All language subtitles for Falsche Bewegung.1975.720p.BluRay.AVC-mfcorrea_Subtitles02.ENG

WRONG MOVE

I want you to go away.

I'm selling out to a supermarket
and will give you part of it.

No...

don't say anything, Wilhelm dear.

Wait till you have to.

And don't lose that unrest
and discontent of yours.

You'll need it if you want to write.

I'll enjoy life from now on.

I'll be smoking
when I cross the square.

I'll be drinking a martini
in the Heider Hof

while reading your letters.

I'll say, “With ice, please,”
when I order the martini.

I'm not desperate,
just angry and fed up.

It's as if I had no tongue.

I haven't spoken for two days.

Yet in my sleep I'm talking
all the time, says Mother.

I want to be a writer,

but is that possible
when you don't like people?

If only I could write. Write!

Bye.
Do you have an evening show?

No.

Janine.

I wanted to see you again.

I can't look at you in that outfit.

You've got something there.

No, here.

In the course of time...

The day I left my hometown,
it seemed alive for the first time,

though only with the dreariness
of those left behind.

Janine and my insult
about her barkeeper outfit...

I had already forgotten.

Mother had packed my suitcase.

On top she had put two books:

Life of a Good-For-Nothing
by Eichendorff,

and Sentimental Education
by Flaubert.

I decided not to withdraw my arm
if she'd link arms in the street,

as I 'd always do for passers-by.

In the taxi, she suddenly told me
not to be intimidated

if people pointed out how useful
a doctor or carpenter was

and how useless my life was.

People with restricted professions
reminded her of dried-up snails.

I listened,

but my thoughts
weren't with her anymore.

Your ticket.

In your other hand, Mother.

Why did you choose Bonn?

I leafed through the novel
you read recently.

I'm fond of you, Wilhelm.
Please don't forget me.

I left her to a fate
I didn't believe in for myself.

I imagined the taxi driver asking her
whether he should take her home.

By herself, she'd take the bus.

I felt like combing my hair
in the train window,

but then I rather waited
for the train to leave.

Later, somewhere else,
I would remember her better

when she'd be far away.

I hated that thought and forgot it.

It was a nice, peaceful day.

The gulls that had screamed
above the sea flew silently overland.

The canal we were passing
was already a memory.

I began to think ahead,

intending to find out more
about myself during this journey.

Someone's nose must have bled
on the seat across from mine.

LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING
by Joseph von Eichendorff

“Chapter One.

The wheel of my father's mill was
once more turning and whirring merrily.

The melting snow trickled
steadily from the roof,

and sparrows chirped
and hopped about.

I sat on the doorstep
and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

It felt great in the warm sunshine.

Then Father came out of the house.

He'd been busy in the mill
since daybreak,

and his nightcap...
his nightcap was awry.”

Hey, what's that?

The woman who filled you
with such longing...

is Therese Farner.

She's an actress.

You'll want to know
why my nose is bleeding.

It is the memory.

Maybe I'll tell you about it
at breakfast tomorrow.

You know
the story of St. Januarius,

whose blood is kept
in a church in Naples?

It becomes fluid
once a year and stirs...

on the anniversary
of his death.

Where are you going?

Bonn.

There's only one ticket.

No, you aren't dreaming.

Two tickets are missing.

You can pay for your companions
on the train, of course.

Something terrible
happened to me today.

Only half price for the girl!

I'm still confused.

When I had left the house,
I noticed I'd forgotten my umbrella.

But no, I had opened it.

I had odd socks on too.

No, I can't do it.
It was indescribable.

Was it raining?

No, that wasn't the point.

I recognize that salute
from old newsreels.

Go on. Thank the gentleman
for your ticket.

Have you decided on something?

I was thinking maybe minced veal,
dumplings, and salad for three.

We'll drink a beer
and an orange juice.

Eichinger - I mean the conductor -
gave me a note for you.

“Carriage 83, compartment 3,
window seat.”

It can only be for you.
Certainly not for me.

What profession did you give?

I'm a singer.

And she's a street performer.

WRITER

Good night.

That afternoon,
seeing the woman on the train

seemed a big adventure already.

I thought I'd regret it
the rest of my life

if I didn't pursue it.

Get me 06351 -7270, please.

But now, in this ordinary room
with its bulky bed,

plastic wastebasket,
and neon light over the sink,

I was as deflated
as my surroundings.

I was even practicing
what I would say on the phone.

For example,
“I'm dying to see you.”

I tried to shake off the compulsion.
I would not start blabbing.

If she said nothing,
I would say nothing too.

I looked down onto the square.

All of a sudden
I had the urge to write.

It would take my mind off her.

This thought made the fear
of a new person go away.

I wanted
to get to know her voice.

I hoped it'd be as clear
as her gaze at me on the train.

Afterwards I'd write,
in great detail.

“For the last two nights
I haven't dreamed.

I haven't cut my nails
for over a week.

I've worn the same shoes
for a month.

And I haven't thought
about dying for years.

I've always felt everything
would go on the same without me.

But since I met you,
I know what's happening to me.”

Could you make
a song from that?

If you let me have the poem.

I'll tell you my story soon.

Maybe tonight.

Just a hint.
I ran in the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

The 100 meters race.

You refused to shake hands
with Jesse Owens, just like your Führer.

I only got to the semifinals.

But...

I probably wouldn't have shaken
a black man's hand.

And now?

We'd better go for a walk.

I wanted to start writing
today for real.

But I dreamed so much last night

that it's impossible now
to write about anything else.

And just writing
about dreams is -

I want to write something
that's absolutely necessary.

Necessary like a house...

or a glass of wine
in the evening.

Even more necessary.

On the way here I noticed

that Germany
still has landscapes.

I wanted to stop...

but kept on going faster.

I wanted to go
for a walk with you,

leave the city.

We were just doing that.

I wanted to talk to you.

Nothing in particular.
Just talk.

But suddenly -

You want to be alone with me?

Not now.

It's good -

it's good we have company.
Otherwise it would be worse.

This way, I at least feel
as if I had a secret.

Do you have any idea
what pain is?

Do you pigs know
how a plane rushes

through your brain?

This way!

So many things
are strange to you.

I like that about you.

I don't think
you could write otherwise.

What I don't like is...

that you think
only you can be that way.

Grant that to others too.

Excuse me.

I heard you reciting poetry
in the hotel today.

I write poetry myself,

so I followed you
to ask you for your opinion.

May I recite something?

“I lay still half asleep

when I heard the bells ringing.

One struck so hard
as if it struck me.

I was so miserable
that my skin peeled off.

I felt I was not even a shadow
in the entire cosmos.

It was terrible.

Like a jellyfish,
without any form,

I was gliding
through the spheres.”

Nobody's serving here.

“A child stepped on me

like on snail-infested,
gelatinous, rotting mold.

I yearned to spurt myself
into the gutter.

I belonged in a butcher shop,

transparent
and trembling in aspic.

I fell through a trap door
into a last dream...

and hung there
like a piece of meat on a hook.

And a hanged man with a sign
that read 'I am a traitor'

convulsed as myself
from a plum tree.

From my terror-stricken stiff member
sperm was shooting

and dripping on a white sheet.

Since then I've been living
under a bell jar,

my rotting consciousness
steaming up the glass.

Why must there be...

between me and the world

such a huge difference?”

I should introduce myself.

My name is Bernhard Landau.

I'm Austrian.

I've never amounted to much...

and I hope it'll stay that way.

I get injured once a year.

This year I fell
on the edge of a chair

and gashed
the corners of my mouth.

It's already healed.

An uncle of mine owns a big bakery.
He has an estate in the area.

We could all stay with him.

He wanted to be a composer

and suffers now and then
from being a capitalist.

But I think those people

are the real capitalists.

Put your gun away, Uncle,
or we'll shoot back.

It's me, Bernhard from Vienna.

I have some friends with me.

We'd like to stay the night.

This isn't my uncle.

And it's the wrong house.

It's the wrong time too.

I don't actually know you...

but I'm glad you came.

There's plenty of room.

Stay as long as you like.

I'd just shoved
this rifle into my mouth...

when I heard the car,
and I waited...

hoping it would stop.

I live here all alone.

My wife hanged herself
three months ago.

That's why the house
is such a mess.

I was going to redecorate,
change everything.

She often wished for a machine

to stretch all the tendons
of her body.

I couldn't help her.

In the end
I even started praying.

I've been alone long enough.

I feel like reading
the papers again.

Come in the other room.

I'd like to talk about loneliness.

I don't believe it even exists.

It's more of an artificial feeling
induced from outside.

Once...

I sat in this room
in a profound stupor.

Cigarette stubs
from the night before

lay in the ashtray.

“So I must have
sat there last night

as stupidly as today,”
I thought

“Yesterday I sat there,
today here.”

And this vision of myself

moved me so much

that I felt caressed
all of a sudden.

That, then, was loneliness.

I was proud with loneliness,

enthused by it.

Drenched in loneliness.

I produced
a similar loneliness one night

sitting outside on the terrace.

I drank a bottle of wine,

and time passed effortlessly.

People were passing by
in the distance...

and looked across at me.

“How lonely I must seem to them,”
I thought.

At once I was again cradled

in an artificial,
manipulated loneliness.

It's just a theatrical state...

that arises at the moment

when you see yourself
as an actor of your own self.

And yet...

it's these moments
of hypocritical loneliness

that make me feel reborn.

That's the paradox of loneliness:

that overwhelming feeling...

of security...

that I then experience.

You were going to reveal
your secret to us.

I'm too tired.

Let's put it off till tomorrow
when we go for a walk.

Come, Mignon.

She's called Mignon?

I never knew that.
- You never asked her.

She's been waiting
all this time for you to ask.

Wilhelm.

I'm going upstairs now.

Will you be coming?

Yes, you know I will.

I'll stay down here for a while.

I'm disgruntled because
I've written nothing today.

He's done with his poetry.

But I don't want
to remain unsatisfied.

Look in on me.

And I'm glad...

I found you people.

Good night.

A self-portrait of my wife.

I'd just like to talk a bit

about loneliness
here in Germany.

I think it's more hidden

and at the same time

more painful than elsewhere.

What's responsible for it
could be the history of ideas here.

They were all seeking
a way of life

that could help overcome fear.

The propagation of virtues

like courage, endurance,
and diligence

was only meant
to distract from fear.

Let's say it was that way.

Philosophy could be used,
more than anywhere else,

as an ideology of the state...

so that the necessarily
criminal methods

for overcoming fear

could even be legalized.

Fear is considered vain...

and shameful.

That's why loneliness in Germany

is masked by all those
treacherously lifeless faces...

that haunt supermarkets,
recreational areas,

pedestrian zones,
and fitness centers.

The dead souls of Germany.

“A boy knows no fear,”
my parents told me.

I refuse to overcome my fear.

I hope you'll like it here.

It was touching to see
the way you listened to me.

Maybe that exists:
wanting to write without knowing what.

Just like wanting to walk.

Yes, not writing itself,
but wanting to write is the need.

Not loving, but wanting to love.

I'm going upstairs.

Are you there?

I dreamed I was ice-skating.

On a frozen sea.

It was the North Sea.

I was quite far out.

I couldn't get back...

and I kept skating
straight ahead.

I was very afraid.

The worst was
the grating of the ice skates...

behind me on the ice.

“This isn't my dream at all,”
I kept thinking all the time.

I dreamed you had to die.

As a precaution
you were supposed to go...

to a mausoleum
a few hours earlier

below the main street.

A child was to keep you
company till you died.

The child stood next to you...

and the mausoleum
was sealed with a large stone.

I dreamed
of the absolute darkness...

in which the child, till you died...

had to stand next to you.

It was my child.

I dreamed I lay
on the bed in my room...

seeing the whole time
the wall with the door.

I kept waking up...

and really seeing the wall
with the door in front of me.

As soon as I fell asleep...

I'd dream of it again,

almost exactly the way
I'd just seen it in reality.

Except it was...

closer to me.

I had to vomit.

I'm sorry.

Now in daylight
I can't remember my dream.

Though right now,
when I reached for the sugar bowl,

it gave me a start.
I almost remembered.

It seems so significant.

And you, Mignon?

She thinks dreams are ridiculous.

A man screams at me in a fury

“Rosenthal! I've got you now!”

He grabs me by the collar

And bashes four of my teeth in

Then that man spits in my face

I think to myself, “Who cares?”

My name's not even Rosenthal

That's none of my business

When it's my turn to die one day

I'll enter the coffin cheerfully

And because I have
so many friends

I'll lie there upside down

I'll lie on my belly quietly

And think whatever I like

Maybe someone
will come visit me

But that's none of my business

Can a person write
if he's alienated from politics?

If you could describe
how the alienation came about.

It only shouldn't appear natural.

Then I'll have to tell
the history of the Western world.

Of course.

In a way, politics only escaped me
when I started writing.

I tried to write politically but realized
I didn't have the words for it.

The words that existed
had nothing to do with me.

I felt nothing and thought,
“I didn't write that!”

I wrote as progressive
politicians speak.

Only...

more helpless, as I didn't act,

and more pointed,
out of helplessness.

A good reason
to become politically active...

and drop writing altogether.

But it was through writing
that I realized

I couldn't formulate
my needs politically.

Politicians never aroused them,
only poets.

What does the world care
about your personal needs?

Everybody has
highly personal needs.

For me,
they're the only real needs.

But they're unfulfillable...

compared with those needs
that politics deals with.

If only...

If only politics and poetry...

could be united.

That would mean
the end of longing,

and the end of the world.

Last night I saw you lying
on the floor by your bed

with a sort of whip
in your hand.

What are you atoning for?

It's time for your story.

Earlier, on the terrace,
I sang a Jew's song.

Your friend's?

I killed him.

Remember the salute
the train conductor gave

when he left me on the train?

He was my adjutant in Vilna.

I saved some Jews too,
if they were professionally qualified.

Can you swim?

How do you know I can't?

I was hoping so.

Walking like this, I feel I could
cover miles in a single step.

Then I even understand
your distaste for politics, Wilhelm.

For me,
nature is of vital importance.

It makes me forget
the entire past.

Those innocent campfires
of my youth.

We cast sticks
to foretell the future.

We leaped through the fire laughing,
without a care.

We still rejoiced over the potatoes
we baked in the campfire...

whereas
the spoiled kids of today

think it's a big adventure
to barbecue a suckling pig

in their parents' gardens.

I'm still trying
to remember my dream.

I know it has something
to do with my uncle.

A short poem just came to mind.

A sort of haiku.

In writing, observation
is better than inspiration.

Do you want to hear it or not?

I just thought of a story.

Tell me.

You say your poem first.

It's called “Lovingly.”

“Lovingly.

Lovingly

the mother watches

her children eat.”

A poem by Bernhard Landau.

Very good.

My story is also quite short.
It goes something like this:

“He finally got around
to saying he loved her.

At the moment he said,
'I love you,'

she happened to use a toothpick.
He hated her forever from then on.”

Did he marry her, then?

Of course,
once he said he loved her.

You must bring that in
to round the story off.

Otherwise it's just a punch line.

Also, I'd give them both names.

“He" and “she"...

are just figures from a joke.

- What should I call them?
- Anton and Martha.

“Anton was finally able
to tell Martha that he loved her.”

it's turning into a novel.

You didn't look for me.

Yes, I did look for you.

Your face is so soft.

That's how sad you are.

Yes.

Don't say what you're thinking.

You had so much to tell.

I want to be alone
with you today.

I'm not afraid anymore,
the way I usually am.

I made up
that dream about skating.

I just felt that way.

I realized that and looked away
while you were telling it.

Did you see
those feathers on the path?

Yes. Why?

Did you notice anything?

I didn't look properly.

A yellow beak was underneath.

There's a lot you don't notice.

True.

I have to make
a conscious effort to observe.

Everyone else notices
more details than me.

Yet you want to live as a writer?

I know I haven't got
the so-called power of observation.

But I believe I have...

the gift of a sort
of erotic view.

Suddenly I notice something
that I've always missed,

and not only do I see it,
but I get a feeling for it.

That's what I call
an erotic view.

I then write
not just an observation

but an experience.

That's why I insist
on being a writer.

Something has to happen.

It's all so matter-of-fact.

Finished. Closed up.

I don't want to walk anymore.

It feels like we're putting things off.

Let's do something.

Have you ever wanted
to kill someone?

No.

I have.

As a child
I had a real bloodlust.

I've got it again right now.

I wouldn't even use a weapon.

Just my bare hands.

What do you mean?

I know who you mean.

I just remembered my dream.

Our host ran
along a coast road.

A man with a camera pursued him.
Our host shouted..

“Long live
the world's exploited masses.”

Then he leapt over the railing
and plunged below.

Far below was the sea.

I had to look at the film as a witness...
- Let's go.

Let's go. I'm scared.

The cameraman
who filmed the plunge -

At times I stared into space

without looking at anything.

Then I shut my eyes,

and only by the afterimage
I realized

what had been in front of me.

When I'm writing,
I shut my eyes and see things clearly

that I wouldn't notice
with my eyes open.

After the suicide of the industrialist
whose presence had so stimulated me,

it seemed we had all
lost direction.

The journey through Germany
I had so far experienced

as an adventure and work
was interrupted,

and we moved on
in a stupid panic.

Bernhard disappeared without
explanation at the service area.

The rest of us stayed together,
but we too were moving apart.

Can you still run as fast
as you did at the Olympics?

In the evening
we reached the Taunus foothills,

where Therese had an apartment
on the tenth floor.

Feces lay in the lobby,

and the woodwork of the elevator
was carved with genital symbols.

Therese said
she'd only just moved in.

Her apartment walls
were still roughcast.

In the distance you saw
the Frankfurt skyline.

I wanted to sleep with her,

but maybe it was just an urge
to get a grip on things.

I felt an aimless rage
directed at the old man,

using his past
as an excuse to myself.

She's not a child anymore.

I know.

What?

What do you know?

Everything.
I could tell at once.

Never mind.

I envy you, Wilhelm.

Me?

You don't worry about anything,
at least usually.

I know it embarrasses you...

but I can't help liking you a lot.

Why?

Sorry.

You know what I think is funny?

That just now your stubble
was scratching me...

and you were panting on my shoulder,
your mouth wide open.

And now you're making
that serious face.

Your ridi-

Your detached pose
is quite ridiculous.

Instead of becoming desperate,
I just got more dull.

So I only stared stupidly
at those who were really desperate.

Yet I moved
through the cement landscape

like one who cared, the hero.

I have to pay 20 marks on top?

Out of the question!

We don't have
any money with us either.

All this homework!
I'm sick of it.

Math and all the other stuff...

I couldn't grasp how all these people
in the supermarkets,

on the playgrounds,
behind the windows of the high-rises,

in this country,
and not only here,

put up with life.

Are you learning set theory too?

It's so boring!

Quantity A plus quantity B
equals quantity C.

I have a friend on the third floor.

Mine's on the eighth.

I used to have one
in the penthouse.

I have this feeling
of total absurdity.

No sooner do I try to learn
a line in this play here...

than I see this matchbox...

and wonder why it doesn't
appear in the play.

It's so artificial...

expressing yourself
with other people's words.

Only by remembering
for a long time...

does a text
sometimes make sense.

Because I remember...

having experienced
something similar.

I had just forgotten.

If I remember, I can act

without that suffocating feeling

of not understanding my actions.

After this memory work,
I enjoy being onstage,

and I'm happy doing it.

But if I don't manage
to remember,

I act like a machine.

In the last show
I suddenly got stuck...

even though I knew the text
entirely by heart...

and the prompter whispered it.

Being a parrot is humiliating...

I've always thought.

Are you listening?

Being a parrot is humiliating.

Help me, Wilhelm, or leave.

It disgusts me
that everything leaves you cold.

Yesterday you envied me for it.

But today it makes me sick.

I could -

Kill me.

Go ahead.

Maybe I can learn
something from you.

Beat me to death.

You disrupt...

my writing.

You talk about yourself
and your troubles at work,

not realizing
I'm actually working.

Then I'm like you and your matchbox
that isn't in the text.

And I can't go on writing,
because I feel...

what you've just said
should appear in my writing.

So...

leave me in peace.

You weren't even listening.

I was...

but I kept thinking
I was missing out on my writing.

You're a Pig!

Don't say that, Therese.

Say something.

You look revolting
when you're silent.

What are you writing?

I'm writing a story
about someone who is a kind man...

but also incapable of any pity.

I want to prove that compassion
and pitilessness go together.

I think it'll become
a political story.

Where can you go boating
around here?

On the Main.

In that case,
we'll go boating tomorrow

and take the old man.

We'll leave Mignon here.

She'll have to get used
to being alone.

He committed suicide.

He hanged himself in the room
behind the pastor's apartment.

It was a terrible end.

I was unable to help Therese.

My work was merely a pretext,

knowing too well
it couldn't really be called work

if I wasn't open for Therese
at the same time.

I had only showed off to her.

Are we rowing here?

Wilhelm!

I've changed a lot since then.

It's not just that I sleep
on the bare floor.

I have back pain anyway.

Times were different then.

You must understand that.

We differentiated, like you now,
between the natural and politics.

Defending the natural
against politics

led to the most atrocious politics.

You really can't swim?

Wilhelm.

Please, Wilhelm!

Let me live, Wilhelm!

I know you want to move on.
Take me with you.

I can imitate animals.

And I'm a good cook!
From halibut to liver dumplings.

“Rosenthal! I've got you now!”

The water used to be pure
and clear here, right?

It was different then,
with the cat...

When are you leaving?

Tomorrow.

How did you find out?

You've been making slips recently.

That made me realize
your thoughts were elsewhere.

Where will you go?

I just saw a photo
of the Zugspitze in the paper.

I've never been there.

Never been on a mountain
as high as that.

A rack railway is going up there.

What if I ask you to stay?

I know I shall love you
very much one day...

Therese.

Mignon...

I'm leaving tomorrow.

You must decide
for yourself what to do.

Your friend isn't going
to show up anymore.

So how do we part then?

Somewhere in the crowd.

Where is your crowd?

I'm disappointed too.

I thought it would be so busy

that we couldn't even walk
alongside each other.

Shall we meet again?

Necessarily.

The parents who left
their child #37 in the nursery,

please come
and get it there. I repeat.

I told Therese I wanted
to stay in Germany

because I knew too little
to write about it.

But that was only a pretext.

In reality, I just wanted to be alone
to live in my stupor on my own.

I stood on the Zugspitze waiting
for an experience like a miracle.

But there was no snowstorm.

Why had I run away?
Why was I here and not with the others?

Why did I threaten the old man
and not let him tell me more?

I felt I had missed out
on something

and continued to miss out

with every new move.
WRONG MOVE