All language subtitles for FOLL

A few days later...

Hello.

Hello.

Name?

Marois.

First name?

Dimitri.

Date of birth?

6 August 1975.

Place of birth?

Lyon.

Marital status?

Single.

Number of children?

No children.

Profession?

War reporter.

Address?

Fixed home address.

Antecedents?

Amidals, appendicitis, dromomania.

And a facelift on the left side.

Motivation?

You, Felicia.

Do you know the terms of the sperm's name?

I don't want to work today.

But I never want to work.

All I want is to do the shops.

Or to go to the pool.

Or to stay at home and dream.

Or to watch anything on TV.

Rather than filling out
documents and asking questions to

a guy I don't give a fuck about
who came to give his sperm.

I don't know why.

If it happens, it's a pervert who does it
just to be played.

But I don't give a fuck about it.

Because it must be at
least the thirtieth time that I

receive today and I really
don't give a fuck about it.

All I want is to go home quickly and
forget all that.

Doing stupid things like
tidying my bed, washing myself

with soap, or partying
with my friends is horrible.

All this because I, who
was locked up and who never

spoke to anyone, was
raised with a kick in the ass.

When I think about it, it makes me sick.

But today, nobody defends me from doing
what I want.

I can lead my life the way I want.

I can even sometimes find pleasure in what
I do.

It seems completely crazy to me.

Maybe that's why today nothing makes me
play.

Well, I say that even though I've never
played before.

Are you leaving already?

As soon as I leave.

I'm sorry.

I'm leaving.

Are you leaving?

Yes.

Maybe.

I am convinced at this moment that I love
him a little.

Even if it's not the right thing to do,
less than that.

So I close my eyes on
everything that makes me think

the opposite and I over
-interpret the love test.

I force myself at all costs to be in love.

Will you dance?

If I ask you to dance?

Will you swear to me that you will always
love me?

Will you die for the person you love?

Will you leave without ever looking behind
me?

Will you tremble if my lips touch you?

Hold me in your arms tonight.

Will you cry if you see me cry?

I really want you to hold me in your arms.

I can be your hero, baby.

I can be your hero, baby.

Oh yeah.

I can be your hero, baby.

My mood is changing these last few days.

I may have tried to make an image of my
situation.

I can't get back to the pieces.

I don't really know where I am.

Is it because I met Dimitri?

Yet, apart from falling in love with him
and trying to convince myself hopelessly

that I love him a little, my days and my
nights are still as distressing.

In short, Dimitri hasn't changed anything
in my life.

Since he came into my life, I've lost my
reason.

Besides, it's no longer a matter of
reason.

Otherwise, I wouldn't be where I am to hit
my head against the walls of my heart.

To be able to leave him and to be subject
to his good will.

Maybe my so-called love for Dimitri is
just a lie, a delusion, a crazy belief,

an elaborate invention and a facade I
don't believe in for a moment.

What are you doing?

I'm leaving.

Where are you going?

To Libya.

We're not going to see each other again,
is that it?

I don't know, maybe.

Go fuck yourself!

Dromomania, from the Greek dromo,
dromos, speed.

And in biology, running on foot.

And from Latin, maniaco, maniac.

So, madness, passenger habits.

Irresistible impulse to run or to walk.

It's a real ambulatory automatism.

In some biographies by Gerard de Nerval we
talk about dromomania to justify his

countless trips, which is in fact that
research is lost to his mother.

I'm on a slippery ground.

Every day I get up by
looking through the window

and I already feel the
first breaths of boredom.

I'm on a slippery ground.

Then, often, after, I let myself go to
anxiety crises.

I then hurry to go to the pharmacies in
the neighborhood and I go home after work

to go to Lexomil, to Trancsen,
to Temesta and to Xanax.

And the psy prescribed
me antidepressants to fight

anxiety, obsessive-compulsive
disorders and some phobias.

Why are you taking For you.

Really?

For you.

Only for you.

I could have given you an eye,
a liver, at least one.

What were you doing at the sperm bank?

I came to have lunch with a friend,
Dr. Cohen.

And then, when I got out, I saw you.

And it was a blow to the face.

And I liked you.

I thought you were a little

And I like you I'm happy to see you again.

I'm happy to see
for making happy.

And I'm

happy you good That night, he woke up in a
rush and started to talk to me about his

job without me asking
him why he was there,

what good is it to show
death again and again,

by taste of adventure, of challenges,
of travel, the desire to make a career and

also to make a difference, but also
because he is attracted by war as by a

magnet, playing with death to better
testify to the madness of men,

and again because war excites him like a
hard drug, totally addicted to adrenaline

and unable to adapt to normal life,
even if often he makes terrible

nightmares, with deaths that come back to
haunt him.

He hates war.

And yet, he is totally addicted to this
experience.

That night, I had a nightmare.

I was dying in Baghdad, torn apart by a
trapped creature.

Yes, can you take care of Daniel?

He has been found.

The fragments of Jad's costume abandoned
by the pillagers.

Who is calling him?

Hello, yes, yes, Commissioner,
but how are you?

It's Tom.

I was already thinking that I was going to
see a more aged man.

Big, brown.

And so, you want to get your husband back?

Yes.

Where are your manners?

Where are your manners?

You are on the answering machine of
Dimitri Noir.

You can leave me either a message...

Stop, stop, stop!

You are on the answering machine of
Dimitri Noir.

You can either leave a message or a
flower, a pineapple, a light or a cat.

Thank you for speaking with him.

Once a day, in the evening, I go down to
get some food.

I am so depressed
that I end up calling

Dimitri, but I always
come across his answerer.

It drives me crazy.

I don't ask him to pamper me, I just stay
with him when I'm depressed.

Subtitles by the Amara

.org community

You can leave me a message, or a flower,
an ananas, the moon, or a cat.

Thank you for talking to me after this.

This summer, the prey has been abundant.

This establishment will
change the day... Attention!

I don't want any harm, sir.

It's just the end.

Look.

...by the Parisians in digital
inferiority, except that...

...and that you exercise
this power to pursue a

new European policy
that destroys Europe... ...

which is feeding the
revolt of the peoples, of

which you don't want to
see the consequences...

...and I think in particular of two
fundamental files.

You have mentioned it at the moment,
and I want to ask you a question.

We will perhaps start on this,
if you like.

To what extent is this agreement with
Turkey morally unsustainable and socially.

..

...

and is there something... I don't know...

...is there something I can do for you?

Why do I do this when he leaves me?

I don't know.

When he comes back, he tells me that I am
like this cocaine...

...that I am addicted to him like a drug
addict.

He may not be entirely wrong.

When he tells me that, I want to hit him.

I take drugs against that, among other
things, but...

...also and above all against all this
emptiness with and without him.

And then I want to delete him as we erase
a phone number.

I am perfectly incapable of that.

What are you doing?

I am working.

I wouldn't work a little too much,
would I?

That's enough.

Kiss me.

Stop.

Stop!

Not now.

Come on.

I want to.

Your little kiss.

That's enough.

That's enough.

Come on, I want to.

Hey, hey!

That he was depressed and drunk...

...he gave me an overwhelming testimony
about his job as a war reporter.

While telling me that
I could not understand

because I was living
in a world of the day.

A world where electricity works.

Where the red lights
go to green and where

lovers hold each other
in the street by the hand.

I completely ignored the world of the
night.

Where electricity does not work.

Where the fires have been destroyed by the
impacts of machine guns.

And where lovers are at the front,
shot on the sidewalk.

The job of a reporter...

...is to go from the world of the day to
the world of the night.

You tell yourself that you are only
passing.

You do not fight.

You just take pictures.

You have the eye in the viewfinder,
that's all.

You just click-clack and you think that
the camera is a bulletproof vest.

What a mess.

It's a tunnel.

It will settle in the bottom of the brain
and...

...after two months, six months,
a year, it comes back to the surface.

And you have people who hang themselves.

People who end up in the police station or
who whine like crazy.

Me?

I was in the street.

In Tripoli.

And all of a sudden, I saw a head cut in
two.

And I almost exploded because of a trapped
car.

I said to myself, it's normal.

It does not matter.

And then, two months later, I woke up in
the middle of the night.

I pissed myself on it.

I was screaming.

You can not be a war reporter without
having big amateurs.

If you do not die, if you do not become an
idiot...

...you become richer, stronger,
in a certain way, more human.

Someday he'll come along, the man I love
And he'll be big and strong, the man I

love The man I love, and when he comes my
way I'll do my best to make him stay A

little dream of me I'll stay You don't
want me anymore, you've had another one.

You don't want me anymore,

you've had another one.

So why do you come back to
make me love every weekend

and make me believe that you
love me more than anything?

Before leaving, you swore to me that you'd
rather stay with me than go back to war.

You promised me that as far away as you
are, you'd make me a sign every day.

And that if I didn't feel bad,
you'd drop everything and run away.

No matter how many miles separate us.

That you can't live without me.

You count the days when we'll be together
again.

Always the same words.

But as a response to your declaration of
love without consequence.

I kissed you like a mad woman.

Unable to show my indifference.

Yeah, hello?

How much?

8 pages on the Liban?

And how much do they want?

Wait, wait, wait.

You call them back and tell them I'm
leaving tonight.

OK?

You don't have to be so awful.

I'm coming back in three days.

Why did you call me back?

Why did you want to see me again?

I had just begun to forget everything.

War is all you care about.

I craved to leave Tibet.

You bastard.

TRIP TO TIBEI EUROPEAN GIVING
BACK TO THE BIBEI I didn't ask

for much, just that you didn't
leave me without even warning me.

I tolerated everything
about you, even if I

kept asking myself what
I was doing with you.

And in the end, it's you who let me fall
like shit.

It's unimaginable.

Today, you are just a simple and banal
memory in your heart.

Connor, I hate you.

I will avenge myself.

You have nothing to wait for.

Could you love me?

After Dimitri's torture,
I promised myself that

I would never start
over with someone else.

That I would never pretend to be in love.

But I don't have the strength or the
courage to stay alone.

Now, it's a relapse.

And like all relapses, it is mortal.

Why do I understand that being here is a
love gesture since you are no longer here?

Should I have understood it before to stop
you from leaving?

Maybe you can't do anything but be absent
in your genes, in your nature.

Will there ever be a day when you will be
here?

Will I remember being absent like an old
disease?

Will you ask me to forget as if you will
never leave again?

Will it ever pass?

Will I see the absence passing like a tired
bird when I open my window one morning?

Will it wash away the absence?

Is it logical?

Is it in the logic of things that you are
not here?

Mum says that everyone knows this kind of
thing.

Should I continue to see
shapes anchored in the

air, shapes like rocks
that nothing will break?

Mum says that this kind of thing is in the
head.

That one day you will come back.

But why isn't the absence in my head?

Would it help me to get all the absence
out of my head?

And if I am here, is it a love sentence?

If I am not here, is it a love sentence?

Mum says that there are obligations that
prevent you from being here.

Is it by obligation that you are not here?

Are we forced to be absent?

Can I take revenge on those who forced you
to be absent?

Do you think we can play with the absence
when we have fun with a revolver?

Is that what you love?

The Be careful, there are snipers
everywhere.

Wait, wait, come back there.

There, you stay there.

Dimitri, be careful.

There are snipers everywhere.

What are you doing?

Go back, Dimitri!

You're completely drunk!

You're fucking everywhere!

Go back!

Dimitri!

Go back!

You hear me?

Go back!

Mines are presented in different shapes,
sizes and colours.

They are usually hidden in the grass,
in the trees or in the water.

Earth's mines are practically invisible.

You have to be particularly
careful with military combat

zones and abandoned zones
or areas covered with tall grass.

No one should enter these areas.

You have to be particularly careful with
mines and non-explosive machines.

Many of these machines are supposed to
have exploded when they hit the ground,

but this is not always the case.

They remain extremely dangerous.

Some mines explode under
the influence of a weight,

others when you touch
them or when you pull a wire.

The presence of a mine often means that
there are others.

You have to be particularly careful.

If you see a mine, you stop immediately.

And here, two solutions are offered to
you.

The first, you go back on your steps.

The second, you distinctly shout the
following two words.

Help!

In the event of a mine
injury, firmly press

on the injury until the
blood stops flowing.

If the bleeding continues, tie a piece of
rope around the wound.

Just above the wound or as close as
possible.

And immediately send someone to seek
medical help.

If after an hour, the help has not yet
arrived, loosen the rope every hour to see

if the wound has stopped bleeding.

Remove the rope if the bleeding has
stopped.

Professional demining is the best way to
be sure that an area is safe.

Encarte in Liberation.

A war reporter jumped on a mine.

Transferred to the hospital in Berck.

His condition is critical.

And there, the world collapses.

To not want to believe in it.

To even pray that it is someone else.

And despair.

And always to not want to believe in it.

The desire to disappear from under the
ground.

The legs that no longer support you.

And the doctor's announcement that I am
calling.

Who predicts that if the blood does not
circulate within 48 hours in his leg,

he will be amputated.

That his lung is pierced and a lot of
other things.

But nothing left to hear.

To leave.

To disappear.

And a sudden desire to die too.

I am torn too comment.

Our car is lying in disarray on a deserted
road.

Next to me, a man and his wife bathed in
blood.

They had just been married.

Their house was still full of flowers.

Of gifts.

They just had just been married.

They had just been married.

They had just been married...

I would rather die than learn that this
news concerns him.

May all this be but a dream.

May it be rather me who disappears.

And if in spite of me, against all odds,
it was the love of my life, which I have

been forcing myself from the first day not
to believe.

You were waiting for me.

You have so mocked me.

You too, Felicia.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

What's the matter?

Today it's been five years since we last
met.

Except for my love.

After the explosion, I saw a foot dragging
on the floor.

And I thought to myself, I'm the one.

I desperately tried to put it back.

Why are you getting on my nerves?

That's a little bit.

..

love.

Shhh.

I'm here now.

Machinally, without thinking about it,
I climb on him.

And I do the same gestures as before.

I play the scene again.

I hug him desperately and then I make love
to him.

Without a state of mind.

Like a sex worker with a disabled person.

The last time, without a doubt.

Before leaving him, I made him absorb a
whole box of tetralen.

I'm the only one who knows the dose of
tetralen he should take.

He didn't say no, quite the opposite.

He wants to die.

I exhausted his will.

All of a sudden, the heart let go.

In a trivial heart attack.

Then I relax by the sea before taking the
train to Paris without saying goodbye.

What's the point?

I understood what I consider my duty.

I cried all the tears of my body when he
died under my eyes.

But deep down, I felt free.

I didn't see myself living with a disabled
person.

I pushed him day and night in his
wheelchair.

Anyway, he saw what he deserved.

He knew that one day he would end up in a
coffin.

As for me, I have decided to take my life
again.

It would be time, wouldn't it?

Subtitles by the Amara.org community