posed for you.

I was too slow at first.

Yes, I was too slow at first.

I wanted to get it right, without messing you up.

I didn't want to mess you up.

You were damn pretty.

- So sensual. - You were!

You were so sensual.

So sensual.

- Know what Dionysus said? - No.

Young women are beautiful

and mature women even more so.

Is that true?

Shall I show you?

- Shall I show you? - Yes.

What sensual women are like?

Yes!

Last time I saw you, we made a bust.

I need to draw your body, Hanako.

Your body's tension interests me. You understand?

I can't understand you.

Look.

Look.

Come with me.

Come here.

You see?

She's hidden. We see nothing.

Come over here.

I need you to take off...

You must take this off.

Won't your Chink pose naked?

She will.

Your rice-eating ways don't impress us.

A nude strips!

- Strip, understand? - Get out!

Rose, get out!

Strip!

Where is she?

Hanako...

Raise your leg a little.

Higher.

Higher.

Just a little higher.

Your arm.

There. Lower. Lower.

A bit lower.

There.

Hanako...

Your head.

A bit more.

You're like a fox terrier.

You have the wiry muscles of a fox terrier.

Rose...

Send that doll to Rilke's daughter.

I'm not giving Yoyote away.

I didn't bring it for you to carry it around all day.

At your age, it's ridiculous.

Ridiculous.

How long have you had it?

How long have you kept it?

Five years.

I want you to send it to Rilke's daughter, all right?

- Give me strength... - Just send it!

Do as I say. Send it or I'll smash it!

My obsession with my work makes me uncouth.

I'm too harsh with you, Rose.

You know, Rose...

God gave me a fine gift by sending you to me.

Take those words...

and please keep them in your heart.

Exhibition of works by Camille Claudel - Camille Pissarro

- It's freezing. - Yes, it is.

Hello, Rodin.

Make suggestions.

Something new.

I used to dictate the poses.

But I no longer make that mistake.

If I look down for a second,

the connection is broken.

My hands have to feel what my eyes see at that moment

or it's hopeless.

Matisse came to show me his drawings.

- Mr Matisse is nice. - Yes, very nice.

I said I found them a bit too polished.

And then...

he told people to beware of the old lion.

Well, you do have big teeth.

Get too close and he'll devour you.

All the better to eat us with.

I think evening gives the best results.

No, Steichen, night.

With a full moon.

He's going to like the moonlight.

I think it will require exposures of thirty minutes to two hours.

Unheard of!

I hope they never shut him in a museum.

He's going to need air.

Show him your camera,

so he can see that he'll travel.

Step closer.

Did you see?

That little shudder of joy?

Subtitles: Cynthia Schoch and Ian Burley