Original subtitles

Cala di Sotto, pride of Italy, mother, home, rich, wonderful,

sublime, noble, fertile, and abundant, Cala di Sotto.

Perfect island, star of the sea,

magnificent, beautiful, to the end of the horizon.

All of your sons will vote -

for victory!

”...for all of us, listen, we have an important announcement.

Pablo Neruda just arrived at the train station in Rome!

The great Chilean poet is known for his poetry of love,

and for his communist ideas, which have often caused him serious problems,

like the one sent him now into exile.

The poet will live on the beautiful island of Cala di Sotto."

No, Dad, there is no water, we ran out of it this morning.

I also wanted to...it's all gone.

ls it still warm?

I caught a cold this morning, the dampness on the boat...

Perhaps I'm allergic...

I got a postcard from America,

from Gaetano and Alfredo...

This is America, and this is an American car.

They say they're going to buy one. Here it says, "We are going to buy one."

But I don't believe it...

They cost a load of money. They say it's a rich country...

And we're here, without water!

You've never liked fishing - just find some work!

You are not a child anymore.

Last night I found some work at the post office.

The salary is not much...

...but with the tips...

When do you start?

Tomorrow.

Your hands, they beautify everything.

Do you like the flowers?

Your hands, they beautify everything.

We just arrived, and you have turned our exile...

...into a sanctuary.

It has its advantages...

Which?

Now I have you all to myself.

I'm yours forever, you know that.

It's good to confirm it.

I have been thinking...

What?

Politics take too much of your time...

I want to help build a better world.

You do this already with your poetry.

It's not enough.

Yes, it is.

Your poetry...

...makes us free.

You teach us...

...that the truth reaches higher than the moon,

...that we are not beggars...

...of dark Gods,

and that the heavens reach down to earth.

And that the birds...

...dream while they fly,

and fly while they love.

You are more of a poet than I am!

Naked...

...burning moon of gold.

Naked...

Naked...

...you are as simple as one of your hands,

smooth, earthy, small, round,

transparent.

You have lines of moonlight, paths of apple.

Naked, you are as slender as the naked wheat.

Naked...

...you are blue like a night in Cuba.

There are...

...vines and stars in your hair,

lines of moonlight, paths of apple.

You are as slender as the naked wheat.

Smooth...

...earthy,

transparent.

Naked.

Naked.

Blue, like the night.

Lines of moonlight...

...paths of apple.

Naked you are slender, slender like the wheat.

You are round and yellow,

vast,

like summer...

...in a golden temple.

Your mail.

- My love! - Yes.

Anything for me?

Nothing, my love!

Nothing? Really?

POST OFFICE

A woman!

A woman!

A woman!

Another women!

Conchita, Maria Ines,

Andrea!

Andrea!

The Chilean women are interested in politics.

Sure, but they're all women!

They're interested in politics.

Strange...

A woman!

And this one?

What kind of name is this?

- Jean Marie. - ls this a man or a woman?

- Jean Marie? - Man or woman?

- Woman! - I knew it!

Tell me, how is Don Pablo? ls he - normal?

Normal? Yes, normal.

Of course, very different when he speaks.

You can tell right away. You know what he calls his wife?

Love!

" No! " Yes!

Even when they are standing far apart.

Love!

Really?

He's a poet! That's how you can tell.

I'll ask him for an autograph; and when I go to Naples,

I'll show it to the girls...

...so they see that I am a friend of the great poet Neruda.

- The poet of the people. - The poet of love.

- The poet of the people. - Yes, that, too.

Mail! Mail!

- Thank you! - Thank you!

What's the matter?

You are standing there as stiff as a post.

Nailed like a spear.

No, immobile like a chess tower.

Stiller than a porcelain cat.

I have written better books than Elementary Odes.

It's unfair of you to subject me to similes and metaphors.

What is it?

What are these things?

Metaphors?

They are a way to talk of something by comparing it to something else.

It's used in poetry?

- Yes, there, too. - Give me an example.

When you say "the sky weeps",

what do you mean?

- That it's raining. - Very good!

That's a metaphor.

How easy! But why is the name so complicated?

It has nothing to do...

...with the simplicity or complexity of things.

- Would you open this letter for me? - Who? Me?

Yes, you.

It's written in...

- It's foreign. - Yes, from Sweden.

And?

- The Nobel Prize in Literature. - A prize...

If they end up awarding it to me, lwon't refuse.

- You'll get it - The candidates are very good.

You'll get it, lam sure of it!

- Should I open the other letters? - No, I'll read them later.

-Are they love letters? -What a question! Don't let Matilde hear you.

I'm sorry, Don Pablo. I...

Don Pablo, I want to be a poet.

Better to be a postman,

you walk a lot and don't put on weight.

No, Don Pablo; with poetry...

...| can make women fall for me!

Better to be a postman; it's more original.

How do you become a poet?

By walking.

Observe the movements of the sea.

You go along the bay and observe the sea...

...and that is how they come to me, these metaphors?

- That is how they come. - Metaphors.

Metaphors!

- This place is so beautiful. - Really?

Listen...

Here on the island, the sea, and so much sea,

spills over continuously. It says yes, then no, then no.

It says yes in blue, in foam, in gallop; it says no, then no.

It cannot stay quiet.

My name is sea...

My name is sea...

My name is sea...

...it repeats while striking a rock, without convincing it.

Then...

...with the seven green tongues,

of seven green dogs,

of seven green tigers, of seven green seas, with green tongues,

it catches it,

kisses it, wets it.

And it pounds on its chest,

repeating its own name.

Its own name.

- What do you think? - Strange.

Strange. What a severe critic you are!

No, Don Pablo. Strange is how I felt...

...when you were reciting the poem.

- How? - How do I explain this?

When you were reciting the poem, the words went back and forth.

- Like the sea! - Yes!

They moved like the sea.

Like the sea!

That's the rhythm.

- And I got seasick... - Seasick...

I got seasick!

I was like a boat tossing around on your words.

Tossing around on my words...

Mario, do you know what you have made?

A metaphor.

No.

Yes!

-Really? -Abso|ute|y!

But it doesn't count, it happened by accident.

That doesn't matter.

Images arise spontaneously.

You mean, that for example - I don't know if you follow me...

Try me!

...that the whole, whole world, the wind, the seas, the mountains, the fire,

-the houses, the rain... -By now you can say etcetera.

Etcetera.

You believe that the whole world is a metaphor?

- Did I say something stupid? - No, not at all!

- You pulled a strange face. - Mario, let's make a deal:

- I will think about... - My question?

Tomorrow I'll answer and give you my opinion.

You really will?

If the whole wide world is a metaphor?

Absolutely, I will think...metaphors...

- Catch these metaphors. - Metaphors, here I come!

- There are big, some round, - small, skinny,

- fat, - thin, - green, - red.

They are all metaphors!

- Some are sweet, some spicy, - bitter, irritating,

- cold, - warm, - they laugh, - they cry.

They, too, are metaphors!

There are metaphors that are fleeting, fluid, smoky, that suffocate you!

Watch out for those.

- The wind, the tides, thunderstorms... - furious ones!

The gold, the copper, the bells...

- red ones! - and scandalous!

All, in the end, are metaphors.

Till tomorrow.

Morenica, they call me, although white I was born,

but the sun in the summer made me so.

Morenica, they call me, the sailors from here.

If again they call me, lwill go.

If I hear Morenica...

...and it is the King's son,

he just has to call me...

...and I will go.

Morenica I am.

- Mario is here! - The son of the King!

- No, Mario is our young poet! - And Communist! Not just any poet!

Come.

And a soccer player, too!

1:0

2:0

3:0

Why are you staring? Have you never seen a woman before?

What's your name?

Beatrice Russo.

Don Pablo, I need to speak with you!

It must be very important. You are snorting like a horse.

lam in love.

Well, that's not so bad. There is a remedy for that.

No, I want to stay sick!

With what?

- Beatrice! - Dante.

Dante Alighieri. He, too, fell in love with a Beatrice.

The Beatrices evoke boundless love.

What are you doing?

I'm writing down the name of this poet. With "h"?

Come, I'll write it down for you.

- I'm in love. - You said that already.

You have to help me.

l?

There she was in front of me, and I stood there, speechless, not one word could I say.

What, you didn't talk to her?

I said almost nothing. I just stood there and fell in love.

-That fast? -No, not that fast.

It took me ten minutes!

-And then I asked her: what is your name? -And she?

- Beatrice Russo. - And you?

Nothing. I didn't know what to say.

Nothing at all? You did not say one word to her?

-I said five words to her. -Five words. And they were?

-What's your name? -And she?

Beatrice Russo.

Let's see. What's your name, that's three words.

And the other two?

I repeated: Beatrice Russo.

Could you write me a poem for her?

What?! I don't even know her!

A poet needs to know a person to be inspired!

Beatrice held this little ball with her lips.

- So? - It could help inspire you...

Look poet, if a simple poem causes so many problems,

you'll never win that Nobel prize!

Mario, you are insane!

Mario, you go too far!

You are the only one on this island who can help!

Everyone here is a fisherman!

So? They, too, fell in love with their wives!

- What does your father do? - Fisherman.

There you go! Sometime he must have spoken...

...to your mother to ask her to marry him.

I don't think so. He barely ever talks!

Come on, give me my mail.

Thank you, I don't want it.

The sea is now asleep.

I return to my Rosa, my Coral.

The sea is asleep.

From the lips of the sea I return to you.

From the lips of the sea I return to your mouth,

to my Rosa, my Coral.

From the lips of the sea I return to your mouth,

to my Rosa, my Coral.

Blue!

Luminous!

Your smile!

Luminous, butterfly...

...your smile, Beatrice.

Naked!

What are you doing?

I'm thinking.

With the window open?

Yes.

Let's talk.

What did he tell you?

Metaphors!

Metaphors!

I never heard you say such a big word!

What metaphors did he do to you?

Do? He said:

"Your smile spreads across your face...

"...like a butterfly."

And then? What did you do?

Nothing.

-And he? -What else did he tell me?

No! What did he do to you!

He also has two hands!

He never touched me.

And what else?

He was happy to be next to a pure young woman.

And what else?

He looked into my eyes, thinking...

Look, child! After touching you with his words,

a man will touch you with his hands!

There is nothing bad with words.

Words are the worst!

I prefer a drunkard touching your bum

to someone who says: your smile flies...

Spreads!

In your face like a butterfly...

Flies or spreads, it's the same!

- Look, you are like an oven! - It spreads...

Give it back! It's mine!

I'll see you tomorrow!

Cala di Sotto, pride of Italy, mother, home, rich, wonderful,

sublime, noble, fertile, and abundant, Cala di Sotto.

Perfect island, star of the sea,

magnificent, beautiful, to the end of your horizon.

All of your sons will vote - for victory!

For victory!

Shall I pour all the water?

All of it! Water is a necessity!

This is my promise on my ballot!

Thank you for the water.

What can I do for you?

Nothing, it's my duty! Just vote!

For two years we have been promised running water!

Nothing has happened!

We are tired of waiting!

Liars! Robbers!

Watch out, communist!

Two years ago it wasn't Di Cosimo who promised water for everyone.

I make a pledge, an oath!

Twenty families will come to work here, they will need to be fed.

Perhaps Donna Rosa could accommodate them.

Of course!

Di Cosimo gave his word!

Running water for our island!

It's my promise, an oath!

Let's go!

Beatrice, wait a moment!

I can't.

Your smile, it's a rose...

I can't stay here...

Just a moment...

You have lines of moonlight,

paths of apple.

You are blue...

Moon lines...

“apple...

...blue!

Your smile spreads across your face...

...like a butterfly.

Like a butterfly.

Like a butterfly.

- You must have fallen out of your bed! - I thought this was important.

It is, you are right. It's a reel.

And this...| forgot to give this to you.

Wait.

Here is something for you, too.

It might be useful for your metaphors.

Come, look.

ls it a radio?

No, but it's like a radio.

You speak into here, and it repeats what you say.

- It repeats what you say? - Yes.

- How many times? - As many times as you want.

Listen.

I understand that your kisses are never to be mine.

I understand that in your eyes I shall never see myself.

”Poet, this is Antonio. With me are Cosme, Francisco, Salvador...

We're all here together to celebrate your birthday.

Take this gift: People are fighting over your Canto General.

It is completely sold out and we will re-publish it.

Thank you for these poems, which inspire us to keep fighting for justice. "

It is important to speak for the weakest.

My dear comrades: I recently heard the recording you sent me.

My Canto General speaks for the weakest in this world.

lam very gratified to publish the book in Chile.

And now...listen to someone who has become a great friend:

Mario Ruoppolo would like to tell you about this beautiful island.

Good morning.

No, in here!

Good morning...

Something about this island?

One of the wonders of your island.

Yes, very good!

Read it to me!

Read it to me, Father. For now I have locked her up at home. Read it to me.

It's a poem...

A poem.

Naked!

Madonna!

Madonna!

- Your eyes... - What?

...are like suns.

- I lack the time... - What are you talking about?

...to celebrate your hair...

...and praise each and every one.

The lines of the moon, blue night...

Your smile, lines of moonlight,

like the blue of a night in Cuba.

- Good-bye! - Wait!

I can't.

Good-bye...

Chile, the blood of your sons,

spilled again.

So many, many are dead,

bound, wounded, betrayed, buried.

Tell me Earth, tell me Sea:

How much blood must still flow?

How many tears must still be shed?

Sometimes, when I am alone, I see coffins sail off,

with pale cadavers,

and women with dead braids,

and I see graves full of silent bones,

like a bark without a dog!

Chile, I am far away from you, my love.

I want to weep, and fade into your night of ore.

On my return I will tie myself...

...to the prow of your terrestrial ship,

and thus we'll sail, together,

until you cover me...

...forever,

until you cover me...

...forever.

My love, come! Promise me:

Should this exile outlast me, return my ashes...

...to my land, my sea.

And you promise me...

...that we'll return together...

...to live our love,

and spread hope.

I understand that your kisses are never to be mine.

I understand that in your eyes I shall never see myself.

And I love you, and in my mad and ardent ravings...

...bless your scorn, adore your indifference.

And I love you, and in my mad and ardent ravings...

...| bless your scorn, adore your indifference.

And rather than love you less...

...| worship you ever more.

I came to see you about an important matter!

Mario Ruoppolo has poisoned my niece with metaphors!

No!

Yes! Read, read this!

She was hiding it in her bra!

Naked...

Lines of moonlight...

It's very beautiful.

Well, tell him if he comes back...

...|'|| shoot him!

Do you understand!

Do you understand?

Help me, Don Pablo! What should I do?

Only you can know.

Only you!

Beatrice,

Beatrice,

radiant blue...

He is calling me.

Mario is calling me.

I will go with him...

- Your smile... - Spreads...

- ...spreads in your face, - ...in my face,

- of moon... - over my blue face...

...of blue night, like the blue night of Cuba!

Naked...

...you are blue.

- Beautiful... - Yours...

- ...forever. - ...yours.

Mine forever...

Naked, you are blue...

- ...beautiful, - ...yours,

- small. - transparent.

- Naked... - Butterfly...

- ...your smile... - ...spreads...

- mover your body... - mover my face...

...like the Cuban night.

She'd say:

"| only ask Jesus...

...to let me live...

...to see my son...

...with ajob, a wife, and a son."

She did not live to see it,

the Lord called her to him...

...but from heaven...

...she will be happy to see Mario.

Mario. Give the toast.

Friends...

Beatrice Ruoppolo!

Bravo! To the newlyweds!

And now I want to toast my friend Mario and tell him...

...what a pleasure it was to have contributed to his happiness!

Bravo! Health to the newlyweds!

This song is for the newlyweds!

If you want to take to the air...

...wear petals of roses.

Be like your soul mate,

the butterfly,

wear petals of roses.

For you, Don Pablo.

Look, my love! We can return!

Return to Chile!

That shotgun was useless!

Calm down, Donna Rosa! What's done is done!

Don't announce this today. It will be sad news for Mario.

If you want to take to the air, wear petals of roses...

You have blue lines of moonlight!

He is calling me...

Your face is blue.

We'll go home...

Long live the newlyweds!

To your health! Long live the newlyweds!

No, Don Pablo, really, no.

But tomorrow you'll be out of work.

No, I don't want anything.

I will miss you.

l, too.

Will you write me sometimes?

Of course!

Things change very fast in my country.

Today they allow me to return...

...but tomorrow something happens...

...| might have to escape again.

I will leave some things. If you could watch them...

I'll let you know where to send them.

Better if I take them myself to Chile!

A brilliant idea!

I discovered another poet who wrote about Beatrice.

He's called D'Annunzio.

- Do you know him? - Yes.

You...

...could have written one, too!

Mario, I will miss you!

Good-bye, Don Pablo.

Good-bye.

What is it?

Look! He is in Russia! Giving an award!

In Russia? An award?

Yes, he's in Russia. Perhaps he can visit us then.

He's a very busy man. He has many people he couldn't see while in exile.

He has no time to come here.

That's a good picture.

”The young poet Milovan Perkovic...

...was awarded a prize by the Maestro.”

- Can I keep it? - No, you can't! I will keep it with the others.

There you can look at it whenever you like.

Vote for Di Cosimo! Water! Vote for Di Cosimo!

Vote! Di Cosimo! The candidate for your water!

For our island!

Neruda is in Paris!

- In Paris? - An interview with intellectuals. Listen:

In Italy l was very happy!

It was a solitary life with no pressure.

The most simple people in the world.

What do you miss most?

The beaches, the flowers, and the rocky coasts. The Italian sea!

- Go on. - That's it.

Oh, that's it.

He doesn't mention us!

Why should he mention us in an interview?

He is a poet, and poets speak about nature,

and not about the people they know.

The well-fed bird flies away. He has forgotten us!

What are you saying?

Di Cosimo won!

The Christian Democrats won in all of Italy!

We won!

We won! In all of Italy!

- In all of Italy! - Impossible!

- They won in all of Italy? - In all of Italy?

That's what they say.

If only Don Pablo were here!

Who knows where he is? And what he is doing?

This is a tragedy! We were counting on two years of work!

We made plans, we borrowed money!

I'm sorry. It's a pity to abandon the work.

I hope to restart it again in the future.

In the future!

Pay no attention to him! Nothing will change if we wait for them to do it!

Watch out, Communist!

Mario, I have to tell you something!

- I'm pregnant. - Really? - Yes.

We need to leave here!

No one understands us! They are all ignorant!

Pregnant!

We'll go to Chile,

for Pab|ito's sake.

So he grows up there and breathes poetry.

In Chile there are rivers, silver-lakes, mountain-ranges, it's America!

A letter from Chile!

- Open it! - Wait.

It's the first letter I've ever received.

"Santiago, 15th of October, 1953. Dear Sir: I ask you to send me the objects...

"belonging to Mr. Pablo Neruda, which you will find

in the house he lived in during his stay in Italy.

With best regards, The secretary of Pablo Neruda."

And for you? Not a word, no greeting! It's been a year since he left!

ltold you! The well-fed bird flies away.

People are only nice when they need you!

Well-fed bird! Need me for what!

What did I do for him?

I was the one who always asked for help.

Don Pablo, what is a metaphor?

Show me a poem!

I bothered him...

...with nonsense.

And you say I was useful?

What did I do for him?

He saw that I was no poet,

and he still treated me like a friend.

It's not true that you're no poet. And I won't name him Pablito.

What has he got to do with it?

Why, you think I'm a poet? Did I ever write a poem?

Mario, stop it.

Admit it. Why should he remember me?

As a poet I'm no good.

As a mailman, communist, even less.

It was to be expected.

Tomorrow we'll send the remainder of his things off.

I understand that your kisses are never to be mine.

I understand that in your eyes I shall never see myself.

- Good morning. - No, in here!

Good morning...

- Something about this island? - One of the wonders of your island.

Yes, very good!

Are you sure this is going to work?

If it works inside,

it'll work outside.

It works!

Go ahead!

One, number one:

Small waves.

Two: waves, big waves.

Strong wind.

Sea going over the rocks.

The cliffs.

Bells! The Cathedral on Sundays.

Nets...

...sad nets.

Stars in the sky...

Dawn over the sea!

- You can hear everything! - Really?

Pab|ito's heart!

- You can hear everything! - Really?

Pab|ito's heart!

- Pab|ito's heart! - We're not calling him Pablito!

You can hear everything!

That's not his name!

- How strange... - What?

It feels like we came back home.

The sound of the wind, the smell of the sea.

It's like coming back to myself,

to poetry, after a long journey.

Here we lived...

...our most intense love.

Yet supposedly we were living in exile.

Exile begins when you stop loving.

Give me a kiss.

Yes, my love.

And now let's find Mario!

And Beatrice!

Hi, what's your name?

Pablito, come to mama!

Go play in your room, I'll come get you soon.

When I told him about my pregnancy,

he was so happy!

"We'll call him Pablito, so that he listens to poetry and learns it."

We were very happy.

Mario wrote all the time,

I liked that.

He dreamt of going to Chile!

He missed you...

It made him very sad...

He talked about giving voice to the most unprotected people,

to the fishermen, their sad nets...

The injustice shocked him.

It broke his heart!

At a communist demonstration

he was invited to read a poem.

- Rise, you poor people of this world! - I did not want him to go...

- Stand up, you slaves without bread! - ...but he wouldn't listen.

- Let reason make you march! - Don Pablo would be proud of me.

Oppression will end.

- The world will change. - Pablito never knew him.

- Oppression will end! - A riot broke out...

The police came. Mario was trapped.

Together we'll achieve redemption!

Comrades! Let our friend Mario Ruoppolo pass...

...he came to recite a poem, dedicated to the great master Pablo Neruda!

Mario, I don't want you to go!

- Rise, you poor people of this world! - Comrades!

Stay calm! The police have just arrived!

Don't run! Some people are trapped! Watch out!

Don't go! Pablito is coming!

- Stay calm! It's a poem! - I'm feeling sick!

- A poem! Watch out! - Together we'll achieve redemption!

Comrades...| come to read a poem dedicated to the great poet Pablo Neruda...

I see sometimes, when I am alone,

coffins sail off with the pale cadavers...

And now you Mario,

laid out, you leave forever.

Mario left this book and recording...for you.

Dear Don Pablo,

it's me, Mario.

I hope you remember me.

- A poem! Watch out! - Together we'll achieve redemption!

I could not think of anything.

But now I know, and so I send you these words.

When you left, Don Pablo,

I felt as if all beautiful things...

...had left with you...

...but now I realize...

...what I have here.

Don Pablo, I wrote a poem.

But I'm not including it, I feel embarrassed.

I was invited to read it in public.

It's about the sea that you taught me to love.

lam dedicating it to you, from your friend Mario.

It's a song.

If you had not entered my life,

I would have never written it.

It is for you...

...and, if my voice trembles,

it is the sea weeping.

The sea...