Original subtitles

This image is very calm,

timeless,

motionless.

Yet time seems to be passing,

drop by drop

each minute,

each second,

weeks,

yea rs.

I distinctly remember...

my 30th birthday.

I was alone in London.

The children had stayed in France.

I was making a movie in England.

I was alone in my room, in bed,

drinking a bottle of sherry...

Sickly sweet stuff.

I drank,

then I felt sick.

I crawled on my hands and knees to the bathroom,

to the toilet,

to puke in the toilet.

I pulled...

the thingamajig.

Then I saw in the john

little bits of carrots floating about,

so I flushed again.

Off to one side,

I saw some socks, hanging from a rack.

I took them to wipe my face,

which was red and tearful.

I saw myself in the mirror

and said: "Shit!"

"So this is 30!"

"It's not a pretty sight!"

Jane b. by Agnes v.

B. for Birkin v. for Varda

2 questions:

Do you like being filmed?

And talking about yourself?

Yes...

...and no.

I like relating with the director,

finding out what he wants.

But sometimes...

I don't know the rules of the game.

In wanting to give my all,

I really try to drown myself.

They rescue me and say:

"Be phony, that was too real."

Sometimes it's the other way round.

What will you ask of me?

Which questions?

Real or phony?

Want a drink?

Coffee.

I've noticed in your photos and interviews,

you never look at the camera.

Why?

I don't like the hole.

Look at it!

You must!

It's embarrassing.

Why?

It's too personal.

Why?

Like staring at someone:

it's too personal.

Maybe it's a mirror.

No, you don't look at others in a mirror,

you look at yourself.

Exactly.

I'm filming your self-portrait.

But you won't be alone in the mirror:

There'll be the camera...

(it's a bit me)...

Too bad if I appear

in the mirror or the background.

OK, I'll look at you, not the camera.

It could be a trap.

I don't want to trap you, to corner you.

But a film shows 24 portraits a second

or per hour.

You must play by the rules.

Look at the camera as much as you can.

Into the camera!

If not, you won't be looking at me.

I'll try!

- You agreed to do the film? - Yes, boss!

Action!

If a painter or a filmmaker wants to do my portrait,

I don't mind distortion.

It's like with you:

What counts is the eye behind the camera,

the person holding the paint brush.

I don't care what you do to me,

as long as I feel you like me.

Why a film with you?

You're beautiful:

a chance encounter on an editing table...

of tomboy Sloane Ranger and a plasticine Eve.

I agreed to act for you and to be your model...

...modestly...

But I suspect myself:

I'm not so sure I agreed out of modesty.

Let's start with a traditional portrait

a la Titian or a la Goya.

You're stuck on money!

There may be princesses who speak in jewels,

but when you speak, it's cash that rules!

You were asking for it!

You're infuriating!

You claim to have looked for the cash!

It's in a book?

Look at me!

Which book?

Truth in my eyes is worse than lies!

I'm looking at a real looker!

The only hitch...

you wanna be rich! You don't really love me.

Lust's not above me!

- Knock it off and start looking! - I am.

Then don't look, find!

As Picasso

used to say...

Damn! You lost $15,000...

In cash!

You told me to stash the cash...

Look at this red...

Blood!

Beautiful the way it spurts!

And the Hockney blue!

It's the color of parking tickets.

Clear blue.

Big splash.

Swimming pool blue.

Californian. All Hockney blues are beautiful.

The swimming pool freak.

It's all drivel.

He's got his pool, I've got my stripes.

You're finally selling,

don't change your style.

I shouldn't trust you,

I could have rented a safe.

Or a trunk.

Something weird about trunks:

in old portraits, in the background,

there's an open trunk

and a woman rummaging in it... Look!

It's always the same thing...

Behind all the ladies,

a servant and a trunk!

Mysterious...

The only mystery is why are you lying.

Where's the cash?

Is it spent?

Lost? Given away?

Why are you hassling me?

I'm the painter: it's my money!

You may paint, but I sell.

Without me, you couldn't sell a single painting!

Did I hide it with a man I emulate?

EMU... EM... M!

Matisse.

Magritte.

Munch.

Monory.

Milshtein.

Manet.

Monet.

Money!

That's it!

Must be in there!

No way, Jose!

I really don't know.

My memory's going...

You should've marked the loot.

Look at this article: "Magritte's Legacy:"

"A Surrealist Puzzle."

A last joke, and no one's laughing.

Yours will be easy.

- My what? - Your legacy.

I'm not dead yet.

A dealer has to look ahead:

dead painters

sell better.

Bitch!

You're tough, but I love you.

A girl disguised as a man-eater.

You're pathetic,

a loser.

I'm sick of you.

Don't say that, Janou!

Don't dump me for $15,000!

I love you!

Wait at least...

I got it!

Cash, wealth, dollars, Dali...

Golden Dali.

It was Breton's anagram:

"Salvador Dali" becomes

"Avida Dollars!"

Darling.

I was a good child.

I wanted to be like my big brother Andrew.

My sister Linda was more girlish:

she was pretty.

Once I dressed as a girl

to give flowers to the Queen.

Prince Philip asked:

"Did you grow them yourself?"

I didn't answer.

My childhood was happy.

Then, being English,

I was sent to boarding school at age 12,

far from home.

Suddenly I was "99",

subjected to teasing in the showers.

"Still nothing?"

The usual.

I survived thanks to Jane Welpey,

an older girl I adored,

though she never noticed me.

My first walk-on role was in "The Knack."

Still, I married the man who wrote the score!

I was a nymphet in "Blow-Up."

Scandal: I was naked for 20 seconds!

A dumb skin scandal,

but in England,

they never forgave me,

called me: Jane-Blow-Up-Birkin.

The good news:

I was then pregnant with Kate.

Luckily, I went to Paris to make a movie.

Who do I bump into?

Gainsbourg!

He thought I wasn't so hot,

then things changed.

Our story made all the papers.

I posed for pictures, any type of picture.

I was happy that Serge was proud of me.

I wanted a Jewish baby:

Russian, like Serge,

with Slavic eyes.

So I had her: Charlotte.

She was very pretty... and very yellow.

A pet name: "Apricot Charlotte."

I was like any other mother,

except more photographed.

I thought it perfectly normal

to pose for a girlie magazine.

I liked being considered pretty.

I remember one issue:

I was handcuffed to a radiator,

naked, in nylons.

A Christmas issue!

I'm discreet now.

I live with someone who detests indiscretion.

He wanted a daughter.

So we had a daughter:

Lou Doillon

She looks a lot like him.

You told part of your story...

Now let the cat out of your bag?

Sure!

The small one, too?

Find anything out after seeing what's in the bag?

When you show it all,

you reveal very little.

But you were discovered by the men you loved,

who wrote films for you,

and songs.

You inspired them.

I can see you as a Muse,

a Romantic one.

I was told Muses never die,

but some die of boredom.

They pine away, let themselves go,

wreck their hair color, bite their nails,

and stop singing.

Still, these weary Muses

know their job:

they weep in eternal delight.

I'm weeping in anger.

I spent years inspiring my poet,

helping him work,

changing his slightest tear

into poetry and song.

His fame killed him,

at least you're immortal.

I'm immortal, but dumped!

He had the nerve to die young!

If only I could break this,

I'd break his neck!

I would!

Or, if only

I could die too.

My childhood home is gone.

The stairs, the wallpaper: gone!

They demolished it.

My brother and I play a game now.

We enter the hall,

wonder how many steps there were to the room on the right.

Was the room on the right or the left?

The clock was facing us,

on the right.

The stairs were covered by a red carpet.

We played

make-believe,

here, on the middle stair.

It was hard to detach myself from my childhood home.

They say it's a major step

when you get your own house.

Just like you!

Gift-wrapping my house!

Thanks for the pink ribbon!

Your house isn't a gift?

A gift...

I paid for it. Nearly.

I paid off 2/3 of it.

The bank's got the other 1/3.

I'm afraid a man in a bowler hat will drop by and say:

"Hello, I'm from the bank."

He'll move into this 1/3 of the house,

look around and say:

"Nice place we've got here!"

I wanted my home to be like my English home:

warm and cozy.

So I put fabric on the walls, bought some antiques

and lots of knick-knacks.

What am I saying?

Who cares about old furniture and walls?

You don't fall in love with a museum.

You love a house for the people in it.

I love what a house contains: the people.

A house is for living with a man and children...

When they're out, I get bored,

I don't know what to do with myself.

One day they'll all go.

On that day, I'll follow the last one out the door.

I'll go too...

and live in a hotel.

This is my home.

When I get home, I change into clothes that are "me".

This is a small living-room.

I bought some antiques...

had the floor re-done

to make the room old and cozy.

I don't think

this living room turned out right.

Maybe it's the telephone or the answering machine.

I come home, change, then see the red light:

25 messages! Nice messages,

but they mean nagging responsibility.

The answering machine makes me...

dislike this room.

The good old TV set:

Lou watches cartoons,

Charlotte and her friends

watch the same old videos. Funny...

They prefer "Forbidden Games"

and "Gone With the Wind."

Though I dislike that room,

I love the stairs.

I love staircases.

I filled it with pictures,

everyone's baby pictures:

me, my mother, the children,

my babies, other people's babies...

It's a 25 page photo-album that goes on

for 3 floors.

I've always loved pictures.

If you think this is another living-room

you're wrong.

It's the kitchen.

My favorite spot.

Come in!

I wanted a big room:

I tore down a wall

and put in this big table.

The girls work here.

When Kate was little, she did her homework here.

Now she does her fashion lay-outs.

Charlotte plays the piano here.

The piano was my first purchase.

She plays while I make the meals

and Lou scribbles in her books.

I like having people around.

You feel protected by family and friends?

People spoil you with flowers.

I know I'm very spoiled,

but that doesn't mean I'm never lonely.

Spoiled and lonely,

Or covered in flowers and lonely:

Think of tombstones...

I like white flowers.

My friends know, so I get a lot of lilies.

I leave them in the vase,

let them rot

until there's a pretty mold on the surface.

With other bouquets,

I leave the plastic on

until they dry out.

I keep everything.

Why are you staring at me, Gustave?

Afraid he's still hereto scold you?

You should have heard my Gaston,

yelling all the time:

He'd scare the life out of you!

Poor little fellow!

What'll we have to eat?

Veal and mushrooms...

Hambone delight...

Pate...

What's this?

A letter from Gaston that I've never read!

"I'm setting down my last request,"

"my dear wife."

"Respect it in memory of my binges with my buddies."

Goodness me!

Mercy me!

I feel funny.

He liked to drink.

God, how he drank!

He'd come home and shout:

"Where the hell are ya?"

Then he'd beat me up,

pass out on the floor and start snoring.

But I loved him.

I loved him so much.

He was my first husband.

"Scatter my ashes"

"on the Montmartre vineyard"

"where we had so much fun."

"Kisses while I'm still alive, Gaston."

My Gaston!

See? I'm doing just as he said.

In memory of his drinking binges

and my young girl's dreams.

It's funny: anyone who eats these grapes or drinks this wine

will eat my husband and drink his...

What a thought!

I should keep some.

Why not?

He never said "all my ashes",

just "my ashes".

You won't leave me,

little fellow?

If you died,

I wouldn't cremate you,

I'd stuff you!

Then you'll never leave me.

Since I don't like caged animals,

I buy them...

stuffed.

They're not captives that way.

On the piano there's a rat,

a sewer rat.

I'm told they're hard to find,

but there's a taxidermist nearby

who's very good.

I went to his shop to buy a turkey,

but I saw a Pekinese I wanted to buy.

He said someone was coming in to pick it up.

I mentioned my cat and he said:

"Bring it in to me right away!"

I said, "No, it's alive!"

Poor Mowgli! Then he said:

"When its day comes,"

"bring it in fast or keep it in the fridge!"

"When you bring it in,"

"I can set it in its most natural pose."

A nice offer, but I don't think I could...

I'm got a gourmet cook.

I like 2 or 3 recipes... So do the children.

I do it for them.

For today's meal

I'll take "Lancashire Hot Pot"

and mix it with a French dish called "Spring Mutton".

It calls for a lot of onions.

That smarts!

Look at the camera, Jane!

God, these onions burn!

They say actresses like to cry.

I don't know if they do...

If the role's sad, true to life,

then I like to cry.

"In the park, silent and vast,"

"Two shadowy figures passed."

Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?

Why should I remember at all?

Does my name set your heart aglow?

Am I still in your dreams?

No.

"In the park, silent and vast,"

"Two specters conjured up their past."

Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?

Why should I remember at all?

Does my name set your heart aglow?

Am I still in your dreams?

No.

You sleep badly?

Often.

You suffer from insomnia?

Every night?

Almost every night.

Every other night, like clockwork.

As if I were punished for a good night.

The sleepless night is like a punishment.

I'm used to it.

Maybe the good night's sleep is a reward

for a bad night.

Do you dream?

Very much.

Good and bad dreams.

I haven't had a flying dream in ages,

my most wonderful dream.

I fly everywhere, over all of Paris.

Once I even landed on my own roof.

The best thing about those dreams: when you drift down,

you're never hurt.

You remember a recent dream?

It was horrible!

Two policemen came for me.

They'd found the body of a woman I'd murdered long ago.

It was a horrible murder.

She was hanging from the edge of a well.

I stomped on her fingers then...

threw her to her death.

Before she died,

she scrawled my name in blood

on the side of the well.

When they found the body, they saw my name.

They knew I'd clone it. She'd "told" them.

When I woke up,

I wasn't scared by the crime,

which was horrible,

but by everyone reading in the papers

that I wasn't nice.

Does that matter?

Do you care what the papers say,

You're asking me this near a newsstand!

Yes, it matters. I want everyone to like me,

to think I'm nice,

natural.

I like being loved, popular...

Hang on...

Christmas

is the prettiest time of the year.

It's nicer than summer, birthdays,

the most beautiful time of all.

It brings back childhood,

the taste of tangerines.

Every Christmas is the same.

Brandy butter, turkey...

the family in England.

That's Christmas!

When snow blankets a city,

you lose your way, your sense of time.

You forget, you dream.

Cold weather is nice, yet it has drawbacks.

The cold brings snow, emptiness,

a dream world, silence, and childhood,

but cold kills the homeless

who have nowhere to keep warm.

At any time, in any place,

in summer and especially in winter,

there are always people less fortunate than ourselves:

the underpaid and the overworked,

the unhappy and the unlucky,

and the unemployed.

Patience is a virtue.

Whoop-de-doo!

The Job Center says

the spring'll be great. There'll be plenty of work,

so I just have to wait.

The jobless must behave and be patient!

But the thaw's begun

And soon the sun will warm the rhododendron!

Rule A: Patience

Rule B: Courage

The jobless must play the game.

Lardy!

I've been looking for you.

You must be feeling the cold!

Come with me!

My boss needs help.

I told him about you.

Built you up!

You know I respect you.

You don't look pleased to see me!

Don't you like me?

Is our friendship in the ashcan?

Why don't you say anything?

You hiding something?

BAKERY-GALLERY

Fine time to show up, lazybones!

- I have a reason, Boss! - More like an excuse!

I have a surprise for you.

I found an assistant.

Another of your buddies!

A barefoot layabout!

He has shoes!

Here's my friend, Lardy.

Well, young man!

I need a smart right arm.

He means: got biceps and brains?

Here's my arm!

Any experience in baking?

I'm not kidding!

I've work to do...

Recite your resume.

Go on.

You'd like a run-down of my travels and my talents?

I don't have the time, there's bread in the oven.

Maurel! Show him the ropes!

Times are rough... So is the boss.

He only pays $10 a day,

plus 2 buns and a pie!

Can you imagine?

Here's an advance

for not talking to me

and for hurting my feelings...

Meanie!

I've upset the applecart!

MY applecart!

Are those your paintings?

You exhibit here?

Backwards?

Why?

- I'm discreet. - He's shy!

Do you sell any?

You need better marketing!

You don't think I have talent...

Yes, I do!

Of course!

You've never respected me.

You're condescending.

Hardly!

I hate when you condescend!

My parents are dense

but not my descendants!

My kids are smart,

smarter than you.

You're jealous I have a show in a gallery.

Exhibiting beside a bread oven!

You calling my art crummy?

I'm doubting Thomas:

seeing is believing.

You're the cream of the avant-garde!

Idiot!

Meanie!

You've no right to waste my dough!

You guys are real goof-off artists!

I've never seen such nonsense!

This is kinda fun!

Rule A: Patience

Rule B: Courage

The jobless must play the game.

Did you identify with Laurel?

Did you like the role?

Yes and no.

I was nervous

imitating Laurel,

so I felt awkward.

The awkwardness

made me so anxious,

I understood the anxiety in Laurel.

My emotion became Laurel's awkwardness.

That's what acting is all about:

you take everything inside yourself,

then transfer it to someone else.

You think you can play any role?

I think I can dress up as anyone!

I hate this!

If someone asked me:

"What is the costume that is an absolute nightmare for you?"

I'd say: Spanish dancer!

I'm allergic to castanets

and Spanish pride.

It's not me at all!

See me?

Better get a good look, 'cause I'll never do this again!

Never again!

What I'd like

is to make a feature film

about how I really am:

jeans, old sweaters, messy hair,

barefoot in my garden.

Just once,

I'd like to forget wigs and pretty costumes.

I'd like to be filmed as if I were transparent,

anonymous,

like everyone else.

You're the queen of paradox.

You want stardom and its perks:

money, glamor, fame...

Yet you want to be filmed like people in the street,

like those who love you.

You are different,

but want to seem nondescript.

You dream of being a famous nobody.

Once, when I was a teenager,

a drowned woman was found in the Seine.

She was so beautiful a death mask was made.

Copies of the mask were produced.

"The Mystery Woman of the Seine" sold well.

I bought one,

to contemplate her enigmatic smile,

as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's.

Had she been happy to kill herself,

or had someone in the morgue

forced her mouth into a smile

for the mask?

No one knew anything about her,

so they fantasized about her.

She was a nobody

who was a somebody.

I wonder if the only true portrait

is the death mask.

A front view of a motionless face.

That's all that's left of someone...

A front view of a motionless face.

Like an ID picture:

a front view, motionless...

Silent or speaking,

but facing us.

I'm Jane B.

I was born British.

My height is now 5 feet 7 inches.

No distinguishing marks.

No exceptional talents, but I'm here.

You're watching me as time passes.

Some time has already passed.

Your wish to be both known and unknown

makes you a public fantasy.

That's why I was fascinated by you,

why I wanted to make this film:

I can make you inhabit my dreams,

my movie memories, mythology,

my idle thoughts.

And I can dress you up.

What counts more is your partner.

It's not the costumes.

When I played opposite Depardieu,

he showed me the way.

Piccoli really gave me a boost,

yet I was praised.

It was all his doing.

He even stuck my script on his hat.

Like to act with anyone in particular?

Too expensive!

How about a French actor,

almost as good, but cheaper?

I like actors,

directors-actors, cult actors...

Godard,

Jean-Pierre Mocky, Jean-Pierre Leaud...

I like Leaud now

more than in his French New Wave days,

because he somehow has a desperate look.

I like that a lot:

a lost look.

I must only like lost people.

All of nature is in one autumn leaf.

- Remember the mustard? - Non, my love.

Remember me?

I think of you always.

You wearing the boots I adore?

And the flowered skirt.

We'll picnic wherever you want,

but why here?

You said you missed the outdoors.

I had a dream

about leaves.

I was hunched up, silent,

buried under a pile of leaves,

like those on the sidewalk,

after they've been raked up.

I hoped someone would find me.

I would have saved you.

But you'd have to know

which pile of leaves I was under.

I'd get there,

find you without looking,

and gently brush away the rubbish hiding the princess.

A hero of our times!

Chicken?

No birds!

I was a jailbird!

I'm so tactless!

Can't be too careful!

No more jail for me!

Sorry!

I had another dream...

You may be lovely, but you're no exception:

other people's dreams are boring.

...I lived in a closet off a courtyard,

just inside the carriage entrance.

I was scared:

I had forgotten to lock the door of my closet.

Don't talk about closet dreams!

I lived a closet nightmare.

A close closet encounter.

Case closed!

I was closeted away for 4 weeks,

close to crazy in the closet,

cause I thought you'd leave me...

you wouldn't wait for me.

But I waited!

I wanted you.

Now that you're out, I tell you every day:

"Calm down and carve the roast."

I almost forgot your gift!

More chains!

Kissies, huggies,

cuddlies.

But at night you dream about leaves!

And closets!

I can't help not dreaming about you.

No one can.

Exactly!

If dreams express our unconscious,

then I'm not part of you!

I'm a daytime fling!

Humdrum!

I daydream about you, about our future...

I'm in a waking dream.

That's not a real dream about me.

Maybe I experienced your imprisonment...

by dreaming of leaves and closets out of sympathy.

I don't need sympathy!

I must get into your dreams.

If I can't, then this is just puppy love!

Do you dream of me?

There are deserts in France...

and lots of sand quarries.

No, you had to come to scorching Africa!

You'd never go anywhere.

Armchair and TV are more your speed!

Armchair travelers never get in trouble.

I saw "Sevilla la Torrida"...

More like corrida.

"The Fiery Kiss Over Naples".

The fiery kiss you gave that Italian

got me a week in the slammer!

You tore the bracelet off his arm!

Must've hurt: some of his hairs came off!

If they only knew what I put up with!

Understand, guys?

It's a beautiful day.

It's hard not being able to communicate.

You and I have the same problem.

Not understanding them is worse.

Look,

I'll give them cash...

$10! Are you crazy?

You just throw money away!

I don't know! Buy 'em a drink!

Here? What's to drink?

All right.

Why don't you do a belly dance?

What would that accomplish?

Please...

try...

To get a reaction.

Do it for me.

Just for you!

You're sweet.

Raymond! I'm stuck!

Hopeless. You're as sexy as a locust to them.

I remember once when we were little:

we were at the seaside in England.

A crumpled newspaper blew over to us

across the sand. We caught it

and read, "Marilyn Monroe Is Dead".

We said, "No, not her!"

She was a sort of... model for us,

our inspiration for becoming attractive.

We wanted to move like her,

to be graceful,

pretty, lively, funny...

If I share anything with her,

anything at all...

it's a song she sang so beautifully, called...

Marilyn and I are alike in this,

because I'd love to sing a song for my Daddy.

I don't remember all the words.

I remember thinking it was funny

that at the end of the song

she said something in French.

Remember?

She sang...

She used French words...

to make the song even sexier.

The French have that reputation...

Nice going!

You're exaggerating!

It's a celebration of life!

Life in the desert?

Adventure!

I'm in deep shit.

If it's no trouble... Put the cape...

on the sand.

Push together.

Help push the car.

Get it moving!

Fine.

Next time my car breaks down, it won't be here!

I don't believe these guys.

Let's split!

Listen.

We'd better stay here.

Let's sit down... Fine.

Let's mingle.

Quite an adventure, isn't it?

Maybe it's our last.

True... We'd be safer on a French beach.

Mom does great mussels!

Now talk about what's behind the scenes.

Backstage!

So many years of movies,

plays, travels,

trips abroad, imaginary travels

through painted scenery or real countrysides...

Under a sky as false as this

or the real sky above us.

But the real sky can be threatening.

It can threaten me,

while this fake one will never be.

Since artists painted it just for me,

it will always be a friendly sky.

The crew is behind the scenes.

Every move you make,

they're behind you, watching,

looking after you.

It gives you a warm feeling.

When you stumble and fall in the street, no one cares.

Here, you're not alone,

they watch, waiting for the tear to fall.

The dolly grip may be the first person

to be moved by your cued tears,

or by your flubbing your lines...

You can feel how everyone around you

is pulling to help make a scene work for your sake.

Yet behind all that, everything is fake.

The real Titian painting is in Italy,

we made a copy here,

so I could walk by it.

In an art book it's a copy.

That's authentic.

Your acting in a fairy tale should seem contrived,

because it's not a true story.

But it's not false...

On the contrary,

it reminds me of my childhood.

My mother told me fairy tales.

Now I tell them to my daughters.

Fairy tales...

are true,

time-tested. Snow White, Beauty and The Beast

are true.

When I go home, my kids ask me what I'm doing.

It's hard to say, so I answer:

"I'm not sure, I think..."

"I'm in a painting by Agnes."

It's hard to know when you're being...

filmed in close-up or in the background,

way in the background.

How often must I show you how to fold!

Always scolding!

Quiet! The poor...

must work!

Why do you harp on my poverty?

There's no shame in being poor.

But shame is a form of poverty.

It's all wrinkled.

Run the iron over it again,

but careful on the lace... What a mess!

A plague on the orderly and their orders!

The menial class often forgets its place!

Make a chambermaid of a beggar girl:

she forgets the good earth belongs to Mistress,

forgets the fresh air

belongs to Mistress.

Of all humans, our Lady must be the least human of all.

She has everything:

privilege,

too many dresses,

a life of leisure,

naked and wanton.

She has everything and we have nothing.

My love,

lies within.

"Kiss me again"

"and again a kiss."

"Give me again a cause to delight."

"Your lover's lips on mine must alight."

"Let us unite in fiery bliss."

"Troubled, my love?"

"Your cares I'll dismiss"

"With my kisses so sweet"

"Our does will retreat."

"And in our embrace no joy"

"will we miss."

Foolish girl! It's forbidden!

I'll throw you out!

I'll tell Mistress! She'll throw you out!

The wicked are like flies on open wounds.

Put the dress away.

Take off those pearls you've defiled!

I've told you not to spit.

Keep your filth inside you,

rotting inside you.

Evil woman!

She thinks her tits are like heaven above!

A pox on her! May she grow old,

die, and rot in the grave!

Beauty is irritating.

Flies on a Venus

or graffiti on an Eve are like salt in a wound.

They add pain to the source of pain.

This sort of statuesque perfection

leaves me unmoved.

What I like about a man or woman's body

are...

are... precisely its flaws:

I like breasts that are too big, skinny men,

I'm fascinated by scars.

I like the idea of time leaving its mark.

I like bruises,

swollen veins...

Perfection stinks!

...while beauty's scandalous!

It incites people to scrawl graffiti.

The guy who draws nipples

or pubic hair on statues:

he does it to make them more human!

What lovely eggs you have!

A girl's eyes tell you about her breasts.

Her eyes shine if she has them.

If she doesn't have any,

her eyes say "Sorry!"

When I was 16, I was flat.

I was very upset.

The long-awaited breasts hadn't come.

I had a hang-up,

so I bought cotton and foam.

I had a stuffed bra under my sweater.

I thought only breasts could make you appealing.

Luckily I met Serge.

Not only did he dislike breasts,

he was afraid of them.

He liked flat girls,

girls he'd sketched at art school.

So I met his standards of a desirable woman.

I forgot my hang-UP,

but not altogether:

on the beach, when I see girls

with big boobs,

I like seeing them flip-flop.

I'll never know their independent bounce.

So I have a regret...

Two, in fact!

What now? Where do we go?

We agreed the film would wander,

we'd set off somewhere and stop along the way.

What if we lose our way?

I like mazes.

I like finding out where I've been at the exit.

Hope the audience doesn't exit!

We need an idea.

Like Hansel and Gretel leaving bread crumbs?

Or like Ariadne,

who gave thread to Theseus, so he'd escape from the labyrinth.

I can see you as Ariadne.

Shrewd, then in love, then...

abandoned on the shore.

I like those stories.

But I imagine the myth differently.

2 people in the labyrinth:

Ariadne with Theseus or the Minotaur.

Anyway, a monster chases her.

A monster's chasing you.

Can you get out of this?

We just film bits and pieces.

It's like a jigsaw:

a piece here, a piece there...

A picture appears, with a hole in the middle.

Like at banquets...

There's a silence, then someone says:

"Sing us a song?"

A song?

Gainsbourg!

Do you mind the smoke?

If I hesitate often

Between Me and I

If I waver

Between I and Me

It's 'cause my mind

Is on the line...

I don't know

The rules of this game

"I don't know!"

Cruel and tender game

Between Me and I

We lose sight of each other

And the game begins again...

Get the breathing right.

Good. Get closer to the mike.

Right, hit it!

In the cold of the night

I wonder

Where I am

You take me

I play your game

Of love and chance...

Knowing well

It's a dangerous game...

Of love and chance

My head's spinning

Knowing well

It's a dangerous game...

You cheat at the game

So I hide my hand

Yet neither Me nor I

Can beat you

Very nice.

It's hard.

I'll do better next time!

Gimme a kiss.

The idea of singing in front of an audience

always frightened me.

This year was my first time.

And it was the first time I ever showed anyone a story I'd written.

You showed it to me, I read it...

I liked it, so we'll put it in this film.

It's strange,

almost magical:

the first time I dare show anything, it becomes...

a part of something, done by someone else.

It's nice.

I've always written stories,

but I don't read much.

I like having books around.

Being surrounded by knowledge is a warm feeling.

But I've jotted things down since I was 12.

Now I write in the bathroom.

I bought old bookcases

and put the panels in the bathroom.

It's "novel-esque"...

Like the stories I dream up.

This is the only place I can be alone.

The story's about a woman like me...

in fact it is me...

She falls in love with a young boy.

It's a love story that ends badly.

I tell it as though it were already over,

as if it were a memory before it happened.

I like melancholy,

so I write in the past tense

and start with narration.

It might begin like this...

I remember how I loved him.

I remember as if it were here and now.

Actually, I've changed.

I no longer like vodka, or orange juice,

or mirrors in elevators,

or Easter eggs.

And I couldn't care less what people think

or say about us.

It was our story.

I remember it all,

especially him.

In this little tale,

in fact, this movie opening,

since I don't have much imagination

I used the people around me.

I can't see it happening anywhere else.

It has to be at home, with me and my kids,

just the way we are:

Charlotte, who's as tall as I am,

Lou, my little moppet,

but not Kate, who has her own home now

and her own baby.

I got the idea from one of Charlotte's parties.

It'd been noisy, they'd had a bit to drink.

The smallest boy got sick.

I felt for him...

very strongly, in fact.

It was like the start of a movie.

Why don't we shoot it as a family project?

I get it!

My son'd play the boy you fall in love with.

Of course.

I'll have to talk to Mathieu.

You'd better discuss it with him,

he has to puke in the first scene!

I drank too much.

- Just throw up. - I can't.

You don't know the trick? Open your mouth.

In another scene I had though up...

I'd drive into him...

to add a little action.

Watch where you're going! Shit!

You OK?

Fine.

They start seeing each other...

Then there's...

a scene in a hotel room.

Mathieu's only 14!

But the hotel room scene...

...would be innocent.

Innocence in a hotel room!

We can go upstairs...

Let's go up.

He was in love with her.

Then perhaps she fell in love with him.

Mathieu will be able to resist your charms!

Really?

That's how I see it.

Shut up, "Mommy"!

Little brat!

It's written from my point of view,

about the absence of love,

about a woman

whose life was devoid of love.

The spontaneity of this young boy

changes her life.

What about him?

I don't know.

I don't know any boys. I don't have a son.

Why tell me? It bothers me.

Now I'm supposed to spill my heart out to you?

I don't do that, at least not at home.

They're at ease with peers.

If Mathieu acts in your story

he'll bring his world along...

The world of a 15-year-old:

friendships, games, teenage, slang...

At 15, they're already big boys.

You're really talking about your childhood stuff...

You want your family and England.

I'd like to take him back to childhood.

But London would mean filming at my parents'.

...so I'd be with my father

and my mother, who's an actress.

I know people think...

corrupting minors is unspeakable.

I might just corrupt your script!

I prefer daydreams to psychology.

I like to jump around,

to toy with chance,

with fleeting emotions and events.

Your teenage love story isn't for this film.

It'll take time to tell it.

And time means money.

We need financing, we must take risks!

I'm taking risks right now...

I don't have a donkey or goose that lays gold.

No more bets!

We have to find money, take risks.

7 black, odds and manque

Find money...

En plein...

Take risks...

$10,000...

For the staff.

Place your bets.

No more bets.

32 red, evens...

and passe.

Too bad! How can you lose so much?

You can't die of a broken purse.

Staff...

Money and jewels aren't everything.

There's more to life.

Love of Painting

Pay UP!

You won't get away with this!

We don't have time.

Gotta corner her.

Find the bag!

Thinks she's alone?

We're here, Janou.

He's not alone. I'll still try to talk to him.

Hide the bag, at least for now.

Why me?

Think you'll get away?

Forget it!

Think you've screwed me?

You're wrong!

Crime doesn't pay!

But you will!

You'll pay UP!

You won't get away with this!

Not scared of ghosts?

You should be!

I missed you.

Is that so?

It's true, I missed you.

Filthy liar.

When I shot you, I knew I loved you.

Sure! Dead painters, stolen money...

Now love, to top it off!

Love is life's great mystery!

It's a mystery I loved you!

Pay up first!

The money's mine!

Yvan...

has the bag!

Get Yvan!

Make him talk!

You can't heal a cripple.

Where'd you hide the loot?

Careful, Yvan!

Don't worry, he'll tell us!

Tell them!

No more bets!

It's all over!

It's over! I'll kill you!

I'm afraid!

Go on! Kill him!

My darling...

Darling!

It's exciting to die on screen.

People applaud dramatic roles.

They're easier to play.

Crying in movies is OK but laughing's hard!

Laughing on cue is awful!

Once in a movie, I had to laugh...

so a guy on the crew pulled his pants down.

It was dreadful!

I'd much rather have to cry in movies.

That's odd. People think of you as cheerful and whimsical.

You mostly do comedies.

But comedies aren't all fun!

It's hard work! Lots of retakes... stepping in shit...

Once I had to do a great gag:

get bird crap in my eye!

One of the crew sat on a rock

with a putty knife and a big glob of...

artificial bird shit.

He kept missing my eye...

but then he finally got me!

It was great!

Then I had to look up and say:

"Off to a good start!"

I enjoyed that.

I like things to be simple...

a bit naive.

You Tarzan, me Jane.

Who's that chick?

Yadwiga.

What she doing?

Dreaming.

If I had to do a jungle movie,

I wouldn't play Tarzan's Jane.

No way.

She doesn't appeal to me!

I'd like to play Mowgli,

the little jungle boy,

the Wild Child.

That's what I'd like.

I've never really seen myself

as a girl.

I see myself in roles

of girls disguised as boys...

Tomboys, Amazons

who remove a breast to shoot better,

to be as brave as men...

That's how I see myself.

Like...

Calamity Jane, with her shotgun.

Dear Janey,

You're almost 6 years old.

Time has gone by very fast.

I didn't see you grow up.

It nearly killed me to abandon you.

Your foster parents named you Jane, after me,

so I call you Janey.

I took a new trail today.

Bozeman's men opened it up.

They'll be in danger.

I'd best go along with them

to scare off the Sioux.

I'm the only human being they fear.

Is the armor too heavy?

It's heavy.

But when I went skiing, I was just as loaded down!

You wanted to play Joan of arc.

It's a marvelous role!

But I could never play it.

I'd never be asked

because of my English accent.

I could never say:

"I'll rid France of the English."

The audience would burst out laughing!

You could be dubbed.

Sure,

or I could play the final scene, silent...

I'd try not to say anything.

I won't go!

Help me!

I'm scared!

Help me!

Why?

Cough again, drop your head and die.

So...

It's been 10 years. Time passes.

I don't know

how it passes, but it does.

Being 39 was rather fun.

Maybe 41 will be too.

The even numbers...

that end in zero...

hurt a bit.

Even turning 20...

was painful.

Anyway, I'll be 40

tomorrow morning.

I know what you're up to!

Happy birthday, Jane.

Best wishes, dear Jane!