All language subtitles for N. a pris les dés... ENG

N TOOK THE DICE...

An image...

An image slides back and forth
in my head for some time,

for a long time, no doubt:

that of two girls, tall, blonde,
hair cut short...

and they are like sisters.

One of them, I think I know who she is.

A third year student, seen
occasionally at the university.

She is called...

Suddenly I've forgotten her name.

The other,
I'm sure I've never seen.

Yet the image slides again,
into my head:

these two girls,
side by side

with their long legs
and their golden hair.

What has always seemed strange,
when I tell a story,

on TV for example,
that which they call a screenplay,

is that things are linked from
start to finish, logically.

Well composed, continuous.

One feels they've made an effort
there, in the studios,

so that everything is in order:
each event in its place, exactly.

Bound by the law of cause and effect...

That which precedes
and that which follows.

And, meanwhile, I see, once again,

these two girls, who pass by,
for no reason.

For no reason.

Let me try to explain.

These stories that you see on TV
that are linked in such a way,

so logical, continuous, reassuring,

are made only to put you to sleep.

When real things happen around you,
you notice that everything is different.

A cop show, on TV, always ends
by putting in its right place,

each element of the investigation,

and there is never one missing
or one too many,

however small.

All is explained at the end.

All becomes clear.

The whole is transformed
into an object smooth and closed,

round...

like a sort of egg,
unbreakable and transparent.

Like a kind of food, sterilized,
hygienic and without taste.

The history of France,
for schoolchildren...

something... like death.

In real life or the newspapers,

reading true stories
of crime or passion,

or everyday news,
it's never like that.

Something always remains
incomprehensible.

people enigmatic, right to the end,

stubborn little details,
that don't fit with the rest...

which destroy
the construction of the police,

of lawyers and psychologists.

Then, most of the time,

one prefers to forget...
these fragments that don't match.

One pretends not to have seen them,

one looks away, shyly.

Because otherwise,
there would be no story possible,

neither truth nor justice.

Moreover, the accused might do it on
purpose, to confuse and escape justice.

But I don't do it on purpose.

What attracts me irresistibly,
watching people and things around me,

unable to look away,

is that which I cannot understand,

words out of context,
suspended gestures,

images taken unawares.

Images whose proximity
appears to be due to chance;

everything that resists
my explanation.

This story, for example,
that I'll start to tell,

that I will try to tell...

To tell you.

The guy in the boat
you don't recognize, but it's me.

I have a beard,
and a big hat,

to hide my face as much as possible.

Or perhaps also,
because of the summer sun.

The lad who has just embarked
from the large sailboat,

is one of the Cortez brothers,
the elder of the two.

They look like twins,
apart from the beard..

Me, down there, I watch.

I watch who comes and goes,
never missing a detail.

And now... here... I talk.

Him, I don't know exactly what he does.

He's not one of us.

Neither relative nor professor.

He wanders around,
lurking everywhere just like a cop.

A private eye, or a TV reporter,
waiting for his camera crew to arrive.

Our city is double,
like most of the cites round here.

Always this man, watching.

as if he were the narrator and not me.

Western construction,
more or less modern, borders the sea.

and a vast ancient quarter...

that has fully preserved
the traditional Arab architecture.

The same contradictions are found
in the clothing...

and daily customs.

This is the other Cortez brother.

He is easily distinguished from
the first, as he has no beard.

My name is N. K.,

but everyone calls me N. for short,

as if it were an initial,
of "Nemo" for example,

or "navigator"
or "narrator"...

or wicked "Napoleon".

The place where I live
looks directly onto the beach,

and further away, the port.

It's a good observation point.

And is convenient in the summer,
when one can bathe all day.

But the beach is dangerous.

The water is unpredictable
beneath its smooth and placid surface.

And there are often accidents.

We are used to them,
and no longer take much notice.

And the most prudent,
never stray too far from the shore...

splashing, in the shallow waters,

protected from the hidden faults,
where suddenly,

without warning, one is immediately
dragged down by deep, invisible currents

Did I say who this girl was?

In any case, for the moment,
her name escapes me.

but I know she is more or less
engaged to the second Cortez brother.

The one without the beard.

Sometimes I think none of this exists.
That I've invented it all.

Seeing from the window,
friends who were bathing,

playing their usual stupid games.

The Cortez brothers, giving themselves
airs, as they do so well...

And big Boris who pretends to be dead.

And then the stranger,
hanging around for some time

watching from a distance,

or certainly,
watching the beautiful blonde,

while her body plunges
into the transparent waters.

I'll call her Eve, because...
I don't remember her real name,

It seems like a TV ad for
a wonderfully relaxing bathe.

And now, let us imagine...

that this stranger is neither
a policeman nor a reporter,

but is in reality preparing
some dark deed, a kidnapping,

or some more complicated scheme.

And that the young Eve,

who is now dressed after bathing
and crosses now on foot the Medina

to return home,
will soon fall into the trap.

When, where and how...

We shall see.

Heavy, locked doors,

windows too high,
with strong iron bars.

Images of another world still haunt
the imagination through these streets,

still echoing to the sighs
of the white slaves

once captured by fine corsairs

whose gaudy ships
are still anchored in port.

Perhaps the trap is this little picture.

However there's a reward,
an object fallen from the sky.

And Cortez, what's he doing
lying on the ground?

He said he was waiting for me.

It must be one of his canvases,
inspired by postcards.

In my opinion the body lying nearby
was part of the painting.

I only took the painted canvas.

And didn't he make a move
to get your attention?

No, he stayed on the ground,
looking at me.

He must be jealous of his brother.
They are too much alike..

Perhaps.

He scares me.

Have you noticed?
They have exactly the same voice.

Yes.

No... almost.

So the picture is an affront
to the scornful brothers,

for attracting the favor
of the chosen one.

But it could also be
a sort of mark or sign,

not a gift or reward,
but on the contrary...

the starting point
of a search, or quest,

a treasure hunt
or TV game show...

the first stages of which
have just unrolled before your eyes.

Eve was carried along though
the alleys, found a picture,

hung it on the wall of her room,

But the spies, the envious,
that the object interests,

already multiply around her.

And now she must show
vigilance and imagination.

if she wants to continue
the game we follow,

on the small screen.

Dear viewers, who are going
on holiday, or staying at home,

perhaps there's a problem
you've not thought of.

And yet you've no doubt noted:
in the office or bar,

in the street, around you,
at home, on yourself.

objects disappear as if by magic.

I look...
therefore I steal.

All's for the taking,
for him who must speak.

Take.
And be not taken.

If someone sees me,
I blame myself.

I steal...
and no one sees me.

Against this thief,

this small miracle will
ensure your peace of mind.

And that day we saw
for the first time,

at the university cafe,
considered more or less our domain,

forbidden to the old,

that man of whom I've spoken,
who's been around the last few days...

and who seems like a cop
working undercover for narcotics.

Go and see if I've been followed.

I remember.

It was the day we played
a version of Blind Man's Buff.

Larissa.

The younger of the Cortez brothers

must recognize his fianc�e
from all the girls of the group.

Sonia.

Approaching in silence,
one after the other,

and then rising on tiptoe
touching him, as they pass,

only with their lips...
without saying anything.

Marina.

Eve.

There I understood,
it was a first test set...

Sonia.

Not by the boy,
but by Eve herself,

for the possession of the painting.

Marina.

If you like I'll teach you
a game of fancy but also of luck,

like yours,
but played with cards

and a gun loaded with blanks.

It's called the Game of Redemption.

One starts off by drawing straws.

It was without doubt the result
of this ordeal that set Eve

on the path
in which she has been enmeshed.

Shot.

Fear.

Shot.

Broken mirror.

Pure water.

Way through the maze.

Prison.

Victim.

Shot.

No!

Let go of me!

Abducted by the cruel knights...

languishes in her cell
among the other prisoners of the dream.

The man who hung around our group,

and pretended to involve himself in
our games, now reveals...

his true face.

The trials of the girls
now continues, so far from us.

At the cafe today, we are feeling low.

If only we could find
the place they are imprisoned.

To start by releasing the captives
and killing the kidnapper!

I am shut up in the middle

of a half ruined Medersa,
in the middle of the sands.

From above, however
one can understand nothing.

No, she's not here either.

It's definitely the wrong place.

Or they've taken her elsewhere.

We might as well give up.

- Don't you think?
- No, we must continue.

I'm sure we'll find her.

Wanna bet?

You seem to know where she's hiding.

Or is confined, rather.

You know everything!

I understand!

Search alone if you've got her scent.

Why not?

But you'd better not
find yourself near me.

You go and tell them
that I've gone back to town.

D'you understand, idiot?

- Where are you really going?
- Where I please.

And watch out if you follow me.

Eve...
Listen.

Come here.

I've brought you a magic powder,

which gives victims
superhuman strength.

Put it in your water.

When you have had a sip,

break the prison bars
as if they were straws.

But if someone wants to do you harm
approach their lips,

you will see them immediately,
unmasked...

and overthrown.

The magic powder works immediately.

Eve receives the new powers
of the dream factory.

But hurry.
The other competitors

continue on their way,
to retake the picture,

arrive first at the next stage.
Faster! Faster still!

But here, unfortunately,
arriving too soon, Boris,

of the fake drowning.

You wonder who it is.

It's me,

I am the first to reach your prison,

after crossing fire and sea.

Come on. Stand up.

I knew you'd come to free me.

I love you.

Yes. From the depths of my heart,
for a long time..

You can be sure of my love.

Drink my water
and you'll know my thoughts.

The most secret.

Funeral March for the death
of our friend Boris.

But Eve hasn't yet appeared.

Neither at the cafe
nor the mathematics class.

And if her friends are sad

it's not because of the fake death
of the fake drowner,

but because her absence is prolonged.

Undoubling.
Double.

Compassionate sister.

Reflection in the water.

Now, the force returns.

Eve triumphant,
makes her return.

But now let us return
to the author of the abduction.

I pursue him myself.

Narrator. Voyeur.

Message. Bicycle.

2, 6, 5.

Boat pulled to the shore.
Stranger.

Message.

5, 6, 1.

Message.
Stranger.

Blocks of stone.

6, 2, 3.

Stranger.
Boat pulled to the shore.

Bicycle upside down.

4, 1, 5.

Heroine.
Blocks of stone.

Stranger.

The stranger has plunged into the water
and seems to have vanished.

or even jumped into the truck
as it was passing?

4, 1, 5.

Heroine. Blocks of stone.
Message.

- Ah, you're here?
- Yes, see.

They crossed the group of houses
towards the beach.

The narrative seems to have got lost.

Eve too perhaps.

She seems to have given up,
at least for the now, the race.

Here is a playful rival,

who hadn't seemed dangerous,

and uses this time
to mark an important point,

and threatens to
outdistance the favorite.

Will Eve succeed
in regaining the lead

against this last minute competitor?

Here she is,
behind the casual appearance

of an ordinary tourist
looking for souvenirs,

following a prescribed itinerary

thinking mistakenly,
of having lost the thread,

at the same time as all traces
of the manipulator

after his plunge into the
troubled waters of the port.

Yes. That's it.

She's on the right track.

East or West?

West. And straight on.

So. What's she doing?

This time, I think
she's on the right track.

It seems that you're
up against the second Cortez.

and meanwhile Sonia has stolen the map.

Why are you fighting?

I think he's cheating.
He helps her, giving her information.

It's not fair,
since he has the map.

He hopes to replace his brother
in the heart of the beauty,

by playing the savior.

And now?

But Eve is so tired by
the successive trials of the route

that she weakens again.

Distressed, and completely lost.

She is disorientated above all
by the impression of logic

that escapes her,
in an inexorable development,

whose order is fixed by someone else.

and that resembles a nightmare.
Useless.

She feels that her powers of
intervention are abandoning her.

You see her at home,
ready to drop everything.

Happily her boyfriend,
Cortez no. 1,

who is also her fianc�,
as I've already said,

urges her not to be discouraged
so close to her goal.

I'll accompany you for a bit
but then I'll have to leave you.

Yes, I know.

- And you know where you're going?
- Straight on.

It's not always easy.

What are you looking for exactly?

It wasn't specified.

A familiar sign, no doubt.

An identical object.

Around someone.

Are you there?
I think I'm lost.

No. Be brave a bit longer!

- Can't you help me a bit?
- You know that's impossible.

Don't go,
Why not stay with me?

Because...

Because it's forbidden.

Because it's forbidden
by the rules of the game.

TV GAMES

BRAVO!
YOU HAVE WON A WASHING MACHINE!.

- Was that the last test?
- Yes.

To find the postcard.

You wouldn't say
it was the same postcard.

Yes, there's something different.

The light perhaps is a bit changed.

It represents the house in the Medina
where the picture was discovered.

The place has no importance.

It's the journey that matters,
not the goal.

TV game shows are always stupid.

A washing machine!
Even more ridiculous than I thought.

As they say...

Or rather now...
What I said.

This face which looked
at the small TV screen

continues to look
for a possible solution.

through the maze of
alleys and gestures,

words and faces.

... V equals zero up to infinity
-6 to the power of V,

Factorial N + 2V over
Factorial 3V + 2;

T to the power 3V + 2.

But already the faces merge
and the words are lost.

It's true that the itinerary
so ardently,

so passionately combined,
leads to nothing else.

And already the roads fork again,
turn back,

jumble, repass again by
the same point.

And the faces, glimpsed here and there

return to their empty appearance,

and the city to its insignificance;
and landscapes to their flatness.

So it was just a game.

But who was playing?

I placed the dice on the table,

in the middle of the red felt,

in front of me...
Three dice... each having six sides.

Chance has its own laws...
They say.

Dear viewers, trice.

You who are leaving your home

or stay in front of the screen,

There is perhaps a little thing
which you haven't thought of.

A game means nothing in advance.

It's the player who invents the game.

and the player is you.

The images that your eyes steal
here and there are only images.

They have no meaning attached
as an inherent nature.

They have no other significance
than that which you choose to give.

An order that's reassuring,
or desperate.

It's you who make it.

Out of laziness...

Or fear.

Subtitles: Corvusalbus