All language subtitles for King Lear (1987).eng

Well... Uh...

Let me tell you in short,

in two sentences, my main concern.

Yes, of course.

My main concern is the concern
of the company

and the prestige of Cannon.

Cannon has announced
for a year and a half, approximately,

the Jean-Luc Godard movie King Lear.

People do not believe already
that the movie will ever be done.

We are losing confidence,
we are losing our name.

It is very bad for us
because every now and again,

a clever interviewer,
who thinks he's clever,

comes to me and says:

"You made a big noise
once you signed with Godard, et cetera."

And I have to tell him
we are shooting, we are shooting.

Anyway...

uh, it is hurting us, and I...

I must insist that this movie,
as promised,

which was already postponed
so many times,

will reach the Cannes Festival.

This is my main concern.

Okay, Jean-Luc,
why don't you respond to that?

Action.

Mailer. Oh, yes.

That is a good way to begin.

Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Ah.

The contract,
dated the 16th of April, '86,

was between Norman Mailer
and JLG films.

- It said:

"Norman Mailer
and certain members of his family,

including Kate Mailer,
as may be required and available,

shall provide their general services,
including services as actors."

But words are reckless.

Words are one thing, and reality,
gentle reality, is another thing.

- Would you like a drink?
- And between them is no thing.

You know, I'm all keyed up.
I want to go back to America.

Why don't we change
our plane reservations for tomorrow?

Dad.

Dad.

Don Kenny, Don Gloustro, Don Learo.

"Learo."

Learo.

Why are you so interested in the mafia?

I think the mafia is
the only way to do King Lear.

Cordelia.

Mailer.

Oh, that's a good way...

That's a good way to begin.

To begin the thought,
I said, as usual, "Let's go."

The great writer said,
"Why don't you say, 'Action'?" So I did.

Then I said, "Kate enters your room

and kisses you
when she hears you finished the play.

Not your play. The play."

The great writer said:

-"Why don't I kiss her
- Room 230, please.

instead of her kissing me?"

- Come in.
- I said okay again.

- Hi.
- You're psychic. I was just calling you.

And now began
the ceremony of star behavior.

"Why do I have to put my jacket on?"
"Do I have to drink orange juice?"

"And again, why does she take my hand
instead of me taking her?"

"And anyway, this picture, what the hell?"

- Like a drink?
- Yeah.

You know, I'm all keyed up.
I think I'd like to go back to the States.

Why don't we grab a plane
and get out of here?

It was not Lear
with three daughters.

- It was Kate with three fathers.
- Dad...

Mailer as a star, Mailer as a father,

and me as a director.

- Too much indeed...
- Dad.

...for this young lady
from Provincetown.

After the fifth take of the first shot,
the great writer left the set.

He took off for America, as he said.

He and his daughter, first class.
Daughter's boyfriend, economy.

- Don Kenny, Don Glouster.
- Don Gloustro.

Don Gloustro.
Why are you so interested in the mafia?

Anyway, I was fired.

I kept on thinking about
the relation of art and fire.

Cordelia.

Hello, everybody.
Good evening, folks.

But why did they pick me?

Twenty years later, I still wonder.

Why not some other gentleman
from Moscow or Beverly Hills?

Why don't they just order some goblin
to shoot this twisted fairy tale?

- Marcel.
- No.

Yes.

A picture.
Such that you could put it in a cell

and condemned it
to solitary confinement forever,

without it being an atrocity.

Yes, of course.

Be sure
you have exhausted everything.

Which is to communicates
by immobility and silence.

No. No.

François. I-I'm not sure.

If an image,
looked at separately,

expresses something clearly...

But, Georges, yes, definitely.

...it will not transform itself
in contact with other images.

- Robert, yes.
- Other images will have no power over it.

And it will have no power
over the other images.

- No action, no reaction.
- Pier Paolo, yes.

Yes. The night has come.
Another world awakens.

Fritz, yes, of course, of course.

Hard, cynical, unalphabetical,
amnesiac, twisted without reason.

Spread flat,
as if perspective has been abolished.

And the strangest thing is
that the living dead of this world

are the constructs of the previous world.

Joseph, yes.

Their thoughts
and their sensations are from before.

The vanishing point has been erased.

Again, Jacques, again! Yes.

I am alone,
the world seems to say.

Caught then
in a necessity you cannot change.

If I'm only what I am...

- Jean, yes.
- ...I'm indestructible.

Being what I am and without reserve,

my solitude knows yours.

No. I will be the pattern
of all patience.

I will say nothing.

Am I in France?

In your own kingdom, sir.

And now...

- Do not abuse me.
- ...you desert your kingdom.

I pass the testimony
to someone else.

Looking again at Luchino's picture,

from the time when he was young
and first assistant to Renoir,

and noticing the difference between that
and the old man that he became with time,

I suddenly discovered why
his artistic father Jean...

...also becoming old,

was so keen on young girls,

like his father, Auguste.

Father.

Father.

Dorei, do not mock me.

And then looking again at Sacha,
still editing on his deathbed...

Four score and upward.
Not an hour more or less...

I remembered what Pluggy
told me years later about editing.

...to deal plainly.

- I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
- Handling...

- physically...
- When the rain came to wet me...

- ...in both hands... the future...
- ...and the wind to make me chatter...

...when the thunder
would not peace at my bidding.

...the present, and the past.

There I found 'em.

There I smelt 'em out.

Go to. They are not men of their words.

- Betwixt mine eyes and heart...
- They told me I was everything.

...and each doth good turns now
into the other.

I am not in my perfect mind.

When that mine eye
is famished for a look,

or heart in love
with sighs himself doth smother,

with my love's picture
then my eye doth feast,

and to the painted banquet bids my heart.

Come not between the dragon
and his wrath.

I loved her most
and thought to set my rest

on her kind nursery.

Hence, and avoid my sight.

So be my grave my peace,

as here I give
her father's heart from her.

Peace, Mr. Shakespeare.

Come not between the dragon
and his wrath.

I loved her most

and thought to set my rest
on her kind nursery.

Hence, and avoid my look.

So be my grave my peace.

No nudity. No, no, no.

I'm on duty now
for the cultural division at Cannon,

and they definitely don't accept nudity.

And then suddenly,
it was the time of Chernobyl...

...and everything disappeared.

Everything.

And then after a while,
everything came back.

Electricity, houses, cars,
everything except culture and me.

I was one of the few survivors
in that field, as an individual.

At the corporate level,
there was the Cannon Cultural Division.

So by special arrangement with them

and the Royal Library
of Her Majesty the Queen,

I was engaged.

My task, to recapture what had been lost,

starting with the works
of my famous ancestor.

And so it happened that
on my way back from Denmark,

where I rediscovered "To be or not to be,"

I stopped here,
in the little city of Nyon,

between Italy and Germany,
between the woods and the water,

where I would try
to locate another survivor...

Who, according to local legend,
specialized in visual media.

He was named Plugoff,
Play, Pluggy or something.

I'd been told that his research was
moving in parallel lines to my own.

Oh, by the way, my name is
William Shakespeare, Junior, the Fifth.

What is this?

Uh, it's the best part of the fish.

Give me the map, there.

Now, meantime...

we shall express our darker purpose.

Yes, Father.

Know that I have
divided in three my empire.

It is my fast intent

to shake all cares and business
from my age,

conferring them on younger strengths,

while I, unburdened, crawl toward death.

Are you listening?

Now, my joy,
although my last and least. Speak!

What shall Cordelia speak?

Love and be silent.

Ah, there you are.

What country is that over there?

This is the kingdom of France.

- Take off.
- Yes, Mr. Learo.

Now, you know,

Bugsy Siegel and Lansky,
that's Meyer Lansky,

they was always fighting.

And the point was that Bugsy,
see, Bugsy was a real killer.

Not like this, uh,
Richard Nixon, you know.

- How many people did he kill?
- How many?

Uh...

Eight or ten that I know of.

With his own hands?

Yeah, mostly.

Sometimes he, uh... He got some friends
to help him get rid of them.

But, uh, this Meyer Lansky,
the little guy,

and he was a philosopher, you know.

And two days, in Vegas,

this was two days
before Bugsy was murdered,

this Lansky said to him something--

I got his words in his own writing here.

I want you to hear these.

He says this...
This is Lansky, see, to Bugsy.

"Studying human nature,
I came to the conclusion

people prefer to be righteous at home

and a sinner somewhere else."

Own handwriting.

"As for myself, I stick--"

"As for myself, I stick to the same.

When you lose your money,
you lose nothing.

When you lose your character,
you lose everything."

Mmm. Well, think about that, my beloved.

Think about that, will you?

Answer me.

Huh?

I don't have my heart in my mouth.

You mend your speech a little.

You may mar your dollars.

- As you wish.
- Love's labor's lost.

As you wish.

As you wish, as you wish.

Um... Uh...

As you witch. As you witch. As you...

As you watch. As you watch. As you watch.

Witch.

Witchcraft.

As you, uh...

As you like it.

That's it. That's it. As you like it.

As...

Thank you, miss. Thank you, my lady.

Sure.

I shall never marry like my sisters.

To love my father all.

But goes thy heart with this?

Aye, my good lord.

So young and so untender.

So young, my lord. And true.

You just saved my life.

Are you trying
to make a play for my girl?

No, no, no, sir. Please.
Allow me to introduce myself.

Get your hands off me!
Get your hands...!

There's no play here.
We're not trying to make any kind--

Sir, we're not... A play. Sir!

Characters!

Come not in here, Nuncle.

Here's a spirit.

Help me. Help me.

- Give me thy hand. Who's there?
- A spirit, a spirit!

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?

Where is everybody?

Where are we?

The name is Goodwater.

Goodwater? That's a nice name.

What city is this?

When the French were here,
they called it Les Anges.

But before that,
when the Spanish were here,

they called it Los Angeles.

Who was she? I needed to know.

I decided to forget about the
"To be or not to be" business for a while.

Something was going on between
this old man and this young girl.

I decided to concentrate on their story.

So I was trying to locate this Pluggy.

I was walking in the woods near the lake.

The place was named Aubonne,
which means "good water."

This information was given to me
by a young man, poorly dressed,

named Edgar,
accompanied by his girlfriend Virginia.

Except that she wasn't there.

They seemed to be looking for something.

"What were they looking for?"
I asked them.

The boy and the girl didn't know.

The girl wasn't even there.

"Only the professor knows,

but he hates the outdoors
and natural light."

"Pluggy?" I asked.

"Yes, he's stayed inside
his editing room now for 20 years."

Editing.

That sounded familiar.

"What's that?" I asked.

But the girl and the boy
couldn't remember either.

And the girl still wasn't there.

I tried to make an appointment,
but they disappeared.

Uh...

Even if Lansky and I

are as awesome as we are reputed to be,

we are now scarcely more than...

Than, um...

More than...

isolated men.

Lonely, isolated men

on the criminal landscape of America.

Now...

- Do you want to check, Father?
- Yes, my angel. I want to check.

"Lansky's organized crimes, ancient hope
of getting casino gambling legalized--"

Wait a minute, take your time.
What's your hurry? What's your hurry?

"By the late '60s,
the whole country was Las Vegas-ized."

Right.

"Entertainment conglomerates like MGM

today own
the largest establishment in Vegas."

Ah, yeah.

"Bugsy Siegel's Flamingo is now
the Las Vegas Hilton."

Move slow! Slow!

- "Bally, Playboy..."
- Right.

"...Holiday Inn have rushed
into Atlantic City..."

- Aye. On the sea.
- "...the new El Dorado on the sea.

And New York City is not far behind."

"All of these vice and leisure centers

are linked together
through my Learo Jet Company."

Aye.

"All America is now embracing our vision."

"All of America is now
embracing our vision.

- And Bugsy Siegel's death was not--"
- Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not death.

Uh...

His martyrdom.

"And Bugsy Siegel's martyrdom
is not in vain."

Martyrdom. Right.

"The question universally asked
is how much influence--"

No, no.

Not his influence...

He, uh...

How much power.

Put power down.

All right?

Power.

"The question universally asked
is how much power

Meyer Lansky and I exercise
over these conglomerates..."

The art
of our necessities is strange,

that can make vile things precious.

"...even if the worst arrives..."

When the mind's free,
the body's delicate...

"...the company must still be run
as a business.

And in the end, the system swallows up
the gangsters in its gigantic maw..."

See what breeds about her heart.

Is there any cause in nature
that make these hard hearts?

"...and lonely, isolated men
in the criminal landscape of America."

I bear the mark of Cain.

Make no noise.
Make no noise. Draw the curtains.

So.

So.

We'll go to supper in the morning.

Sir, in my heart,

there is a kind of fighting
that will not let me sleep.

Children...

Children...

You have begot me,
bred me, loved me.

And I return those duties
as are right fit.

Love you, obey you, and most honor you.

There is two telex, Mr. Learo.

There you are.

Your sisters.

Sir, I love you more
than word can wield the matter,

Dearer than eyesight, space,

- Space and liberty.
- and liberty,

Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare,

No less than life,

in grace, health, beauty, honor;

As much as child e'er loved,

or father found;

A love that makes breath poor,

and speech unable.

Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

Is that Gloria?

'Tis our eldest, yes.

And Regina?

The art of our necessities
is strange

that can make vile things precious.

I am made
of that self mettle as my sister

and prize me at her worth.

In my true heart

I find she names my very deed of love;

When the mind's free,
the body's delicate.

And find I am alone

Oh.

Make no noise, make no noise.

Draw the curtains--

So, so, we'll go to supper in the morning.

I find I am alone felicitate
in your dear Highness' love.

Then poor Cordelia.

And yet not so, since I'm sure my love's
more ponderous than my tongue.

Tell me, my daughters.

Since now we will divest us
both of power and business.

Which of you shall we say,
does love us most?

And now, my joy,
to whose young love

See what breeds about
her heart.

Is there any cause in nature

that makes these hard hearts?

Speak to me.

Nothing.

Nothing?

No thing.

Let me have surgeons;

I am cut to th' brains.

I've never seen
anything as stupid as these goblins.

Always showing up too soon or too late.
You never really know what they're up to.

Then again, I suppose they don't either.

They can't help it.
These gentle and powerful beings.

The secret agents of human memory.

They blow it every time.

When my love swears
that she is made of truth,

I do believe her, though I know...

she lies.

Does any here know me?

This is not Lear.

Does Lear walk thus,

speak thus?

Where are his eyes?

Where are his eyes?

Either his notion weakens,

or his discernings are lethargied.

Ha! Waking?

Ha. Waking?

Waking?

'Tis not so. 'Tis not so.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Lear's shadow.

Have more than thou showest.

Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Hello?
Excuse me, Mr. Learo?

Learn more than thou trowest,

Have more than thou showest.

Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Learn more than thou trowest,

I'm old.

What are you writing for?

I'm trying to recover the work
of my ancestor.

I understand you've been working
on this problem here, doctor?

Well, nobody writes.

So writing still exists?

Oh, the trouble with what I'm looking for

is that it doesn't exist.

Nobody does it.

Uh, just what are you aiming at,
professor?

When the professor farts,
the moon things are trembling.

No, no.
Don't pretend to be a fool.

Light it. It's been invented.

Fools had ne'er less grace in a year,

for wise men are grown foppish

and know not how their wits to wear,
their manners are so apish.

How is it that
you're always disobeying, Edgar?

Oh, what?!

No, professor. No, no.

Children.

Ah, children.

What is their need for learning?

They don't hear "No thing."

Yes we do, professor!
L-E-A-R, ning.

What's that?

What's that? What's that?

Cry you mercy.

I took you for a joint-tool.

Yes, they disobey.

Each one of us when one does anything,

one is always disobedient
in some way to something.

Or obedient to something.

Yes, in one's miserable soul.

But disobedience is
more interesting to study.

Really, you never study, Mr. Shakespeare?

Uh, number five.

I'm in her Majesty's service
and I obey my orders,

and my orders are to bring
the work of my ancestor to life,

- but I can't stop till the story's over.
- Yeah. What is't thou say'st?

When the end's coming,

they always disobey...

Now thou art
an O without a figure.

Now thou art an O
without a figure.

I am better than thou art now.

- I am better than thou art now.
- Thou art nothing.

- Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue.
- I am a fool. Thou art nothing.

Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue.

So your face bids me,
though you say nothing.

Mum, mum.

It is born and it is burnt.

It begins from the thing it ends.

Birth and death...

linked...

like mouth and breath.

The answer
to your question is there.

What we are searching for
is like that fire.

It is born from what it destroys.

Then what is it?

Tell me the name!

I ain't interested in names.

Why is that?

Look, no names, no lines.
No lines, no story!

To name things makes
the professor pee.

Who are they
to need a name to exist?

Do I need a name to see live beauty.

I don't agree.

Do you need
to say red to see red?

- Do I need to say lips to say...
- I don't agree.

I love you.

I disagree.

With the word,
then come the mistake.

- I need the memory.
- But betwixt in the family.

How can I possibly
reach words with no words?

First, the tragedy of choice.

- And then second, the comedy of errors.
- Nothing will come of this.

Suppose we made a mistake
at the very, very beginning...

...and we called red green.

How would we know today?

Betwixt mine eye
and heart a league is took.

And since you are interested
in memory,

I'll show you what it's like.

Yes, tell me, professor.

- Show.
- Show.

Or heart in love
with sighs himself doth smother,

with my love's picture
then my eye doth feast,

And to the painted banquet bids my heart.

A violent silence.

The silence of Cordelia.

To the question of a king, her father.

Her answer was nothing.

No thing.

But Cordelia is not mute.

It is not that she hasn't said anything.

She has said, "Nothing.

No thing."

This girl's silence, which is not mute,
does not lead to violence.

But everything that conspires
and organizes itself around her silence

that wants to silence her silence.

This produces violence.

Let me not be mad,
not mad, sweet heaven!

Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

You must bear with me.

I am old and foolish.

Let me not be mad,

not mad, sweet heaven.

I don't know
if! made this clear before,

but this was after Chernobyl.

We are in a time now when movies,
and more generally art, have been lost.

Do not exist,
and must somehow be reinvented.

Thanks to the old man and his daughter,
I had some of the lines.

Her answer was: "Nothing. No thing."

It does not mean anything.
She has said, "Nothing.

No thing."

I don't know if I made this clear before,
but this was after Chernobyl.

We are in a time now when movies
and more generally art have been lost,

do not exist.

And they have to somehow be reinvented.

Thanks to the old man and his daughter,

I have some lines
and I was told this man Pluggy had the--

I still don't know what to call them, but
they had to go together with the lines.

Somehow I felt they needed
to go together, that's why I tried...

- Do not abuse me.
- ...to get myself invited to this.

Will't please your highness a walk?

You must bear with me.

I am old and foolish.

Thou shouldst not have
been old till thou hadst been wise.

Oh, let me not be mad...

...not mad, sweet heaven.

Keep me in temper...

Yes, tell me, professor.

- Show.
- Show!

Show.

Show, not tell.

There's a lot of noise around here, huh?

What's it for?

What's it all for, professor?

Please!

The Last Judgment.

Welcome, my dear Mr. Shakespeare. Welcome.

- What is all that?
- Snakes.

Number five.

——Children.

Children.

And you, my dear Mr. Shakespeare.

You see, all those reckless words
for the simple things on earth.

There's only life and how it works.

Thank you indeed
for this definition of life.

No, not life.

Only an image.

An image? What's that again?

The image is
a pure creation of the soul.

It cannot be born of a comparison...

but of a reconciliation of two realities
that are more or less far apart.

The more the connections
between these two realities...

...are distanced and true,
the stronger the image will be...

the more it will have emotive power.

Two realities that have no connection

cannot be drawn together usefully.

There is no creation of an image.

Two contrary realities
will not come together.

They oppose each other.

One rarely obtains forces
and power from this opposition.

So out went the candle
and we were left darkling.

So out went the candle
and we were left darkling.

An image is not strong
because it is brutal or fantastic,

but because the association of ideas
is distant and true.

The result that is obtained immediately
controls the truth of the association.

Analogy is a medium of creation.

It is a resemblance of connections.

The power or virtue of the created image

depends on the nature
of these connections.

What is great is not the image...

but the emotion that it provokes.

If the latter is great,
one esteems the image at its measure.

The emotion thus provoked is true

because it is born outside
of all imitation.

All evocation. And all resemblance.

Have you finished
our construction, Edgar?

I'll go and see. I'll ask Virginia.

Let's go.

- May I bring some friends?
- The old man and the young lady?

- How do you know?
- Never know, always see.

Never know, always see.

- Anyway, what's her name?
- Cordelia.

Is that her real name,
or you just invented it?

Well...

Well, use the sparkler, my friend.

Use the sparkler.

When you and Edgar held it just now...

its glow was dirty yellow.

If it's gleaming white in her hand,
then her virtue is true.

And her name is Cordelia.

A violent silence.
The silence of Cordelia.

To the question of a king,
a gangster, her father.

Her answer is, "Nothing."

He demands the essential.

How is he loved? Desired?

From where is he loved?

He has power. He is king.

He wants to be wanted.

Who wants him? Nothing.

Not will. Not intelligence. No sex.

But all the same, a body,
a little bit of flesh.

Because for Learo, to hear is to see.

A man may see
how this world goes with no eyes.

Look with thine ears.

This is what he tries to do.
The king who calls himself Lear: E-A-R.

In listening to his daughters,

he hopes to see their entire bodies
stretched out across their voices.

What he wants is not what he desires.

What he wants is to forget
this desire that he cannot stand.

The nothing of Cordelia.

So that he can silence the silence,

he listens as if he's watching television.

But Cordelia.

What she shows
in speaking is not nothing...

but her very presence, her exactitude.

Take off.

Get out.

So, what do you think will happen now?

- You will not have that for me.
- No, no, no.

Come, let's away to prison.

- You do me wrong...
- We two alone will sing

- ...to take me out o' th' grave.
- like birds i' th'cage.

- Thou art a soul in bliss,
- And when thou dost ask me blessing,

- but I am bound upon a wheel of fire,
- I'll kneel down

- and ask of thee forgiveness.
- that mine own tears

- do scald like molten lead.
- So we'll live, and pray, and sing...

and tell old tales,

They are not men o' their words;

-and laugh at gilded butterflies,
-they told me I was everything.

- 'Tis a lie. I am not ague-proof.
- and hear poor rogues talk of court news,

we'll talk with them too--

Who loses and who wins;
who's in, who's out--

and take upon us the mystery of things,

as if we were God's spies.

And we'll wear out,

in a walled prison,

packs and sects of great ones

who ebb and flow by th' moon.

People forget
that you hear your own voice

not with your ears, but from your throat.

I've reinvented the lines,
I've reinvented the plot.

Now it's up to the characters.

Or are they actors?

Which is Dr. Jekyll,
and which is Mr. Hyde?

All I know is that
I can't control either of them.

Maybe they're controlling me.

Obviously, this old man was power.

Obviously, this girl was virtue.

They're fighting.

I don't know what the issue is.

Do you have any cigarettes?

Pall Mall, Marlboro, Lucky Strike,
Camel, Philip Morris, Rothmans Red.

You don't have Gitanes Filtre?

I'm sorry, miss.

Quiet, Virginia.
This is a family reunion.

Nature's above art
in that respect.

Good light, good light.

From the north or from the south?

Pall Mall, Lucky Strike, Camel,
Philip Morris, Marlboro...

That's fine. That's fine, Virginia.

- What paper did you say you were from?
- From The New York Times.

Why that?

Oh, that.

Well, you see,

I'll tell you, miss.

Yeah, yeah.

Where the chairs are placed here,

they are all facing
the same space and direction.

And the voices are going over that space

because it's projected all over.

You know, in a simple living room
in an apartment, uh,

when someone is speaking,

all the people listening are around
the one who speaks.

Not here, miss. Not here.

This is our invention.

All the people are facing
the same direction, same...

Same space.

Even suppose it is dark,

people will know where to look at.

In a simple apartment,
if it's in the dark, people are lost.

They don't know what to look at.

Here, they know. They know.

Okay, but why that?

Light, my dear, it may kill you.

You mean, like the truth?

Yes, if properly seen,
light becomes the true--

Professor Kozintsev has arrived.
Professor Kozintsev has arrived.

Hello, my dear fellow.

This is Professor Kozintsev
from Leningrad.

Miss Halberstadt from The Arkansas Daily.

No, from The New York Times.

You come all the way from Leningrad?

Really? You found it, really?

Do you have any chocolates?

Lindt, Tobler.

Suchard, Nestlé, Calle, Poulain.

What's the name
of your invention, Mr. Kozintsev?

Image, that's a great word.

They are not men o' their word;

they told me I was everything.

'Tis a lie.

I am not ague-proof.

Let's hope we don't make
any mistakes, Mr. Shakespeare.

- Number five.
- What do you mean?

With all those damned
and reckless words, one never knows.

I don't get it.

Suppose, my dear,

we call it "image,"

and that the real word is "reality."

Then change it.

No, no, no, no, no.

No, no, the light...

must come from the back.

From the back.

It's like the wind.

Nature's above art
in that respect.

It's an arrow.

I need to...

push the reality... out.

Oh, anyway,
we have to stop the experiment.

Oh, no, why that?

Something is missing.

Or someone.

I'm there, I'm there, I'm there!

Now you are part
of the experience, like all of us.

We are all part of it.

Even if we have not found it,

whatever you called it, reality or image,

we fought for it.

And by God, we are no longer innocent.

Professor,
there are two people here.

Peace, Mr. Shakespeare.

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

I loved her most

and thought

to find my rest

in her kind nursery.

Hence and avoid my sight!

So be my grave, my peace.

I went one last time
to visit this mysterious young woman.

She was asleep.

Well, maybe she was sleeping,
or was she just pretending?

There were so many questions
still unanswered.

The old man, facing the screen,
had not dared to pronounce the words:

"As here I give
her father's heart from..."

I have a message from your father.

It's true, I didn't quite understand them
myself when I wrote them,

- but I can't afford to lose them.
- Come, let's away to prison.

"As here I give
her father's heart from her."

We two alone will sing
like birds i' th' cage.

The doctor used the word "prison"
last night. Remember?

You were there.

Oh, maybe I wasn't there myself.

What do you think will happen now?

Before seven years have passed,

the Americans will lose everything
they have in France

in a great victory,
which God is sending to the French.

I say this now so when the time has come,

it will be remembered that I've said it.

In what year, what day?

You will not have that from me.

How can you know...

If it's her virginity
which gives her strength,

...whether your apparitions are
male or female?

- we'll make her lose it.
- I see and I hear.

- Do they have hair?
- That could be.

The hair, is it long and hanging?

I don't even know
if there are arms and a body.

How do they speak
if they don't have bodies?

These apparitions,

have they promised
to deliver you from prison?

Yes.

From the prison that you're in
at this moment?

I told you that you cannot know all.

It must come to pass that one day,
I will be delivered.

- Those who wish to take me...
- ...from this world

could well have to leave it before me.

Your voices have always promised
that you would be delivered.

Your voices have deceived you.

Yes, they have deceived me.

You write what is against me.

You do not write for me.

The Kingdom of France.

Ninety-nine percent of the play
had now been rediscovered.

Maybe even 101.

I came to thank Professor Pluggy.

I guess
the first bells of Easter were ringing.

Mr. Alien.

Mr. Alien.

Mister...

Mr. Alien.

Mr. Alien.

Mr. Alien.

Mister...

Yes, they were Easter bells.

The images were there as new,
innocent, shy, strong.

Now I understand
that Pluggy's sacrifice was not in vain.

Now I understand,
through his work, St. Pauls' words,

that the image will appear
in the time of resurrection.

Stop!

Unhappy that I am,
I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
my heart into my mouth.

The images were there as new,

innocent, and shy, and strong.

The images were there as new,
innocent, shy, and strong.

Oh...

Oh.

I might have saved her.
Now she's gone forever.

Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.

Ha! What is 't thou sayst?

Her voice was ever soft,

and gentle, and low,

an excellent thing in women.

'Tis true, my lord.

Did I not, fella?

I have seen the day,
with my good biting falchion.

I would have made them skip.

I am old now,

and these same crosses spoil me.

Who are you?

Mine eyes are not o' th' best.
I'll tell you straight.

If Fortune brag
of two she loved and hated,

one of them we behold.

This, this is a dull sight.

- Are you not Edgar?
- Your servant.

O, let me not be mad,
not mad, sweet heaven!

Keep me in temper.

I would not be mad!

And in me too the wave rises.

It swells. It arches its back.

I am aware once more of a new desire.

Something rising beneath me,

like the proud horse
whose rider first spurs

and then pulls him back.

What enemy do we now perceive
advancing against us,

you, whom I ride now,

as we stand pawing
this stretch of pavement?

It is death. Death is the enemy.

It is death against whom I ride,

with my spear couched and my hair
flying back like a young man's.

Like Percival's,
when he galloped in India.

I strike spurs into my horse.

Against you, I will fling myself,
unvanquished and unyielding.

Oh, Death!

She's gone forever.

I know when one is dead
and when one lives.

She's dead as earth.

Lend me a looking glass.

- If that her breath will mist...
- Edgar?

...or stain the stone,

- why, then she lives.
- Edgar?

It's a pity
there is not music of Nino Rota.

Okay.

Let's use gentle words for once.

To accompany the dawn of our first image.

The weight of this sad time
we must obey.

Speak what we feel,
not what we ought to say.

The oldest hath borne most;

we that are young shall never see so much

- nor live so long.
- Right, sir!

I couldn't help
remembering Pluggy's last words.

"Mr. Alien."

The bad time of Chernobyl
had long been forgotten.

The motion picture industry
was growing fast again.

Paramount, Fox, Warners were booming.

And so was the Cannon Cultural Division.

I was finishing the picture,

or bringing this twisted fairy tale
to an end,

in a small editing place
they had hired for me.

The man in charge was named Mr. Alien.

- Right, sir!
- This can be no accident.

- Right, sir.
- Oh.

Then I see a king dealing alone
with his many subjects.

Right, sir.

Twenty years later, I still wonder.

Why not some other gentleman
from Moscow or Beverly Hills?

Handling.

- Why don't they order some goblin...
- Physically.

- ...to shoot this twisted fairy tales?
- In both hands.

The present, the future...

and the past.

No, I will be the pattern
of all patience. I will say nothing.

Am I in France?

- In your own kingdom, sir.
- Do not abuse me.

So young and so untender?

So young, my lord, and true.

- Like as the waves
-Like as the waves

-make towards the pebbl'd shore,
-make towards the pebbl'd shore,

-So do our minutes hasten to their end;
-So do our minutes hasten...

Each changing place
with that which goes before,

- Each changing place...
- In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

All forwards do contend.

-Nativity, once in the main of light,
-Nativity,

- once in the main of light...
- crawls to maturity,

Wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now
his gift confound.

Time doth transfix
the flourish set on youth.

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth...

And nothing stands
but for his scythe to mow.

They are not men o' their word;

they told me I was everything.

'Tis a lie.

She's gone forever.

- She's gone forever.
- I know when one is dead

I know when one is dead
and when one lives.

- She's dead as earth.
- Lend me a looking glass.

If that her breath will mist
or stain the stone,

why, then she lives.