All language subtitles for Little.Ashes.2008.en

FEDERICO: Dry land,

quiet land of immense night.

Wind in the olive grove.
Wind in the sierra...

IN SPANISH: Does anyone know you?

No.

Make way, make way.

Here we are,
the three musketeers.

Did you miss us?

Luis Buñuel.

It's Luis, sir.
More chic, don't you think?

Published?

I signed it for you.

And he would never have managed it
without your supportive comments.

"Wasting his education
with bad company

and disreputable nightclubs."

My parents were so pleased.

Thank you, sir.
Thank you so much.

"The soul of the west wind."

Hmm.

Just say what you want
to say, Luis.

What? I was having a lovely time

reading about all the butterflies
and trills... and oh, look!

Here's God.

It's just a bit...

Andalusian.

I am Andalusian.

You know what I mean.

You think it's bad.

No, not the writing.
The writing's bloody good.

It's the subject.

What does Federico Garcia Lorca

feel about all these bloody butterflies?

What makes him angry?
What turns him on?

Oh, come on!
Don't be such a prude.

I'm trying to be constructive here.

Removed the flag
in between her legs...

...and waved the flag.

Hoarding all this brilliance
isn't very neighborly, you know.

Name?

Salvador Felipe
Jacinto Dali I Doménech.

Studying?

Fine art.

Clearly.

Interests? Affiliations?

Dada. Anarchy
and the construction of genius.

Whose genius?

My own.

Bravo.

Luis Buñuel.
Pleased to make your acquaintance.

Excuse me for a moment.

Private view at number seven!

LUIS: Where is everyone? Come on!

This here...

- Sergio.
- Hello.

I'll try it.

It's got sugar in it.

Like it?

Ah, look.
A strategically placed copy of Freud.

Very good.
Very good, my friend.

That's Federico.
Resident poet.

Garcia Lorca...

He's famous.

Really? I wonder if he knows.

Come on, let's tell him.
Federico!

My new discovery.

Salvador, may I introduce you
to resident poet, playwright

and another self-titled genius,
Federico Garcia Lorca?

We've met.

Hmm.

You're a cubist.

No.

This is cubist.

You're going to be something else.

I'm putting together a magazine.

Would you let us have this
for the cover?

She's beautiful.

She's dead.

Federico, where have you been?

Have you met Paco?

Hours ago.
What have you been doing?

Trying to find a subject.

Luis thinks I'm in danger
of becoming bourgeois.

Well, you've read the poems,
apparently.

What do you think?

I like them.

Of course you like them.
Everybody likes them.

I just think you should write
about something modern.

Something...

Politics, or the decapitation
of that putrid priest

in Zaragoza, or...

Come on!

Eiffel Tower.

IN FRENCH: Truly! Sex!

Oh...

Aeroplanes.

IN FRENCH:
Yes!

Anything! Everything! Nothing!

[Jazz music plays]

Are you a recent acquisition?

Salvador Felipe Jacinto
Dali I Doménech.

Catchy.

New, but showing
considerable promise.

This is Adela.

Federico the Famous,
where are the drinks?

Federico!

Your hair.

It's gone.

It's wonderful.

And very shocking, apparently,

because my grandfather
refuses to let me in the house.

Quite right. I wouldn't.

I missed you.

The holidays were terrible.
There was no one here.

Nothing to do but read.
I read 80 books.

80?

40.

10, actually.

I missed you, too.

Oh...

This is Salvador.

He's just arrived.

He's a painter.
A very good one.

Well, aren't we lucky to have you!

Champagne.

Champagne, yeah.

You all live like kings.

Surely you're not suggesting
we live like students?

Magdalena is a writer
at the women's college.

What do you write?

I didn't tell you, did I?
I'm getting an apartment.

How on Earth did you get
your parents to agree to do that?

By not telling them.

Our lives are elaborate deceptions.

Anyone got a match?

Spain is rotting from the inside.

Fetid monarchy.
Crass, sentimental, religious culture.

Luis...

Something has to give.
Look at Russia. Look at Paris.

Luis.

A dance, my dove?

- I thought you'd never ask.
- Come.

Manuel del Torre.

Great artist
of the Andalusian people.

Once told a singer,

"You have a voice.

You know the styles.

But you will never triumph
in your art

because you have no "duende,"

a passion on the very edge
of life and death."

Everywhere else in the world

death comes, and they draw the curtains.

Not in Spain.

In Spain... they...

...they open them.

And I tell you this.

There is no beginning,
and we do not tremble.

We are not sentimental.

Like a furious wind,

we rip at the fabric of clouds
and prayers.

And we shape
an epic spectacle of disaster.

Fire, decomposition!

Ideal, ideal, ideal.

Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge.

Baboom!

Baboom! Baboom!

Dada.

And that is what I call poetry.

Yes, and...

And... do you know... when...

when I took the exam
for the art college,

I worked for three days
on the drawing,

and then I... I erased it...?

And... umm...

And I had one hour to get it right.
Just imagine, one hour.

And, and... I gave it
to the professors, and they said...

They said, "This painting...

This painting, Salvador, It's... ah.

- Umm.
- No. No, no, no.

No, don't...
Don't worry, please, Salvador.

They told me this painting...

...is perfect.

- PACO: Whose idea was this?
- LUIS: Federico's.

FEDERICO:
No. He's your discovery.

- FEDERICO: No.
- SALVADOR: No. Luis, go home.

LUIS:
Faggots.

Better hide.
They're coming to get you.

They should be more careful.

The boys are starting a gang,
do you know?

Going to clean things up!

Thinking of joining them?

I prefer to see...

IN SPANISH:
...the faggots locked away.

He'll freeze.

I can't stay here much longer,
Federico.

I can't breathe.

We, should be in Paris,
my friend.

You can write.
I can work in a film studio.

I though you wanted to be
an entomologist.

That was last term.

And what about the boxing?

I've always been consistent
about Paris.

Well, anyway,
I don't speak French.

I'll buy you a book.

Oh, I can't leave Spain, Luis.

Why not?

I hate new shoes.

When I was a boy in the Vega,
in the south...

...there was some trouble
in a village near our house.

There was always something.

But the next thing we heard,
the civil guard had killed them all.

The whole village.

And they remember these carts,
full of bodies.

All of the people laid out:

feet close together,

shiny shoes,

as if they were resting.

And sometimes
when I think about it,

it's as if everything around me --

all the people...

...and the buildings...

...and the animals...

They are like pieces of cotton.

And they just float away.

And I'm alone.

And that's when I hear it.

Death...

...breathing behind the door.

Death, rising up
from my new shoes.

And there's nothing left
but the grass and the grey sky.

Now you tell me, Luis.
Are those French thoughts?

POLICE:
Hey!

This fucking country. I tell you,
Federico, it breaks my heart.

I know.

But this is why
you must come with me.

We have to be free
to make a difference for the world.

What difference are you going
to make in a free country?

The difference
needs to be made here.

Sensational.

Incredible.

The girls will go crazy.

I expect so.

You don't do any sports, do you?

I run most things:
track, boxing.

Fencing?

Don't stretch to that, I'm afraid.

But listen, I'm part
of this underground movement.

Might be interesting for you.
Ultraism.

We keep a low profile.

We wouldn't want the information
getting into the wrong hands.

Now, come, or we'll miss it.

- SALVADOR: Where are we going?
- FEDERICO: Puppet show.

LUIS:
An uncensored puppet show. Shh.

Shh, shh, shh.

And they complain to me
about democracy.

Ridiculous.

Everyone in this city
lives in perfect liberty.

Every single man and woman.

Although, of course,
women are free, too,

but in a slightly different way.

Look at the peasants!

Why, I'd cut off my own leg

to have half as much liberty
as the peasants.

Just think, if the harvests good,

they're free to give up
over half their crop in taxes!

And if the harvests bad,

why, they and their family
are completely free

to starve to death!

Holy Mother, forgive me,
I have sinned.

I have had impure thoughts.

Help me to resist temptation.

So once more, forget the rules.

There's no science to art.

Feel the drawing.

Interpret. Interpret and then draw
exactly what you see.

See with your soul.
See what you feel.

Express!

[Laughter from outside]

Mr. Dali! Mr. Dali!

So, they won't publish me.

They won't publish me
unless I take a male pen name.

I said to them, "I've got a name
for you, Pope bloody Joan."

They were so apologetic,
so embarrassed.

"Miss Meya, if it were up to us,
we'd hire you on the spot,

but the public couldn't stomach
a woman writing about politics."

Because, of course,
I should be at home,

making lace for the poor

and cooking for my nine fat children
and my impotent husband.

It's just... It's so frustrating,
Federico.

You could use my name
as a pen name...

...if it would help.

That's probably the best offer
anyone's ever likely to make me,

but I refuse to give in
to their bullying.

I'll send them 20 letters a week.
I'll camp outside their offices.

- Really.
- You've forgotten your hat.

And that's another thing.
I despise hats.

Listen, you don't need hats.

Come on.
Let's get this thing over with.

Mm-hmm.

Isn't that Salvador?

Salvador!

Can I have a look?

Oh, umm...

Um, it's an experiment in perception.

I see.

It's...

It's fascinating.

It's yours.

No, no, no, no. I couldn't.

No, please. Um, I insist.

Thanks. I’ll...
I'll have it framed.

So, where are you going?

Oh, Federico has been very kind
in agreeing to suffer

an evening of boring music
and horrible company.

My aunt's giving one
of her legendary dull dinner parties.

You must come.

Oh, no.

Yes. It's vital for my aunt
to know people like Salvador.

You could show her your picture.

But you said yourself
it's going to be so boring.

We don't want to subject
poor Salvador.

No, no. I'd love to.

You see? He'd love to come.

Magdalena.

What have you done to your hair?

These are my friends.
I'm going to powder my nose.

Federico Garcia Lorca.

Oh, I'm so glad you could come.

Well, it's so kind of you
to invite me.

There are some very interesting
people for you to meet.

Fernando de Valle.

And, of course, you must know
Señor Milagro.

Magdalena has been
talking about you for so long.

I had begun to wonder
whether you were

another one of her inventions.

Oh, no.

Oh, let me introduce you
to Salvador Dali.

How do you do?

I'm trying to get very drunk,
thank you very much.

I think soon I might be sick.

You must be another writer.

No, Salvador is one
of Madrid's famous painters.

Oh.

I've recently escaped from prison.

From prison?

31 days of absolute incarceration.

I found it...
I found it very inspiring.

Uh, how do you feel
about communal defecation?

And, and, and... the weevils.

The weevils, so tremendously
beneficial to the complexion...

He's upsetting you, isn't he?

Come on, Salvador.

Is it time for my bed, Mother?

I would love an enema!

Uh...

Do excuse us.

MILAGRO: The fact remains
that these people are not our people.

They are over here,
living off our charity, stealing,

occupying land that isn't theirs.

It is essential to have
a uniform approach to the gypsies.

Restore a certain autonomy
to the civil guard.

Who are those unbearable men?

The one that looks most like a pig

is senior governmental advisor,
Milagro.

And the other one
is Fernando de Valle.

Why do I know that name?

He's the literary censor for Madrid.

Oh, my God.

Señor Garcia Lorca,
you are from the south, I believe.

Yes.

Well, then, you know better
than anyone

what we're talking about here.

And the youngest is 17,

and she is engaged
to one of the Montaña brothers.

Bravo, bravo! Superb, superb!

How avant-garde!

How simply super.

How dare you.

How...? How dare I?

Oh, oh, how dare you, sir?

Then you clearly
don't know who I am.

I'm Salvador Dali,
the savior of modern art.

And this man is a genius.

He is a great poet.

Aren't we honored,
ladies and gentlemen?

Savior of modern art
and his friend the great poet.

Recite something.

No.

Oh, yes, do.

I'm sorry, I don't have anything.

Go on.

It's not suitable.

Federico, fuck suitable.

Well, come on, then, great poet.
Sing for your supper.

[Reciting in Spanish]

FEDERICO:
"Oh, city of the gypsies.

Who could see you
and not remember you?

City of musk and sorrow.

City of cinnamon towers.

Oh, city of the gypsies,
corners hung with flags.

Put your green lights out.

The civil guard is coming.

The city free of fear,
was multiplying doors.

Forty civil guardsmen
fought through to sack and burn.

Flight of long screams
rose from the weathercocks.

Sabers slice the breezes
trampled under hoof.

Through the half-lit streets

all gypsy women
flee with their sleepy horses

and enormous jars of coins.

Up the steep streets
climb the sinister capes,

leaving behind them
brief whirlwinds of shears.

Oh, city of the gypsies,
the civil guardsmen ride away

Through a tunnel of silence
while the flames encircle you."

Let's get out of here.

IN SPANISH:
Long live the revolution!

[indistinct yelling]

Federico, when I saw you
at the dinner,

when you read your poem...

...l saw what you really are.

You are raw,

like some animal
that's been skinned.

So, what's she like?

Who?

Magdalena, you know.

No. What?

What about with other girls?

Oh, you mean...?

Yeah.

Not with Magdalena,
but back home.

Really?

Haven't you?

I've had a few.

All the institutions that prop up
this corrupt regime

must be dismantled.

I just think it sounds a bit extreme.

But it has to be extreme, Paco.

There has to be
complete revolution.

All the churches, all the palaces.

You know, when I was small,

there was this ruined tower
near our house in Cadaques.

You'll see it when you come.

I'm coming?

Of course, for the holidays.

You...

You must come.

I would sit in this tower,
and I'd draw and draw and draw.

I never came down.

Just imagine,
this little shrimp of a child

half-starved, covered in piss.

And I wouldn't come down
in the winter and in the summer.

In the freezing cold
I'd fill this iron tub with water,

and I'd sit in it for days.

It's like even then, I realized
that if I'm going to be anything more

than... than average,

if anyone is going
to remember me,

then I need to go further
in everything,

in art, in life.

And everything
that they think is real:

morality, immorality, good, bad...

I... We have to smash that
to pieces.

And we have to go beyond.

We have to be brave, Federico.

No limits.

No, no limits.

What do you think you're doing?

What?

I saw you! I bloody saw you!

You had your hand on her leg.

- Luis.
- Oh, shit.

Are you denying that?

Luis, we were just...

Get off!
I can fight my own battles!

We're going.

Come on.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah, let's go.

Go for him!

Hit him! Hit him!

Federico.

No.

Look.

It's beautiful.

Wait, wait, wait.

I've never seen anything
like this before.

It has overtones of Tanguy, but...

I think...
I think it's something new.

It's extraordinary.

Me?

You can...
You can name it if you want.

"Little ashes."

Because you can paint us
into 100 pictures,

and in 80 years time
we will still be dust.

Well...

We'll still be in the pictures.

Not us.
We'll be echoes of ourselves.

Ghosts...

And I don't want to be a ghost.

Come with me to Granada.

I can't.

You'll see my family, my home.

Everything I am.

I see you enough, Federico.

FEDERICO:
"The afternoon,

gone mad with figs and heated sounds

swoons and falls
upon the riders wounded thighs.

Black angels were flying
on the western breeze.

Angels with long braids
and hearts of soothing oil."

Good night.

Good night.

Mother, Federico is here!

Federico!

Federico!

FEDERICO: Salvador, I think of you,

and I've never thought
more intensely in my life.

Since our time together,

everything I am
has been split apart.

I write in a way that they'd
never thought possible.

My pen scratches
the surface of things.

The masks.

And then it goes beyond them.

Right down to the bones,

down to the dark, cold jelly
in their marrow.

[Singing in Spanish]

SALVADOR: Federico,
from the day you left,

I've been in the studio
day and night,

and I've started work on designs
for your play.

I'm doing them gypsy style,
Andalusian, like you.

The unconscious mind, Federico,

it rises like a beast within me.

I let it speak,
and it produces such wonders.

FEDERICO: It's true.
I touch sea bottom in myself,

and my poems write themselves.

I am just as you said:

raw, bloody, alive.

And I, too, want to be alive.

How did you get in?

I stole their key.

FEDERICO:
It's going to look superb.

No, it will be superb.

After Barcelona we should take it to London,

and then Paris,
and then New York.

Why not?

No limits.

So why did you come back so early?

You know what you said
in your letter?

About everything that you are,
being split apart.

Luis.

What an amazing surprise.

What are you talking about?

I didn't know when
you'd be getting back.

You didn't say when you were coming.

Are you feeling all right?

Salutations, Mr. Dali.

Sit down, sit down.

Would you like some tea?

New look?

Sorry?

Oh, ha.

What are these?

Set designs for Mariana Pineda.
You know, my play.

It's being performed?

In Barcelona.
Salvador's father got us a producer.

That's excellent news.

You are doing the sets.

Nothing wrong with that, is there?

I didn't say there was.

How's my new screenplay idea coming?

My short film.
The one I asked you to write about?

Yes, of course.

I haven't had much time recently,
so when I--

Don't worry about it.

Federico, let's play
the putrescent game.

The what?

It's putrescent. It's uh...

It's my new word.
Meaning?

Outdated, outmoded.

Generally out, then.

Generally.

Come on, Feddy.

You have to hear these
putrescences Federico does.

They're hysterical.
They're de rigueur.

Yes, come on, Feddy.

Look, let us skip the tea.

Let's round up the crew
and have some dinner, hmm?

What shall I wear?

The blue?

I... I... I don't like the blue.

What about the grey, then?

Oh, I love the grey, yeah.

Okay

I went to see that play with Jorge.

Which one?

Jorge is a worm.

"Salome."

Oscar Wilde?
I thought they'd banned it.

He's a faggot.

IN SPANISH: Faggot.

And proud of it by all accounts.

Not Wilde. Jorge!

PACO:
He's got a girlfriend.

Oh, come on.
He screams queer from every orifice.

Keep your voice down, Luis.

Oh, we should all keep quiet,
should we, Adela?

Well, I won't!

MAGDALENA: For God's sake!

No! Because it is illegal.

And it is illegal,
because it is immoral.

And I tell you.
They should get more than 15 years

of hard bloody labor for it!

PACO:
Well, I never thought I'd see the day

that Luis Buñuel gave a lecture on morality.

Dance with me?

Dance with me?

That's enough!

MAGDALENA: Don't bother, Federico.

Oh, I'm sorry, Magdalena.

Did I offend your
virginal sensibilities?

Leave her alone.

Oh, look at the big, brave Federico.
What a man.

You're drunk.

You don't say.

Things have certainly changed
around here, my friend.

What do you mean?

It's the college.

Staying on, year after year.

Studying this and that
until you're blue in the face.

It is a fantasy land
for spoiled school kids.

Look at Federico.

Oh, I know he's doing well.
Plays, whatever.

In Paris they wouldn't give a fuck
about his work.

It's...

What's your word?

Putrescent.

Federico is working on something now.

It will blow everything apart.

What's it about? His family?
Butterflies? God?

Me.

It will be sentimental rubbish.

Always has been, always will be.

Still, if you go around
behaving like that,

then you have to expect it.

Look, you don't
have to say anything,

but you should really
get away from here.

In Paris, with your talents,
you could set the place on fire.

I'm leaving tomorrow.

What? Why?

It's over here.

Everything's gone.

Your worth...

Ah, now this is more like it.

Come on, Dali, shake a leg.

It's 5:00.

What's that?

SALVADOR:
The revolutionary Dali communicator!

I will be a millionaire!

I'll buy shares.

Which hand?

Left.

For you.

And...

For you.

Where you going?

To the bathroom.

With your diary?

FEDERICO:
If I became a fish...

SALVADOR:
I'd change into the grave.

FEDERICO:
If I became the grass...

SALVADOR:
I'd change into water.

FEDERICO:
If I became an angel?

SALVADOR:
I'd change into an eye.

FEDERICO:
And if I became an eye?

SALVADOR: I'd turn into a knife,
and I'd cut you to pieces.

Salvador Dali,
with your olive-colored voice.

SALVADOR: It's genius.
I mean, everybody says it is.

Tell me the bit
about the bicycles again.

FEDERICO: I sing your restless
longing for the statue.

Your fear of the feelings
that await you in the street.

I sing the small sea siren
who sings to you,

riding her bicycle
of corals and conches.

But above all,
I sing a common thought

that joins us
in the dark and golden hours.

The light that blinds our eyes
is not art.

Rather, it is love,

friendship,

close to swords.

I don't like that line.

Sex.

I love the rest of it.

Do you?

Yes.

Look at me.

Look at me, Salvador.
Look at me.

You see.

No limits.

Sorry.

It doesn't matter.

It's not important.

It's late. You should sleep.

We'll go for breakfast at the pelican,
and you'll paint all afternoon.

Salvador.

What do you see when...?

You can tell me.

You can tell me anything.

I'm going to Paris.

What?

I'm going to go and see Luis.

He's going to introduce me
to Picasso,

and surrealists, and...

...and he'll take me to nightclubs.

I'm going now, uh...

Don't.

Don't try and stop me.

Why would I try?

Salvador.

[Cancan music plays]

MAGDALENA: Federico.

Are you all right?
I’m fine.

What happened?
It was nothing.

Nothing.

I just... I need some air.

So, I wanted to tell you,
but it was going to be a surprise.

Okay, I got a job at the tribune.

- That's wonderful.
- I know. Can you believe it?

Anyway, it starts in a month,
so I'm taking a break.

I'm going to Italy,

and I thought, maybe you'd like to come?

You could write, and I could write,

and you need to get away anyway, so...

Hey.

What are you doing here?

IN FRENCH:
It's a great spectacle, isn't it?

Everyone's here.

How was..., how was Paris?

I didn't know when you were coming back.

IN FRENCH: As usual.

I have an examination.

Federico.

I should go, too.

Okay. I'll stay.

What were you saying before?
Something about Italy, I don't know.

Nothing.

You have 20 minutes to deliver
an oral critique of Raphael.

You may begin.

Mr. Dali?

Gentlemen...

I returned from Paris
with the conclusion

that the entire amount
of real artistic knowledge

contained within this panel
of professors

is not equal to one half of this.

This, my fingernail.

Not to one half, gentlemen.

And I've been insulting myself
by letting your shoddy practices,

your pathetic, outdated theories
and questionable characters

shit on my genius.

And I hope with all my heart
that you realize I'm right

and give up this foolishness

and go back to the pigsties
and the haystacks

where you might be of some real use.

Magdalena.

I know.

I know, Adela.

I have to do something.

Could you...?

Could you lend me something?

A dress to make me irresistible.

Would you like some tea?

Tea.
All we ever do here is drink tea.

I'm surprised we don't drown
in this shit.

So, you got back yesterday, hmm?

Federico, what does yesterday matter?

Yesterday, I didn't exist.
Yesterday is nothing.

Today, today.

This moment
and the bright and glorious future.

Oh, I'm sorry.
I'm a bit confused.

Salvador, who are you
pretending to be today?

Why?

Well, is it Salvador
the extreme anarchist,

recently escaped from prison,

or Salvador Dali,
the genius artist of Madrid,

or Salvador the lover?

Listen to me.

An agent came from Paris
to see my new work,

the canvasses from Cadaqués,

and he loved them.

He called me the most exciting
young artist in Spain.

Ah, so now...

Good-bye, Spain.

Good-bye, Madrid.

And Paris, Paris.

IN FRENCH: Always Paris! Woo!

Paris.

Luis introduced me to Picasso,

and there was this extraordinary man

who gave me a photograph
of his wife.

Uh, and... And she's naked.

You won't...
You won't believe this.

Gala. Galushka.

She's Russian.

She's my twin soul.

I've dreamt of this woman
my whole life.

When I have her,
nothing will be able to stop me.

I'll bring Paris to its knees.

King... King Salvador!

Oh, you should have seen Luis
on set as well.

He's asked me to make
his first film with him.

- And the surrealists...
- Salvador!

...made such an impression on him.

When I go back, they won't know
what's hit them, the ideas.

It's coming. I can taste it.

What's coming?

I need to go back to Cadaqués
to prepare...

What do you mean?
Your father said--

My father said what?

I mean, I got expelled.

My father can go fuck himself.

From this point on
my real life begins.

Your real life?
And what about this life?

You can't just abandon everything.

Abandon what?

Sitting in an art room all day,
going out of my mind with boredom?

And... and drinking myself
into a stupor every night?

I'm so sick of it.

How can you say that?

Your painting's never been better.

This isn't you, Salvador.

What's happened to you?

Federico.

Why can't you just be happy for me?

Happy for you?

You are. You're just selfish,
like Luis says.

You're a selfish fucking...

IN SPANISH: Faggot.

Oh, really?

And what exactly does that make you?

I can't.

MAGDALENA: Federico.

Let her in.

MAGDALENA: Sleeping?

Shh. Shh.

You look as if you're still dreaming.

Magdalena.

Just for now.
Just this once.

Don't worry about anything.

Don't worry about anything. Just...

Hello?

FEDERICO:
There are very few angles who see.

There are very few dogs
who bark.

A thousand violins
fit in the palm of my hand.

But the weeping
is an enormous dog.

The weeping
is an enormous angel.

The weeping
is an enormous violin.

Tears have muzzled the wind,

and nothing is heard
but the weeping.

AN ANDALUSIAN DOG

Coffee, please.

Why they made this film?

Do you know what they called it?

"An Andalusian Dog."

I don't think they...

Well, I do. I mean,
I'm from where exactly?

Do they even know anyone else
from Andalusia?

Listen, you need a complete break.
Everyone says so.

What about your idea
for the traveling theatre?

You should go.

Get out from Madrid for a while.

Get on with your own life, Federico.

Have you spoken to him?

Have you spoken to Salvador?

I've tried to talk to him.

In letters.

He won't...

He took Luis to Cadaqués.

I saw the pictures in the paper.

And apparently he's got this woman...

This Gala woman.

God knows what he does with her.

Sorry.

It's just...

It's as if nothing ever happened.

Sometimes, I think
we never even met.

I'm so sorry, Federico.

Don't. I'm the one who
should be sorry.

I can't let you take the blame
for that.

Magdalena, please understand.
There's no one I'd rather be with.

If we had a choice in these things,
which we don't.

Don't we?

Look.

I'm not saying it's going to be easy.

But, I don't think
you can carry on like this.

I mean, you can.

Of course you can.
But it has a price.

I think sometimes
we just have to risk it.

Live the way we feel.

And you know,
it might not turn out well.

Sometimes it doesn't
turn out well at all.

But we have to try.

We have to keep on trying.

Otherwise we just become puppets,

all painted smiles where inside...

...nothing but sawdust.

Anyway, I think I said
more than enough.

I should get back.

Good-bye.

Well.

I've come in my overalls,
so you know I'm serious.

They've been all over the country,
these overalls.

In the last year

they've rubbed shoulders
with every kind of Spaniard.

They've come on sets,
they've directed plays in fields.

They are exhausted,

and they are extremely glad
to be here,

drinking wine with friends
in the sun.

But we mustn't be deceived
by sunshine in Madrid

whilst fascism
is casting its shadow over Spain.

Great sacrifices need to be made.

Great risks need to be taken.

So, I have something here
to read to you,

and if you approve, then I want
to ask for your signatures.

"We, intellectuals, artists,

and members of the
free thinking professions,

reaffirm our support

for the democratically elected
popular government.

And we do so for the aspirations.

We...

We do so...

I do so...

...for freedom.

Not some romantic ideal,

not something for students
to shout about in late night bars.

That's easy.

That's just a word.

Real freedom is hard.

It's painful.

It's dangerous.

But I want it.

I want to try for it.

Whoever I decide to be,

however I decide to live,

whomever I choose

as my companions and my friends.

It's my right.

It's our right.

Freedom...

...now...

...in Spain.

Thanks.

Come here.

I don't see him anymore.

No?

I don't care to.

We no longer speak
the same language.

The only word he understands now
is money.

He wrote to me.

Hmm?

I know.

Eight years, nothing.

He asked me to come and see him,
come and meet Gala.

Bloody witch.

Still fucking every artist in Paris
from what I hear.

What else?

He thought we should work
together again.

He said we could reach
an agreement this time

on a lot of things.

He signed it "Buddha."

Will you see him?

Be careful, Federico.

Where you off to, brother?
The rally is this way.

Señor Garcia Lorca.

Hello.

I didn't recognize you.

Join us at the demonstration
in support of the republic.

The troops in Morocco
are siding with the fascists.

I'll come on later.

- Gracias.
- Good luck.

Come in.

Come through.

Time and Dali wait for no man.

Ignore this absolute putrescent
travesty of a hotel.

It's temporary surroundings,
of course.

Apart from the bear.

Did you see the bear?

It has a reality about it,
doesn't it?

Primacy of Eden.

Raw!

You look the same.

Thanks.

I grew this mustache.

What shall it be?

This place? The college?

IN FRENCH: Shit.

Us!

Federico.

All this time.

All this time.

The dark, unfathomed retrospect.

The teeming gulf.

The sleepers...

...and shadows.

Chérie.

IN FRENCH: It's Federico.

Federico, this is Gala, my wife.

Delighted to meet you at last.

Isn't he charming, Chérie?

GALA: I've heard so much about you.

Smile.

You went to America.
We saw some cuttings.

I loved it.
Well, South America, anyway.

New York was pitiful.
Poverty and suffering there.

We're going to go back
to America soon.

Spain just seems so...

Dangerous?

Passe!

Anyway, America is the place
for our opera.

No. You write, I design.

It will be a triumph.

Will it?

Undoubtedly, considering
the subject matter.

Which will be?

Louis The Second of Bavaria.

He was...

He was a deviant, you know.

It will be the most shocking opera
ever staged.

All kinds of unspeakable things.

Luis told me the surrealists
threw you out.

So the two of you
have become friends again.

When did that happen?

I imagine around the time
he stopped seeing you.

The surrealists expelled me
from the movement.

Terribly dramatic.

Breton is a genius.

But, this whole equation with communism

just makes me want to...

... puke.

The only viable solution for surrealism...

... is a world war.

A cleansing.

Un Grand Deluge!

Cut through all this dead wood.

Purge the weak elements.

An era of enlightenment.

Are you saying
you actually support the fascists?

You used to be an anarchist.

Oh, Federico,

you've become so liberal.

What with your government schemes,

and your theatre for the people.

IN FRENCH: It's dull, isn't it?

Listen. This country is on the brink
of something terrible.

And here you are siding with the people

who could destroy everything
we stand for?

I know you are not from here,
but you must see.

There's been no freedom of speech.

Anyone who's different,

who's... who strays from the norm,

would just be wiped out.

Would that be a bad thing?

Naughty boy.

You're joking.

Salvador is completely apolitical.

FEDERICO: No one knows you. No.
But I sing of you.

I sing for later on
of your profile and your grace,

the noble maturity
of your understanding,

your appetite for death
and the taste of its mouth,

the sadness in your valiant gaiety.

It's nothing to my ode.

Gala, you've heard my ode.

The press went crazy for it.

Oh, Salvador Dali,
with your olive-colored voice...

Federico, you finish the rest.
I want Gala to hear it.

I'm afraid I have to go.

Uh, it's been such a pleasure.

Let me see you out.

There's no need.

She doesn't mind, you know?
She and I are like twins.

Not like lovers. Not like us.

Look at you, you little beastie.

You're so angry you could spit.

I knew you would be.

I planned everything.

And is everything going
according to plan, Salvador?

I knew you'd say that, too.

Listen. It's all right now.
Everything is all right.

You'll pack your things,

Say your good-byes,

and we'll conquer America together.

I hurt your pride, I know. I know.

But I'll make it up to you.

You'll teach me how.

There's someone else.

It doesn't matter.

With Gala we can all live together.
We can ...

Good-bye, Salvador.

You'll come back.

Your sweet little tail
dangling between your legs.

You won't be able to think
about anything else.

Señor Garcia Lorca.
How was your meeting with Dali?

Will you work together again?

What do you think of him?

What do I think of him?

Well, he's a genius.

A genius.

Genius Salvador Dali!

He's very charming.

Exactly as you said.

I'm going to my room, Salvador.

I'll see you in the morning.

See you in the morning, my love.

I just saw Paco.

What on Earth
do you think you are doing?

I'm going back to Granada.

Have you finally lost your mind?

The news this morning, Federico.

Morocco's fallen.

It's only a matter of time
before they get to Granada.

Listen.

I'll only be there for a few days.

I have to be with my family.

I've got so much to do, Luis.
I can't tell you.

I feel like... like I could write
six plays without stopping.

Without eating.

Write them here.

Think about it, Federico.
These people know who you are.

What you've been saying about Franco.

They know... everything.

I have to go home, Luis.
I'll call you as soon as I can.

Be careful.

POLICE:
Open up! Open!

FEDERICO:
What are you doing?

POLICE:
Federico Garcia Lorca,

I'm arresting you in the name
of the New Granada.

FEDERICO:
What are you talking about?

Garcia Lorca, it's you, faggot!

IN FRENCH:
Granada, Spain. 70, 24.

[TELEPHONE RINGS]

IN SPANISH: Hey!

Hello?

RADIO ANNOUNCER:
The incredible rumors are proceeding

from the Cordoba Front this evening.

Reporting the abduction
of the poet Federico Garcia Lorca

from his home town of Granada 3 days ago.

The rebel governor of Granada

says he does not know the
whereabouts of Garcia Lorca.

IN SPANISH: Stop!

IN SPANISH: Stand over there!

Here! Let's go!

IN SPANISH: Ready!

Aim!

Fire!

COMMANDER: Still alive.

Only one way to kill a queer.

RADIO ANNOUNCER:
The veil of mystery

overshadowing the disappearance
of Federico Garcia Lorca

has been removed.

Spain looks increasingly
like civil war.

The news has come
in this evening

that the execution of the poet
Federico Garcia Lorca

has been confirmed.

Federico.

GALA: Salvador.

The guests are here.

IN FRENCH: I'm coming!

FEDERICO: Dry land,
quiet land of immense night.

Wind in the olive grove.
Wind in the sierra.

IN SPANISH:
Does anyone know you?

No.