All language subtitles for kafka.2024.s01e02.subbed.480p.web.x264.rmteam

We really should
start elsewhere.

Is he still coming?

He's always late.

An hour.
I'm starting to worry.

- Who are you expecting?
- Max's meshuggener friend.

We're not really expecting him.

We just know he'll show up
eventually, he always does.

Yes, he doesn't like to be
at home much.

The young lady is
Felice Bauer from Berlin.

Formerly a typist,
she was quickly promoted.

She's visiting
her relatives in Prague,

the family
of the famous writer Max Brod.

She isn't exactly a woman
of the world, but...

Sorry, that didn't sound...

I mean, she's a down-to-earth,

practical and intelligent woman.

She's independent, something
that was still rare in those days.

For a lost soul,
she might represent salvation.

- I hope nothing's happened to him.
- You aren't responsible for him.

Actually, I am, now that
he's actually bringing out a book.

He doesn't have your kind of talent,
Max. All friendship aside.

A strange fellow.

You have to imagine, Felice, one day,
I'm lying on the sofa fast asleep.

He enters,
wakes me up, and says,

"Please consider me a dream."
Then he walks out.

Who knows, Max, someone
who thinks up things like that

just might end up
as famous as you.

Please excuse me.
I've kept everyone waiting.

- I've disappointed you.
- Nonsense!

I always disappoint people.

- Franz Kafka.
- Felice Bauer.

The cousin
of my brother-in-law in Berlin.

You have
a brother-in-law in Berlin?

Every important person has
a brother-in-law in Berlin.

- Would anyone like to eat?
- No, I've stopped.

What do you mean?

There's nothing worse
than people eating all the time.

Like animals at the zoo.

- That's the book?
- That's going to be the book.

Hopefully never.

Franz, that will be your book.
There's no turning back.

There's never been
a turning back.

We're going to choose
the short stories for the book.

We have free rein.
I set up the contract for him.

- You've convinced us, Brod.
- You have.

To be precise,
you convinced him.

That's enough.
I'm the literary expert.

Hear that? Wolffs the expert,
I'm the businessman.

A publisher needs both.

A bean counter and an artistic man
with a nose for talent.

Nicely put, my dear Rowohlt.

So send us something soon,
dear Kafka.

We have a new list to fill, we'll
print almost anything. You're in luck.

We don't even read it first.

- He doesn't.
- At least I admit it.

- Others always act artistic.
- Who do you mean?

Once we're back in Prague,
we'll send his Contemplation.

- Contemplation?
- I know we need a better title.

Gentlemen, I'll always be
more grateful to you

for returning my manuscripts
than for publishing them.

What's your book called?

Contemplation.

We wanted
a different title, but...

- Great title.
- It isn't really.

But it is a fitting title.

It's a terrible name
for a terrible book.

Come on, Franz,
don't be so modest.

I'm not.
It really is bad, unfortunately.

- This has to go.
- No, that has to stay.

- It needs to go.
- The book's already too thin.

We've made the selection.

- But not this.
- We've made the selection!

- All this goes in.
- This is an unparalleled catastrophe.

I can't even imagine what it feels
like to be the author of a book.

It's terrible.

A book with such
a beautiful name too.

If the book doesn't suggest a name,
then the name inspires the book.

- You speak Hebrew?
- I'm a Zionist.

Me too, I think.

Of course he is.
He's a reasonable man.

Of all the languages
I haven't mastered,

Hebrew is the most beautiful.

I'm sure you speak
the most beautiful language!

Zionism has become a great task.

I'd call it my mission.

Someday, I'll travel there.

Away from the darkness,
the cobblestones,

from people who hate
the fact that Jews exist.

Away from the pigeons.

The pigeons?

Don't you want to see a country
without pigeon droppings, Max?

Let us climb the Hill of Spring
together, dear lady!

I mean Tel Aviv.
It translates as "Hill of Spring".

I don't speak Hebrew, but since
you do, you must know what I mean.

- So do you speak it or not?
- I can barely even speak German.

I'm crushed between
languages I don't know,

like a fly between the pavement
and someone's shoe.

OK, let's do that then.

If you're serious about it.
Let's go to Tel Aviv.

I've never been more serious
about anything.

Me neither.

THOSE WHO SEEK,
DO NOT FIND.

BUT THOSE WHO DO NOT SEEK
WILL BE FOUND.

My dear lady,

in the very likely case
that you don't recall who I am,

I'll introduce myself again.

My name is Franz Kafka.
I'm the one who greeted you

for the first time that evening
at Director Brod's home in Prague.

Sister.
Hello.

You're late, Felushka.

- How was the trip?
- Very, very nice.

There's a letter for you.

"How did I get-your address?

"First, I was given the name
of a corporation, but I didn't like it.

"Then I got the address
of your apartment, no number,

"and then I got the number.

"Then I was satisfied,
and most certainly did not write to you.

"Besides, I was afraid
the address might be wrong.

"There's nothing sadder than sending
a letter to an uncertain address.

"It's no longer a letter,
it's a sigh.

"But beyond these worries
about your address,

"my lamenting letter suffered terribly
before it was finally written.

"What whims take hold of me!

"A shower of nervousness
rains down upon me incessantly.

"What I want one minute,
I don't want the next.

"I hoard uncertainties
inside myself,

before they take the form
of a small certainty or a letter."

Let's hear about Prag

The Charles Bridge is big.

The stones are old.

And above the city
there's a huge castle.

And when you walk through
the old town...

One of my maladies is
that no matter how neatly

I've compiled things,

I can never write them
down fluently later.

"My memory is very bad,

but even the best memory couldn't
help me write down so much

as a short paragraph I'd thought up
earlier and merely memorised."

And the Brods?
How are they?

Max is a great piano player.

I saw one of his books
in a shop window.

Did you buy it?

Wouldn't that be nice?
He should send us one.

You'd read it then?

I don't like reading.

So if he sends it,
you won't read it,

and if he doesn't send it,
you won't do that?

Leave me be with your jokes.

"I remember one time
I got out of bed.

"To write down
what I had thought of for her.

"But I went straight back
to bed,

"because, and this is another
one of my ailments,

"I reproached myself for the folly
of my restlessness and I told myself

"I could write down
exactly what was in my head

"the next morning.

"Around midnight,
those claims always convince me.

"I must admit one thing.

"It sounds terrible and doesn't fit
with what I said before.

I'm an unpunctual letter writer."

Good morning.

"In exchange, I never expect
letters to be punctual."

- Coffee.
- Thanks, Mother. I have no time.

"Even if I excitedly expect
a letter every day,

"I'm never disappointed
when it doesn't show up.

"And when it does arrive,
I'm shocked.

"I've broadened my life
to include thinking about you.

"And there's scarcely
a quarter of an hour

"in my waking hours
when I'm not thinking of you.

And many quarters of an hour
in which I do nothing else."

They're beautiful letters.

Letter to the Kronnicke Company,
today's date,

to whom it may concern,
regarding the delivery,

as previously discussed,
of 2,758...

And so it went on. Day after day,
week after week, month after month.

No sooner had she finished a letter,
the next would arrive.

- Correction.
- It just didn't stop!

FROM A CERTAIN POINT,
THERE IS NO RETURN.

THAT POINT MUST BE REACHED.

Georg!

Georg!

Georg!

I have some news, Father.

I'm engaged to a young lady,
a girl from a wealthy family.

"He hadn't yet discussed
with his fiancee

"what arrangements they should
make for his father's future.

"For they were
under the unspoken assumption

"that his father would
remain in the old flat.

"Yet he now resolved,
suddenly and firmly,

to give his father a
place in their future household."

Am I covered up well?

Quiet now,
you're covered up well.

No!

"'No!' yelled the father, so that
the answer pushed the question.

"He threw the blanket back
with such force that, for a moment,

it unfolded itself in flight,
and stood upright in bed."

You wanted to cover me up,
I know that, you little rascal,

but I'm not covered up yet.

And even if it is
the last of my strength,

it's enough for you,
it's too much for you.

But fortunately,

no one has to teach a father
to see through his son.

Just when you thought
you'd got him down,

so far down
that you could sit on him

and he wouldn't move,

this son of mine decides
to get married!

Because she lifted her skirts.

Because she lifted her skirts like this,
the disgusting goose.

Because she lifted
her skirts like this

and this and this.

You went after her.

And so that you could satiate
yourself on her undisturbed,

you put your father in bed,

so that he wouldn't
be able to move.

I'll sweep her from your side,

you have no idea how!

You were lying in wait for me.

I sentence you to death
by drowning.

"Georg felt chased
out of the room.

"The crash with which his father
fell onto the bed behind him

"was ringing in his ears.

"My dear parents,
I always loved you.

"At that moment,

a virtually endless stream of traffic
passed over the bridge."

In one night. That's the only way
I can write. The only way.

- I don't know what to say.
- It's because of her.

- She set everything in motion.

I thought writing and marriage”
were mutually exclusive.

But maybe they aren't.

I wrote that in one night,
and if I hadn't met her...

Then you wouldn't have?

Why not?'

Haven't you been listening, Brod?
That's-what the story's about.

And then? Letters. For weeks,
for months, for half a year.

Letters, letters, a love affair
by letter, an engagement by letter,

because in 1913,

when a man and a woman write
so many letters to each other,

they're not pen pals,
they're engaged.

A man you're engaged to,
even though you've only met him once.

A man you're engaged to?,
even though you've only met him once.

What can I get you?

I’d like nuts and goat's cheese.
And a glass of water, please.

Cheese we have, goat we don't.
Water we have.

No cheese then.

- And you, madam?
- I'll just have tea.

- You know we serve food here?
- I don't like eating.

So a plate of nuts for
the glutton here and nothing for you?

What joy.

Thank you for your book, by the way.
I haven't managed to read it yet.

- What are you reading right now?
- Schnitzler. I like him very much.

The Road in the Open,
and Professor Bernhardi, and...

A careening mass of the most
abhorrent drivel.

- What?
- You can't knock him down enough.

Schnitzler?

Your tea, madam.

And nuts for the gentleman.
Enjoy your lavish feast.

Is something wrong with the nut?

Why?

Oh, I see.

It's a chewing technique invented
by Horace Fletcher.

Chew 40 times before swallowing.

That way, most of the digestive process
already occurs in the mouth.

- Thomas Mann wrote to me.
- What did he say?

"Please leave me alone,
or I'll. call the police"?

On 'the contrary.
He congratulated me on my work.

I could be wrong, but as far
as I know, there's no living writer

whom Thomas Mann hasn't
congratulated on his work.

He's probably also congratulated most
of the dead ones. And a few unborn.

How does he find time to write
his novels with all that congratulating?

Franz, why the long face?

- I can't marry her.
- You can't, or you don't want to?

Look, a man whose circumstances
and nature render him utterly unsocial.

Sickly to boot.
A non-Zionist Jew.

So why not finally become
a Zionist?

I'm disgusted by Zionism.
And I admire it very much.

A man excluded from this community
by his non-Zionist Judaism.

Even at his best,
always a terribly tortured soul.

- A man like that should marry?
- Is that really the problem?

Isn't it because
you saw her again and...

- How can I put this delicately?
- You didn't want to lay her?

- You're making this too simple.
- Sometimes it is that simple.

- Come on, Max, let's go.
- With pleasure.

- Good evening, sir.
- Good evening, dear lady.

I'm engaged.

How lovely, Franz.

Congratulations.
Who's the lucky woman?

Dear Dr Kafka,
although we don't know each other,

I'm writing to you

because my friend Felice's
happiness is very dear to me.

She's worried and has asked me
to meet with you.

/As it happens,
I'll be in Prague on business

in early November.

If that's convenient for you,
we could arrange to meet.

It'd enable me to fulfil
my friend's request,

and at the same time meet
an extraordinary person.

It's up to you now, Doctor.
You can't keep her waiting.

I understand that,
dear Ms Bloch.

- You love her, don't you?
- I love her very much.

Then what are you waiting for?

I know Felice in the form of
four practically irreconcilable girls.

The first in Prague.
The second wrote me letters.

- It's all the same Felice.
- The third I met in Berlin.

She didn't seem to like me.

That's natural.
I completely understand.

- Who's the fourth?
- Maybe a good angel is guiding her.

Guiding her ever so closely
or maybe not so closely past me.

The angel is guiding her
to you, Dr Kafka.

You know you belong together.

You're a good friend
to Felice, Grete.

To you too, Dr Kafka!

The fourth Felice is the one
who consorts with strangers,

who I hear about in letters
and in her own stories.

Her company's representative.

Maybe we can get
the four of them together.

But if we got married,

I'd lose my customary
terrible loneliness.

But Felice would lose
her whole life up to now.

She couldn't work anymore.

- What does she stand to gain?
- A wonderful person.

A weak, unsociable, silent, sad,

almost hopeless person.

So she'll get two people
for the price of one.

And so they talk and talk,
and the next day they meet again,

and then
Grete goes back to Berlin,

and they start writing
each other letters too.

He speaks openly with Grete.
She speaks openly with him.

They talk about many things,
especially about Felice,

and it seems to help,
because finally...

Felice Bauer.

The detective called.

We checked things out.

- What?
- You think you can get engaged

and we'll just watch you
made a fool of?

- You think we were born yesterday?
- You set a detective on Felice?

We checked things out.

Her father spent some time living
somewhere else, it seems.

Her brother's a wastrel.

On the whole,
everything seems in order.

Her sister Ema, however,

had an illegitimate child
her mother doesn't know about.

Felice has to pay for her
and the baby's living allowance.

They don't have to know.

Especially the child.
It's nobody's business.

Franz knows.

Grete told him about the baby,
but Felice mustn't know that.

The important thing is
you can marry her now.

Nothing's standing in the way.

Don't take it so hard, Franz.

I'm sure they've also set
a detective on us. It's what happens.

The Kafkas and the Bauers.

Two families, numerous secrets
and hidden catastrophes,

about to become one family.

I recently read Franz's
The Judgment.

Felice told me he wrote it
right after he met her.

Arcadia magazine published it.
I .got a copy of it at the library.

A young man wants to marry,
so his father sentences him to death.

My Franz wouldn't
write something like that.

It’s high time
those two get married.

It's been going on far too long.

If you ask me, madam,
the whole business is absurd.

Why?

Look how thin Franz is„
like a sick bind.

Why would anyone marry him?
At least he has a doctorate!

Go and see Franz.
He's not doing well.

- You think?
- An event like this iisn't his thing.

Connecting with a person is
something' so intimate, so individual,

and here he has to stand
in front of everyone

like an ambassador for himself.
He can't do that.

- You have to know him rather well.
- We talked a lot.

About you and him.

That's sweet of you. I think
we wouldn't even be here without you.

And so I say to him,
how can you be such a nebbish?

You know what he said?

What's wrong with you, Franz?

What is it, why so glum?

A toast to Franz
and his beautiful bride!

Kiss the bride!

- Kiss! Kiss!
- Kiss! Kiss!

A CAGE WENT LOOKING FOR A BIRD.

6 weeks have come and gone.

It's summer in Berlin
and Dr Franz Kafka has returned.

There's much to discuss
before the wedding,

Felice has to move
to Prague, after all.

And none of this
would've happened

without the selfless efforts
of Grete Bloch,

with whom he’s now
constantly in touch.

Letters arrived
up to three times a day.

You heard that correctly.
That's how quick it went.

People could write
to each other incessantly.

And if you were Kafka and
thought you needed help, you did.

You already know what was happening.
And by now Grete knew it too.

"Dear Ms Bloch,
I have a double uneasiness

"because of the impossibility
of answering two questions.

"First, how will Felice feel
if I stop contacting her,

"and secondly, how will I feel?

"Now I've convinced you

"and you've begun to see in me
not Felice's bridegroom,

"but Felice's menace.

"Human organisations
aren't water to be poured

from one glass into another."

Make up your mind.

Eventually you have to
stop tormenting yourself.

If I was healthier and stronger, all
difficulties would’ve been overcome.

You're strong
and persistent, Dr Kafka.

Persistence can also be
the result of despair.

Is everything all right,
Ms Bloch?

He always stays in his favourite hotel
when he's in Berlin.

It's not a nice hotel.

It's the hotel
he's accustomed to staying in.

The Askanischer Hof Hotel.

It's the year 1914.

No one suspects, really no one,
that the Great War is coming.

- Dr Kafka. I made a reservation.
- You're expected.

- Sorry?
- Back room.

- You're mistaking me for someone.
- I don't think so.

Sit down, Franz.

- Felice, what is this?
- Sit down!

And now you're thinking,
that's not how it was,

that can't have happened,
it's like something from...

But think about it.

If you're about to say that it's like
something from a Kafka novel,

then allow me to say this.

Consider for a moment
why that might be.

Grete?

Dr Kafka, you told me things
about my friend Felice

that I couldn't
keep to myself any longer.

You promised Felice
you'd marry her.

And at the same time,
you repeatedly told me,

Dr Kafka, and wrote to me,
the letters are here,

that you don't feel capable
of this marriage.

Both at the same time.
Sometimes on the same day.

You can't deny it, Franz.
I've read the letters.

Two-faced.
There's no other way to put it.

You weren't honest.

What do you have to say?

Go ahead, Dr Kafka. If you say nothing,
you can never make it right.

- Coffee, anyone?
- No, thank you.

I need clarity, Franz.
Your constant misgivings.

The constant postponing
of the wedding.

My family's very worried.
Isn't that so, Ema?

"Worried"?

Yes, certainly.
We're worried.

- Very worried.
- Very.

Be honest for once.
Explain yourself.

You must explain everything!

Say something, Franz!

You really
don't have anything to say?

Someone must have
slandered Josef K.

Because one morning he was arrested
without having done anything.

You can't go out.

Why not?

We're not authorised
to tell you that.

What were they talking about?
What authority could they represent?

K lived in a constitutional state,
peace reigned,

All laws were in force.

Who would dare
to accost him in his own flat?

You're not going to talk?

If you remain silent,
there's nothing I can do for you.

You're sitting in judgement over me.
I'm sure that's abhorrent to you.

It's abhorrent to me too.

In reality, however, I'm sitting
in your seat and I'll not leave it.

I can't force a man
to the registry office against his will.

You're right.

A man who talks about love, but
really only wants to write his books.

Who only becomes talkative

when it comes to vegetarian cuisine,
nuts or exercise.

- Here are my identification papers.
- You're behaving worse than a child.

Are you hoping to bring
this big confounded trial of yours

to a quick end by arguing with us,
your warders?

- That's it then.
- I did everything I could, Dr Kafka.

Good ending, isn't it?

Yes, if it had been a story,

it would've ended after the trial
at the Askanischer Hof.

But because it isn’t a stony,
it continues after that.

Life is so much messier
than any story.

And in the meantime,
there's a war.

Europe is shattered. People are dying
in unimaginable numbers every day.

This is Bodenbach.

A little hotel at the border station
between Austria, Hungary and Germany.

Franz.

It's good to see you again.

It was all very hard.

- So, what now?
- So many months.

I've written a lot.
Do you want to hear something?

Yes.

"This entrance was intended
only for you.

"If there was a contradiction
between those two explanations,

"you'd be right.

The doorkeeper would have
deceived the man."

Is that it?

- He's reading aloud.
- Listen to him.

I don't want to anymore.

I don't want to
listen to him anymore.

"To this doorkeeper comes a man
from the country

"who requests admittance
to the Law.

"But the doorkeeper says that he
can't admit the man right now.

"The man considers, then asks
if he will be permitted to enter later.

"'Possibly, but not right now, '
says the doorkeeper.

"The-door to the Law is open as usual,
and the doorkeeper steps aside,

so the man bends down to peer in
through the doorway."

How well-behaved we both are.

"When the doorkeeper notices this,
he laughs and says,

If you're that tempted, why don't you
try to go in despite my prohibition?

'"But remember this,
I am powerful.

'"And I am only
the lowliest doorkeeper.'

"From room to. room,
doorkeepers stand guard,

"each more powerful
than the last.

"The mere sight of the third is
already more>than even I can bear.

He reads about a man
who spends his life

waiting in front of a door
that was always open.

"For this entrance
was intended only for you.

I will go and close it now.

"I will go and close it now."

My train leaves soon.

I know.

YOU DO NOT NEED TO
LEAVE THE HOUSE.

STAY AT YOUR TABLE AND LISTEN.

Are you all right, madam?

Miss, if you please.
Yes, thank you.

I've had a long train journey.
From Berlin.

- How long were you travelling?
- Almost 2 days.

Do you remember when it took
7 hours to get from Berlin to Munich?

- That was in another life.
- Before the war.

Now every military train
has priority.

There's no electricity
at the stations, it was freezing.

- All that way just for a lecture?
- He is...

I mean, was...

- He's my fiance.
- The man giving today's lecture?

Then tell me please,
why, at a time like this, a writer...

Do you know who that is?

Good evening.

I'm going to read a piece
I've recently finished.

It's probably
not very good, but...

In the Penal Colony.

The condemned
lies on his stomach

on this cotton batting, naked.

The straps here hold him down
- by his arms and his legs.

The face goes there, this small lump
of felt presses just into the mouth.

It stops the-condemned man
biting his tongue to pieces:

If you look here...

Do you understand the procedure?

The machine begins to type.

When it's finished
the first application of the script

onto the condemned man's back,

the cotton layer rolls
and turns the body on its side.

Someone help him!

You used to write such
beautiful things, like Contemplation.

You came all this way, Felice.
Such a long way.

I wanted to listen to you.

- That was unspeakable.
- Thank you.

- I'm Rainer Maria Rilke.
- I know.

This is my fiancee. Ms Bauer.

It's an honour.

Your novella about the stoker is

one of the most powerful
and wondrous pieces

I've ever had
the pleasure of reading.

What merciless rigour,

and what strangely
obscure lucidity of the gaze.

I see that same rigour
in this story.

Blackened into bloodiness,

but what could be more appropriate,
in an age of death?

- You've read The Stoker?
- I've read all your work.

Your The Metamorphosis
awakened nightmares in me.

How can one write such things

and otherwise simply go about
one's daily business?

What do you do all day,
Franz Kafka?

I work in an accident
insurance institute.

Mutilations?

Blood and bloody steel?

In large quantities.

After this evening,
I can't pretend I'm surprised.

And you, madam?
Me?

I'm the representative
of a company in Berlin.

You have a real job of your own?

I have a real job in the same way
you don't have one, Mr Rilke.

- I really don't have one.
- Not everyone can do that.

What does the company
you work for in Berlin do,

tho one where
you're a representative?

We manufacture machines that...

Machines,
the current masters of the world.

I'd have said the same
if I could've said it like that.

But I'll tell you,
the ore will get homesick

and leave the machines
to return to the mountains.

You can wish for that sort of thing,
but it probably won't happen.

No, it won't happen.

God be with you, Franz Kafka.

God bless you.

I fear you'll need it.

With your good lady.

Did you hear that, Felice?
He's read everything!

Everything.

Then, in the last year
of the war...

It's called a haemorrhage.

They say I have tuberculosis,

but I consider this disease
more a general bankruptcy inside me.

They can't both stay alive.

Both?

The one who should've lived with you
and the one who'll do what he has to do.

The task is all-consuming.

One of us has to die, and it can't be
the one who does the work.

"The work"?
You mean the writing?

You make it easy on yourself.

You took my youth
as if it belonged to you.

You wrote me letters
full of beauty, wit and passion.

You bound me to you
as if it were your right.

Then you got scared,
reconsidered,

and constantly talked about
your need to write.

You overestimate yourself.

That's why you make yourself
so small.

- You're my human court, Felice.
- Whatever that's supposed to mean.

So now I'll say
what I've always said,

but today I'm saying it
for the last time.

My train leaves soon.

No goodbye kiss.

Do you remember
the first time we met?

You asked me
if we'd go to Palestine.

Why did we never do that?
If we'd done that...

You think things
would've been different?

They never saw each other again.

- My God, Franz. You're so pale.
- She's left.

What I have to do,
I have to do alone.

What's that supposed to mean?
All of us here are...

There are no marriages here.
None of you are married.

- Even if you think you are.
- What does that mean?

Isn't it terrible
that such things happen?