All language subtitles for Daliland.2022.1080p.WEB-DL.DD5.1.H.264

And now, let's
meet our first contestant.

Will you come in and sign in,
please?

All right.

Now with that, let's begin
the general questioning

with Arlene Francis.

Are you associated
with any of the arts?

Yes.

Would you ever
have been seen on television?

Yes.

Are you a performer?

Yes.

Would you be
considered a leading man?

Yes.

I think the last answer

is misleading, and we could not
accurately describe our guest

- as a leading man.
- He's a misleading man.

Do you have anything
to do with...

sports or any form
of athletic endeavor?

Yes.

No, I think
it would be too misleading

to suggest that our guest had a
basic affiliation with sports.

Do you use
anything in your hands

for your job?

Like a pencil or a typewriter
or anything like that?

- Yes.
- Oh,

would you be considered
a writer?

- Yes.
- Yes.

There's nothing
this man doesn't do.

Have you had...
I'm terribly lost.

- Does he write humorously?
- Do you write humorously?

Yes and no.

Oh.

Um...

Does he ever do
any drawing like comic strips?

Yes.

Yes?

Is there something
quite unusual about our guest?

Because everything that
he does,

the audience laughs about.

You are a human being?

Very much so, Bennett.

- Very much so.
- Yeah.

He's still maintaining
that he's a performer?

Well, yes, in the degree
that he was asked

if he had anything
to do with the arts

and then was asked
if he was a performer.

Oh! Ask if he could use
his mustache to paint.

Oh!

Uh, have you a, uh, a mustache
that is rather well known?

In fact, could you be almost
caricatured just by that?

- Yes.
- Oh, well thank you, Arlene.

Are you Salvador Dalí?

Salvador Dalí is right!

Salvador Dalí
on the 1950s game show,

What's My Line?

The world's most famous
living artist

has been gravely injured
in a fire at his home.

Dalí is now
in critical condition

in hospital in Figueres, Spain.

And Catalonia.

Yes, Gala. Yes, I understand.

You need the money now, but...

No, no, that was not
what we agreed in the contract.

But I can't come
with it now myself. I have...

Bring it now,
you understand?

Yes, Gala.

- Yes.
- You owe money.

Dalí's money. Bring it!

You bring money!

This is your first time,

so this is very, very important.

You are going
to the St. Regis Hotel.

Salvador Dalí and his wife

spend every winter there.

He is a man of rituals.

Always the same suite, 1610.

For 20 years, that has been
his home in New York.

Thank you.

Are you here for Gala?

How did you know?

They weren't supposed
to send anybody until tomorrow.

- I'm sorry?
- You're going to have to...

zhuzh yourself up a bit.

I work at Dufresne,
I have a package for Gala Dalí.

Oh, you're from Dufresne.
Forgive me.

I'm Captain Peter Moore.
I'm Dalí's secretary.

James.

- Hi.
- James Linton.

I can take this if you want.

Christoffe said
I had to give it to Gala, so...

Very well.

How long have you been
at Dufresne?

Just a few months.

What's your experience?

None, really.
I was at art school.

- I... I dropped out.
- Oh, why?

I realized I'm not an artist.
I just love art.

Well, someone has to.

Well, James,

welcome to Dalí land.

Wait here.

Well, Dalí,
we all know you're a genius.

Are you comparing yourself
to God?

No, no.
I do not compare myself to God.

Dalí is almost God.

Almost?

Not quite.

If Dalí was God,
there would be no Dalí.

That would be a tragedy.

At least when you die,

you get to see
if God looks like you.

Death.

It frightens me most,

and this is the basis
of my inspiration,

of my creativity.

Every moment,
death watches to catch me.

And every five minutes
death no catch me,

I enjoy it tremendous.

I take some Vichy water,

you bring me some tea,
a little bread or something,

everything becoming
one tremendous pleasure

because... death surround me.

And because death is so close,

it's possible make erotic
every single piece of my life.

You see? Hmm. I see. Do you see?

Who are you?

I'm James Linton from Dufresne.

Christoffe is coming
to dinner tomorrow.

He will bring you.

He will?

You tell him.

It's important
you can tell the difference

between an offset print
and a lithograph.

Marks from a hand lithograph

will show a random dot pattern

created by the tooth
of the surface it's drawn on.

The detail, every stroke.

Amazing.

But prints made
from an offset press

have a mechanical dot pattern.

All the dots in the drawing,
see?

A sure sign
it's not an original.

- So, this is a fake?
- No, no.

It's fine,

unless someone tries
to sell it as a lithograph.

And that's fraud.

Exactly.

You know, you really don't need
to be at this dinner tonight.

I don't know
why Gala invited me.

You are a beautiful boy.

And she has the libido
of an electric eel.

Really?

Yeah.

Back in the '30s, in Paris,

she was quite the sex siren.

The surrealist femme fatale.

The great muse.

Take this home.

But really, all you need to know
is Gala is the power.

She does the deals
and handles the money.

Always cash.

If she makes a pass at you,
turn her down nicely.

Whatever you do,
you must not insult her.

- No, I won't.
- I know.

Because if you do, you are out.

No, no,
Dalí does not want spinach.

Dalí abhors spinach.

Dalí can only eat food
with well-defined shapes

that the mind can clearly grasp,
like oysters.

Dalí needs money.

Then Dalí
better start painting more.

There isn't enough
to fill the gallery,

and we open in three weeks.

Dalí paint every day.

You give us money,
we give you paintings.

Christ.

You enjoy this?

Yeah.

Christoffe is an idiot,
but always, I work with fools.

But you...

you have a mind.

I see.

Oh, um, thank you.

You just begin work

for Dalí's gallery?

- Just a... a few months.
- Good.

We won't let Christoffe
ruin you.

- Tanqueray martini.
- Amanda.

Amanda,

mon ange.

Mwah, mwah.

Come, sit. Sit.

That's Amanda Lear,

his new muse.

The rumor is
when he first met her,

she was performing
at a drag club in Paris.

And she was a he.

- But not for long.
- Dalí,

what are you working on now?

At last, someone asks.
I will tell you.

The world's largest penis.

- Really?
- Yes.

There is a universal fixation
on penis length.

No mortal penis can hope
to live up to this expectation.

Therefore, I, Dalí,
will build the ultimate penis

to relieve the world
of its anxiety.

And how will Dalí
make his penis?

Dalí's penis will be constructed
of pink nylon mesh.

It will have a diameter
of approximately two meters.

You will be encouraged
to stand inside it.

And how long
will Dalí's penis be?

It will circle the planet.

And how will
your penis cross the ocean?

Like telephone cables
on the floor of the ocean.

And when the penis,
it is finished,

it will ejaculate
over the United Nations.

My contribution to world peace.

Mais qu'est-ce que tu...

No, no, no.

He's autographing it.

They never cash the check.

Are you here for Gala?

Why does everyone
seem to think that?

This face maybe?

I... I work at Dalí's gallery,
actually.

But that's not why you're here.

If you're not here for Gala,
then you must be here for Dalí.

There's always a reason.

What's your reason then?

Oh, I'm like Dalí's jewelry.

Something pretty.

Nice to wear at parties.

There she is.

Come on, darling.
The ship is leaving.

Okay, sure.

Goodnight.

I'm coming.

- Did you see this?
- He did that now?

Yeah, right in front of me.

- Just before he signed.
- Wow.

Is this some
little conceptual art piece?

Maybe you should
be working downtown.

So, the whole idea
of a signature

is that it should identify
an artist definitively. Right?

- Uh, yeah.
- But Dalí...

has a few dozen signatures.

Why?
What does that say about him?

My dear boy, Dalí adores,

as he calls it,
"to cretinize the world."

- Cretinize?
- Yeah.

He wants to confuse,

to obfuscate,
to fuck with people.

Or... to show people
that nothing is what it seems.

Including himself.

Well, we're off to lunch...

...but first, Gala wants to see

how you plan
to hang the new works.

Right.

But we can expect more prints
and paintings this week?

- Yes, yes, yes, yes.
- Show me the room.

How do you plan
to hang the show?

Here, follow me.

"It's our pleasure
to serve you."

This is a beautiful blue.

Blue is the color of oxygen.

- Excuse me, Señor Dalí.
- Hmm.

- This is for you.
- Hmm.

What is this?

All these, "Dalí, Dalí, Dalí"?

I made it for you.

I'm so sorry, Dalí. Dalí.
My new assistant,

he's a fan.
Don't let him bother you.

I saw
that they were all different...

as if each one
was a new version of you,

as if you became a new person
each time you painted.

You have a face of an angel.

I do?

Not boy, not girl.

Are you Raphael?

No!

You are San Sebastian,

by Gustave Moreau.

Dalí can keep this,
San Sebastian?

Yeah.

I need a new assistant.

I will borrow this boy
until the show,

then you have him back.

Please let me do this,
Christoffe.

One of the great artists
of the twentieth century

wants me to work with him.

Oh, look at you.
No one works with Dalí.

- They work for him.
- Christoffe.

Come on, just think about this,
okay?

I mean, I will... I will do
overtime later, all right?

Look, I'll work free for a week.
Two weeks, whatever.

I will make it up
to you somehow, I promise.

All right.

Gala has committed him
to too many contracts

that have nothing
to do with the show

and now he's exhausted.

But we open in three weeks,

and I still have a whole wall
to fill with paintings.

So, here's the deal.

You are going
to keep an eye on him,

and tell me everything,

and make sure he paints.

He gets so sidetracked
by his holograms...

- his parties and orgies.
- Orgies?

Not part of the job.

Come.

Bring it here.

The Queen of Cups...

- I'll just leave this here.
- Wait, wait.

Page of Cups.

Open it.

Sit down.

I'm sorry,
I don't... I don't think I'm...

I just... I just...
I don't, um...

I have a lot of errands
and things, so, um...

Idiot!

Go.

Go work for Dalí.

Stop, stop, stop! Too much!

Gala!

I could find her if you'd like.

Galushka!

Gala!

Help.

Idiot. You don't learn?

One part linseed, one varnish,
three paint.

What do you see?

There's more energy on the left
than on the right.

Hmm.

- Hmm.
- Your medicine.

- Take it.
- Yes, yes, Galina.

Will you join us for lunch,
my olivetta?

No. I go to the theater,

but keep working.

Keep painting.

I need her

to push me.

Without my Gala,
I would end up in an asylum

or be a tramp under a bridge.

Bring me Naples Yellow.

It's my favorite color.
Yellow is the color of proteins.

To find me the Naples Yellow,

Gala would walk all over Paris.

- Is that where you met?
- No.

We met in Cadaques,

the most beautiful place
on Earth.

The first thing I saw of Gala

was her wonderful back.

I was so beautiful.

See? Luis Buñuel was visiting.

And René Magritte
and his boring wife.

And Gala!

My friend, the poet,

Paul Éluard.

Gala's husband.

I had many terrors
and strange fits of laughter

when I was young.

People whispered I was mad.

Water.

That happens sometimes
when I am tired.

Don't worry, San Sebastian.

Dalí only need a little air.

This will give me strength.

Are you sure?

Won't Gala be upset
if you leave?

She is with Jesus.

She'll be gone for hours.

- Jesus?
- You will meet him.

Tomorrow.

San Sebastian, you will join us
at the Prince and Pauper's tea.

- Prince and Pauper's?
- Yeah.

You, of course, are a pauper.
You are young.

The old are there
strictly for business,

otherwise, I cannot
bear to look at them.

Where have you been?

It was my day at the gallery.

Dalí's done nothing today.

He's over there
talking to Alice Cooper

about another hologram.
How do you sell a hologram?

Yes, it is true.

Holographics
is the ultimate art form.

What about painting, Dalí,
and sculptures?

Yes, yes, Alice.

But Dalí create,
at one and the same time,

the external
and internal reality

through different methods.

Double images, stereoscopy,

holograms for seeking
the fourth dimension,

penetrating more and more

into the compressed nature
of the universe.

Compress-ed?

Compressed, compressed.

Did he say compressed?

Come, San Sebastian.

Meet my Ginesta.
She's very Dalínian.

Ginesta.

You take care of San Sebastian.

- He is a new boy.
- We've already met, Dalí.

So, are you a prince
or are you a pauper?

Pauper, for sure.

I thought so.

Where are you from, James?

- Uh, Idaho.
- Oh, my.

What was that like?

All I knew about art was
from books and magazines,

so being here is kind of
like a dream, I guess.

Do your parents know
what you're up to in New York?

My mother says
seven-layer cake is sinful,

so you can guess
what she would say

about Dalí and... and all this.

My father thinks
Dalí is a pornographer,

which I love.

Jeff!

Who's that?

Oh, that's Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ Superstar.
He plays him on Broadway.

- Dalí doesn't mind.
- I'm so glad you made it!

A new lover will distract Gala,
give Dalí more time to play.

Like I told you,

everyone is here for a reason.

You just don't know
what yours is yet.

Well, I had a show.

I'm going to get a whiskey.
You want a vodka?

Yeah, no.

Beautiful.

Sometimes I get very bored
at these things.

But you're not boring.

Do you want to get outta here?

You can't keep doing this, Gala,

this is an impossible situation!

Americans are all porks.
Greedy, Grade A U.S. porks.

You fix this, you call Desmond.

People are waiting
for me downstairs. Dammit!

James, come in here, I need you.

Take this briefcase.
You're gonna need it.

- What for?
- Twenty thousand dollars.

Hmm, I shouldn't have said that,
but it's all for Jesus Christ.

You'd think
he'd have enough money

from that stupid show.

I'm sorry.
Can you explain a little bit?

Gala has given her boyfriend,
Jeff Fenholt,

the money meant to pay

for Dalí's hotel bill
this month.

It costs 20,000 a month
to live here?

Well,
with room service and parties

with caviar
and champagne flowing.

Plus, what Gala loses
gambling in Chinatown.

So, take the briefcase
to Desmond Carter, this address.

Get the money
and bring it straight back.

These are all personally signed
by the artist himself.

A few years ago,

I sold a Dalí print
for 750 dollars.

Do you know
what it's worth today?

- Ten times that.
- Excuse me?

Captain Moore sent me.

Yes. He called.
Uh, I'll be a minute.

Well,
the price is really more than...

Did you know
Picasso died last year?

Since then,

the value of his work
has soared.

Salvador Dalí is 70,
and he can't live forever.

That's awful,
making money from someone dying.

It's the physics of art,
Mrs. Thomas.

An artist dies
and the prices go up.

It's how it is.

Excuse me, I'll be a minute.

Carter Gallery.

Okay, no, we're...
we're not open then.

Hmm. Uh-huh. Sure. Sure.

You... like it?

I find it upsetting.

I mean, I can't figure
how it's pulling me in,

but somehow it takes me
inside of his dreams.

Just paint on paper, but...

it's so powerful.

It's kind of like magic.

I don't think I want to live

with someone else's weird dream
on my wall.

But that weirdness,
that's what makes it original.

It got to you.

That's why
you'll never get tired of it.

And you'll never forget it.

That's Dalí.

You were fantastic in there.

Turns out her aunt
left her 15,000 dollars.

Now she's going
to spend it all on prints.

That's great.

Would you like some more light,
Dalí?

No.

When I compare myself,
San Sebastian,

to present day painters,
I am way up,

up on the pinnacle.

But when I compare myself to...

Vermeer or Velázquez,
my work is a catastrophe.

Modern painting
has left behind Vermeer

and now goes about making
things that are like posters.

Once you start...

...talking
about squirting the paint

straight from the tube
onto the wall,

the whole spiritualization
process of art is lost.

It becomes an absurdity.

The paint,

it doesn't count

until it disappears,

and becomes
an illusion of reality.

Abstract painting will one day
be seen as a total disaster.

Now, San Sebastian,

Dalí needs
a few hundred live ants,

some dead grasshoppers,

four dwarfs,
and a suit of armor.

Spanish armor.

- For a painting?
- No, a party.

A party?

I could kill him.

I wish he didn't make us
so much money.

Is he getting any work done?

Yeah, he works every day.

Really.

Salut.

The Dalí... is... here!

Where is Gala?

Uh, Gala was a bit tired.

I think she's in her room,
resting.

Jeff's songs
will change the world.

Focus! I pay you to work.

Bravo, bravo.

Hey, help me.

I can't do this myself.

This is like armor.

Well, a woman
does need her protection, James.

You know my name?

I know everyone's name.

Come on.

How is it working for Dalí?

It's like I landed
on another planet.

But I belong.

Me too.

Do you have to work today?

Every day until the show.

- I can see you tonight, though.
- I can't.

My parents are in town.

They're taking me to 21.

Fancy.

It's suffocating.

But I have to make a showing
every now and then

or they won't pay my rent.

Hey, so, um, last night, um...

was Dalí, like, you know,
watching us?

He likes to watch.

Don't you find that weird?

He is the man that painted
The Great Masturbator.

So, is he gay?

I don't think
they've invented a word

for what Dalí is.

What about him
and Amanda? Do they ever...

The whole point about Dalí
is that he doesn't have sex.

All of his paintings
are about sex.

Well, maybe that's why.

He and Gala...

I think they had sex
like a million years ago.

And I think she's the only one
that he could ever do it with.

It must be so lonely.

Still...

his parties are fucking great.

Ooh! James, James.
You need to...

Listen, boy. You will work.

You will not shave,
no going home.

Stay with Dalí every hour
until the show is finished.

- I lock you in, both.
- Gala, I...

Shut up!

Shut your ugly mouth.

Do you want us
thrown out of the hotel?

Into the streets?

Eat bones in the alley
like dogs?

I will not eat from tin spoons.

I will never again live
in a house that stinks of onion

or eat pig blood for breakfast.

I will not be poor!

- Olivina, please.
- No, "please."

We need money!

Money, money!

We need paintings and drawings
for this fucking show!

And you will paint,

and paint, and paint

for the next three days,
nothing but painting!

No more parties!

No more play, no stupid friends!

The show is in three days.

Go!

Paint!

Um... Dalí?

Can I get you anything?

Is she magnificent, my Gala?
Did you hear her yell?

She slapped The Captain,
then she kicked me.

Such rage, like a fire.

I thought you would be upset.

Inspired!

I am inspired.

You young people
think all you need

is peace, and love, and harmony.

No! It is anger makes us strong.

All fresh ideas
burst from the shell of hatred.

Now, call my Ginesta.

Ginesta? Why?

For the angel's wings.

Dalí's angel's wings
hang in the Vatican.

These wings I create
with the perfect ass of a model,

so call Ginesta and some models.
And Amanda,

tell her to come too.

I need many beautiful asses!

In here.

If it's here, add some.

So, quick down
and then quick up.

Up.

No, no, no.

On the paper, Olivia.

Down. Up!

Perfect!

Good, good, good.

Up! Up! Perfect!

Every detail.

Now the paint will disappear,
we have angel's wings.

James, James, it is not a party.

It is beautiful.

Maestro, what do you love more?

Painting or money?

Liking money the way I like it

is nothing less than mysticism.

Money is a glory.

Señor Dalí,

are you happy tonight
to be showing in New York?

I'm always happy.

Sometimes I positively drool
with happiness.

Aw.

And I have here my queen.

Gala!

She's my oxygen.

It is with her blood
that I create my art.

I dedicate this exhibition

to Gala.

So, that's Alice Cooper's brain.

What's Dalí trying
to say with this?

Don't ask me, man.

I haven't understood
a single word he said

since I met him.

Everything's going really well,
huh?

You are so self-involved.

Nothing is going well
until I sell all these.

Go and look after Fenholt.

I need to keep him
away from Dalí.

What I'm really
missing in here is,

like, a Pietà, you know?

These are beautiful.

You know,
I do a little painting myself.

Thank you.

And I'm making an album too.

All my own material.
Not just pop songs, but...

poetic, meaningful things.

I'm building a home studio
for the demos.

Cool.

I'm in Jesus Christ Superstar.

I was on the cover of Time
last month.

Oh. Right, right.

You're Jesus, right?

Yeah, so you're going to...

perform miracles?

Jeff makes music
that people will listen to

for hundreds of years.

Your music is ugly and dull.
I don't know why people buy it.

His act is just a gimmick.

Anyone could put on
freaky makeup

and spray blood
all over the stage.

That's not music.

No one will remember him,
no one.

Gala, this has been wild,
but, um...

but I really gotta go.

- Oh...
- Okay?

There's another party,
and some of the cast is...

I come with you!

No, no, no.

Gala, it's Dalí's night.

Right?

It's cool.

Come down
to the studio tomorrow.

Okay?

Hey, I thought you were
going to be here hours ago.

Uh, this is Renaldo.

Renaldo,
this is my friend James.

- He works here at the gallery.
- Oh. Nice to meet you, James.

Great opening, don't you think,
Lucy?

Lucy?

Oh, Ginesta is just a name

Dalí uses
for all the blonde girls.

You never told me
your real name.

Renaldo, I've barely seen
any of the new work.

Let's look around.

Oh, here, drown your sorrow.

Where have you been?
They won't come out.

We have to do something.

It's about Fenholt.

Get them out of there.

Oh! Oh, pardon!

Pardon. Chérie, pardon.

Another great Dalí performance!

But all good things
must come to an end. Señor.

Perfect.

Huh? Perfect.
Chérie, pardon, Chérie.

Tremendous.

Perfect.

Beautiful. Perfect.

Sometimes, San Sebastian,

it is so hard being Dalí.

Christoffe, I'm sorry.

Trains were delayed.
It was raining.

The reviews?

- They're not good?
- Worse.

"Who could imagine
a day would come

when a Salvador Dalí
exhibit comes to New York

and is almost ignored
by the critical press?"

"The cause for such resistance
can be attributed perhaps

to the... to a dismay

with the artist's perennial
high jinks,

and that is a real shame,
because the new show at Dufresne

has some remarkable pieces
by an artist

who is in a category
and class by himself."

But they're saying it was great.

She's saying none
of the big critics reviewed it.

Not The New York Times,
not Artforum.

The critics don't take him
seriously anymore.

We sold almost nothing.

That's not your desk anymore,
James.

It now belongs to her.

You're firing me?

For doing
what you told me to do?

I told you to keep him painting,

not to become
his adoring little acolyte.

You know, Christoffe,
I learned more about art

from Dalí in three weeks

than I would have learned
from you in three years.

I doubt that.

You have an eye, you know.

If you decide you're
serious about gallery work,

come back and we'll talk.

Go fuck yourself.

The critics, San Sebastian,
the bureaucrats,

they've never liked me.

I'm sorry, Dalí.

The critics attack

any tremendous original idea.

My problem,
never with the people.

No.

They always know
where to find true poetry.

Pack all the things,

paint, pencils, charcoal,
brushes.

You're not painting today?

I go home to Portlligat.

I kiss the soil when I arrive.

This is where
my painting is best.

Gala and I
are always better there.

I hope you'll take this too.

You are sad Dalí is leaving?

Yeah.

Also, Christoffe just fired me.

I'm sorry.

James, James, James, James!

I've just heard from Christoffe.

What a wanker!

Now...

you've always worked
hard for Dalí and me, I know.

And I owe you, so...

Do you have a passport?

There are a couple of things
to deal with in Europe,

and I need somebody
that I can trust.

So, I think that you
could be of use in Paris

and Spain.

If you want
to continue the ride.

You're going
to have to collect some...

special paper.

A lot of special paper,

from a man in Paris.

His name is Gilbert Hamon.

- Bonjour.
- Hi.

There is a lot to carry.

You have a car, yes?

Yeah, I'm parked out front.

I thought these were all
supposed to be blanks?

On this side, blank.

On this, lithograph.

Well, they kind of
look like prints, not lithos.

Oh, you... you think so?

Yeah, I worked in a gallery
for a while.

Ah! So you're an expert?

Well, no.

My friend,

I'm the only print agent
for Salvador Dalí in Europe.

I think I know
what I have to sell, huh?

Right.

He is smart, huh?

The Captain.

Your face is so fresh.

No one will bother
the young American tourist.

What's that supposed to mean?

Nothing. It's just smart.

Now, come on.
Help me with those.

James, how are you?

Oh, I've been better.

- Was the drive good?
- Yeah, it was all right.

Here we go.

All right.

You want me to bring the rest?

No, no, no.
Bring the rest in the morning

when you come to the house.

You look exhausted.
Get some sleep.

The, uh,
the room's in your name.

It's not The Ritz,
but it's... comfortable.

No!

It's already infected.

It's already infected.

Look!

It's beginning to swell.

Tetanus.

There was something disgusting
on that glass.

Some dirt has infected me. Look.

My finger is rotting.

I can feel the putrefaction
like worms writhing inside.

The entire hand of the painter,
Salvador Dalí...

will have to be cut off!

What will they do
with my cut-off hand?

Will they bury it?

Where will they put it?

In a little box?

Do they make coffins for hands?

You'll have to go and get Gala.

She's the only one that can
calm him when he's like this.

- Why? It's just a little cut.
- To him, it's life threatening.

Total hypochondriac.
You have no idea.

- Where's Gala?
- In Púbol.

No, no, no!

Dalí bought her a castle

for her private time.

He's not allowed to go there
without a written invitation.

♪ I don't wanna die ♪

♪ Cocaine in my veins
Got me feeling all right ♪

♪ Devil on the line ♪

♪ His red is holding me
Showing you my dark side ♪

All right.

I'm doing some heavy songs
right now.

So, Dalí's bad shape, huh?

Yeah. Uh, it's quite the setup
you got here.

It is.

This is my special place,
where I find my sound.

♪ Devil on the line ♪

Amazing fucking acoustics, huh?

We're recording the album
right here.

Album?

Well,
I do the road tour of Superstar,

then I come back
and make some magic.

All thanks to this amazing lady.

This is shit!

This is my time.

Go there. Wait!

I'm fine, Gala.
It's fine. Go, really.

No, it's unfair.
He makes me leave you.

Spend a couple days,
then come back.

- I'll be here all week.
- Worry you get depressed.

Stupid record companies,

the people don't see
your amazing talent.

But do not... do not take drugs.

They only make it worse.

I promise.

I believe in you.

And soon, the world too.

Dalí does not remember

how I walked
the streets of Paris

until my shoes filled with blood

to sell his paintings
that no one wanted.

Knocking up on doors of...

fat, rich dealers.

I tell them...

"Salvador Dalí is a genius."

No one cared. Not in Paris.

They say, "Surrealism is over."

Idiots.

But that all changed
when you came to America, right?

Yes, they loved Dalí.

We were in Hollywood,
cameras go flash, flash.

They make Dalí like movie star.
But me?

They look through me.

Like I am not there.

They say to each other,

"Why does Dalí have old wife?

- And Dalí?
- Ah.

Dalí love Hollywood.
Like a child, of course.

This man, um...

...uh, with stupid
cartoon mouse...

Uh, Walt Disney?

Disney. He wants Dalí
to make a film for him.

He does no painting there.
Nothing.

Nothing for me to do
but squeeze his orange juice.

Hmm.

Gracias.

Dalí!

San Sebastian.

Welcome.

You bring my Gala to me.

I am forever grateful.

Behold, La Emporda!

This sacred land that feeds me.

Nothing changes.

They fix their nets
as they did forty years ago.

I feel like
I'm in one of your paintings.

This place
is of tremendous importance

to me and Gala.

Here is where we fused together

and became one.

Gala was a married woman
and a Russian.

My father threw me out.
We came here.

We lived
in a fisherman's cottage.

We work, we ate, we slept,
all in one room.

One night,
we were invited to the cinema,

but I was tired,

so I stayed home to paint.

I knew this landscape

would be the setting
for some spectacular idea.

Sit, please.

Everything's ready.

- We do this now?
- Oui, oui.

I don't know. Something
about signing that way

feels a little unusual.

What in the world of Dalí
and Gala is not unusual?

Yes, but...

It isn't practical
to sign after the prints

are made far away in France.

So, it's okay to sign the paper
before the prints are made?

As you see.

How do you know

they're printing
what they're supposed to?

Why would anyone print
anything other than a Dalí?

He's the most famous
living artist in the world.

- James.
- Hey!

- Good trip?
- Not too bad.

So, Jeff is at Púbol?

- Yeah.
- That's why Gala was pleading

to get me here.

Keep Dalí company,
so she can be with Fenholt.

You know, sometimes
I think Gala and Dalí don't like

to be around each other
because it reminds them

that they're old.

It's so difficult.

But tonight,
I think we'll have fun.

Dalí promised
to take us somewhere special.

Behold, San Sebastian...

The Cap de Creus!

Look there.

- This rock is in my painting.
- Uh-huh. Oh!

The Great Masturbator.

Oh, yes. I see it.

The Tramontana,
San Sebastian.

The wind is coming from Africa
down the mountains,

but we must be careful.

It can blow for days.

Make you mad.

What are you doing?

When I was a child,
and the Tramontana blew,

I'd go up on the roof,

and like this,
I conduct the wind!

Ah! Woah!

Dalí!

Oh, my God.

Am I bleeding?

No, no. Just a bruise, maybe.

We go to the doctor then,
to see.

No, Dalí. You are fine.
Just get your breath.

I wish Gala were here.

This is where she asked me
to kill her, you know?

I was very tempted
that day to throw her off.

Do you really think
Gala wanted you to kill her?

Even Dalí does not know
everything about Gala.

She's the secret
within my secret.

But that day,

I saw, in her heart,

the same madness as in mine.

I found my other half.

Hey, Captain?

Oh.

Sorry.

This is Sabater,
the new secretary.

Where's The Captain?

He's gone. He steals.

Sabater is also younger
and more intelligent.

What do you mean,
The Captain steals?

He's gone. This is all.

With the prints, it's a mess.

No proper controls.

Too many dealers,
unlimited limited editions.

Do you remember the...
the Carter Gallery in New York?

The place I went
to collect cash?

Well,
I suspect that most of his stock

is unauthorized reprints.

Photocopies of lithos
sold as originals.

When I was
at the Carter Gallery,

I convinced a woman
to buy some Dalí lithographs.

She spent 15,000 dollars.

You didn't know.

For that matter,
they may have been authentic.

But you don't believe that,
do you?

That was her inheritance.

God,
how did they let this happen?

Gala never keeps track
of the signed blank sheets.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Hamon in Paris.

He prints cheap copies too,
doesn't he?

Passes them off as lithographs.

I mean,
I try to keep some order,

but Gala's hunger
for cash is insatiable.

And what does Dalí know?

Dalí doesn't want to know.

He wants Gala
to look after everything.

He can't even pay
for a taxi on his own,

- you know that.
- And you brought me into this?

Well, you wanted the job.

They wanted the money.

It's a hungry market out there,
James.

A painting's never
just a painting.

Not anymore.

What did you think was going on?

Well, I suspected something,
but...

But you stayed.

I stayed.

Dalí's hemorrhaging money,

you know,
between their extravagances

and the money
that Gala spends on Fenholt.

Do you know that she gave him
one of Dalí's paintings,

a portrait of Gala,
worth a fortune?

And I hear that
he's just sold it at Sotheby's.

He sold it?

I gave Dalí 20 years of my life,

and when I was with him,
he made millions.

But now I fear that he's...

he's going to die poor.

Gala told me
you stole from Dalí.

Is that true?

Certainly not.

Hello?

Hi, Christoffe.
It's James.

James.

How are you?

I have to ask you a question.

Rest your weight there.
Hmm. Yes. Yes.

San Sebastian.

Dalí, I found something out
from Captain Moore.

Thought it was something
you should know.

Please.

He told me Gala gave a painting
of yours to Jeff Fenholt.

What? What painting?

A portrait you did of Gala.

It isn't true.

Captain Moore told you
this to hurt Dalí.

Gala would never give
Jesus Christ

one of my paintings.

It's true.

How do you know?

I know
because I called Christoffe.

You called New York?

Yes.

On my telephone?

He confirmed it with Sotheby's.

How dare you call long distance
on my bill?

I employ you
for weeks and months.

I allow you

to be in the presence of Dalí,
of genius.

I give you this opportunity,

and you piss on me,
waste my money

by calling long distance
without permission!

How many of these calls
did you make?

Just one.

I give you everything!

I am the master!
I am the teacher!

I give, and give, and give!

And you betray me
with your phone calls.

He was trying to protect you.

Protect Dalí?

Ridiculous!

And you, Amanda,
are you with him?

I always knew
you'd be a traitor in the end.

Dalí, there are bad things
going on around you.

In the sale of your work,
the prints.

All lies. You must apologize.

No.

- Apologize.
- No.

I'm just trying
to tell you the truth.

It was one painting.

Jeff needs money
for his music and his demos.

What is "demos"?

I don't care, he's nothing.

You,
everyone's kissing your feet,

running to your parties.

What do I do?

I bring you coffee,
I cut your toenails.

Jeff needs me.

I do need you, my Olivina.

This is insanity.

I do need you. I do.

You say this...

but Jeff is young.

He has all his future.

I help him to be great.

- And you have Amanda.
- Me?

I spend nothing on Amanda!

And here, like a school girl,
you throw my paintings at him,

and he just takes money,
money, money!

You're a jealous old man!

You have no gift for music.

You cannot play guitar
like Jeff.

Stop!

- Stop it!
- But you know

- how I love this painting.
- You've done others better.

Much better.

I never liked that painting.

Rosa!

Never again
will I see you in this life.

Ja... James?

They won't let me in to see him.

- But he loves you.
- Just fucking vanity.

He doesn't want anyone
to see him like this.

With his burns?

He thinks he's old and ugly.

He doesn't paint.
He barely eats.

Ever since Gala died,
it's like he's lost himself.

She died
three years ago in Portlligat.

She always said
she wanted to be buried

at her castle in Púbol.

But the local authorities
would only allow that

if she died there.

So, they dressed up her body

and drove her
back to her castle

as if she was still alive.

So, she was buried in Púbol.

Sorry, I have a train to catch.
I have a...

show in Paris.

That's right. I heard.

You're a pop star now.

And you?

I have my own gallery
in the East Village.

It's small, but I love it.

After all
that happened with Dalí,

you still want
to work with artists?

Maybe I'm a masochist.

I guess I found my perversion.

Dalí would be proud.

No, this is not possible.

Please. I... I used to work
for Dalí. If you would give him

- my name...
- I'm sorry, no.

You don't understand
how important this is to me.

Dalí.

It's James.

James Linton.

I wanted to give you something.

San Sebastian.

I took this,

but it's yours.

It's your name.

You should have it back.

So, there. You're lucky,
you have seen Dalí.

He remembered me.

Oh.

He said, "San Sebastian."

That was his name for me.

This was a name Dalí used

for many young men
over the years.

I've known at least three
San Sebastians myself.

Perhaps he remembered you.

Gracias.