Dernières nouvelles du cosmos (2016) - full transcript


It's steep!

It's sloping.

Walk this way.


We're nearly at the river.

You often speak of darkness,

of escaping it.

Release from darkness.

Perhaps you get sudden manifestations

of intense light,


electrical connections.

That bring light.



"We survive by instinct."


"Only the action of loving
keeps us from the void.

"An absolute action.

"Not a bull in a china shop,

"but a cannonball,

"I arrived head-first,
disconnected body,

"over-charged brain cells,

"unlimited sensory euphoria.

"Ears on stand-by
for human chatter..."

Will you sit down?

"I imagine
it's speeding up inside you.

"Here and now.

"Frantic brain activity
in past, present and future.

"I accuse you.

"A monologue aping dialogue with you

"without you here to question me.

"A heretic's score..."

Is it over?

I'd like to continue.

Won't you give it back to me?

You want your words to be read.

Give it to Pierre.

Thank you.

"We carelessly underestimate

"the significance of body matter

"in establishing our daily selves.

"A forged M.O.T. in a barely
roadworthy vehicle

"makes us fair game
for the breaker's yard.

"Thought-forms are disembodied.

"Is it our essence?

"Life within the mould.

"Melding with it.

"Belonging to it.

"Finding identity
within that belonging.

"The construction of ourselves
as an image of being.

"Why can't we look nothingness
in the face?

"To dream of being a jar of gherkins,

"standing on a shelf,

"waiting for someone to notice you,

"so as to change shelves.

"Why not?"

"Leave my bubble
to enter the realms

"of controlled matter,

"endlessly reined
in by geocentric attraction.


"My father entered the cage
and I have no father.

Look. "I wrote a message
on the door of my bubble..."

I'd like to read it.

The message written
on the door of your bubble.

"I wrote a message
on the door of my bubble

"to be read by friends
with better-wired brains.

"A hard, iconoclastic reality.

"Free. I am."

Thank you for this.

I don't know if you realise

its density

and mystery.

Its enigma.

The enigmatic power of your writing.

Is it unaltered?


She doesn't re-read it
because she knows it by heart?

You should ask her.

No, she never re-reads her writing.

If she stops mid-sentence,
she'll take up where she left off.

- Fifteen days later?
- Yes.

It's how she is.

How long has she been writing?

Her first written work
was at the end of 2006.

Seven, eight, nine... Twelve
Seven years ago.

When was Algorithme written?
2009 or 2010.

She'd already written
À nos étoiles.

I should give you her books,
her other writings.

Soif de lettres,
a debate about God in a kebab house.

- We read it together.
- Yes, we did.

The parrot crashing
into a poster of palm trees.

Very, very funny.

It's incredible how she masters...

At every stage.

...the dialogues,
the group scenes.

Everyone has their word to say.
It's so well-paced.

Even God drops in for a kebab.

- They're dialogues?
- Yes, it's all spoken.

It's something else.

- It's unusual.
- It's powerful.

Very powerful.

She's wondering what's keeping me.

- Really?
- Look.

Do you want to go skateboarding?

Come and look.

Fine. She's resisting.

She's being stubborn.

Try not to burn yourself.

Will you try not to this time?

Take it easy.
Don't burn yourself.

Take it slowly.

If it's too hot, spit it out.

Is it hot?

We must work towards

finding a stage adaptation,
for the theatre,

which corresponds
to that initial burst of creativity.

All that precedes the text flow.

Do you want to write?

- Not the glasses...
- They're mine.

Avoid the glasses.

Do you want to write?

You've stimulated her.

The theme of mechanics
is very present in your work.

We could go about constructing

a kind of mechanical object,

that also features sound, light,

and movement.

With a rather shaky mechanism.

That doesn't run smoothly.

But which would finally
end up working.

I don't know
if that sounds good to you.


We'll get you settled. OK?

I haven't got any blank paper.

Haven't we got any A3?

Any size will do.


Oh, they're all mixed up.

A cock.

- A cock crowing.
- Yes.

A call to order.


You took an "i".

What are you doing?

You used an "i" there.

You're keeping it.


I'll tidy them up. OK?

"No complete or uniform...

You forgot the first bit.

"Can free our..."

Well, Pierre?

- "Our virtue"?
- No.

It's carrying on from earlier.


"No complete or uniform machine

"can free our
rebellious verticality."


"Rebellious", yes.

That's quite a statement.

You're really on form tonight,

You want us to question ourselves.

Pierre wants to go to bed.


How can I sleep after that?

You asked a question,
you got an answer!

Wait, I'll tidy them.

Then we can speak afterwards.

Is verticality a priority for you?


"Conspicuous U.F.O."

Leave a space.

"Conspicuous U.F.O.,
my life off the rails."

You should sleep better now!

We'll build an U.F.O.

There will be a...

U.F.O. in the machine.

The start of the framework.

"The verticality..."

Is the start of the framework.

Upright because one must be upright.

Once you're upright,
you're considered human.

It's an expression.

You start to partake
in social interaction.

You enter the framework.

That of being a person.

She speaks of being on all-fours
and everyone applauds.

Being on all-fours is part

of the learning process.

Her psychomotor development.

It's a stage before
the upright position.

It's for gathering information.

With nose, hands and tongue.

Many never get beyond that stage.

Because they don't gather
the information

their senses offer them.

They're made differently.

It's the way we learn
to gather information.

It comes through the senses,
being on all-fours.

It's what makes her so different,

in her openness to the world.

It's from somewhere else.

In fact, verticality,
being upright,

wasn't an essential stage,
was it, miss?

We got you upright anyway!

Look, these are trousers.

This way up, they are.

Perhaps they're not trousers...

You won't be able
to brush much that way!

Like this.

- Good.
- It's not her favourite activity.

She'll have a go anyway.

That's it. Go on.

It comes to her naturally.
That's good.

Hélène had a bad fall
over a year ago.

She's getting
her confidence back slowly.

She was thrown onto the tarmac.

So, she's very afraid of falling.

It was the fault of the horse,
which bolted

without warning.

Hélène didn't know
she had hands or feet.

She only discovered
her feet recently.

She's something else.

- How did you find out...?
- She wrote it.

She started looking
under the speech therapist's table.

Later she wrote:
"I've just smelt my feet."

It wasn't long ago.

It's why she fears
losing her balance.

Without feet to maintain it,
how can you?

Her hands were
"Grey shadows before my eyes."

Now, they exist.

She does this.

When she's happy, she does it
because her hands exist.

- Not strangling you?
- No.

Take the volume down...

"Freed of material need,

"nothing incites me
to move my body.

"I stare at the stars
shining in my head.

"To whom should we

"belong, resemble?

"How does
the established model think?

"Do we depend on the law of limits?

"I love to leap free
from the darkness.

"It was there that I met you.

"Beyond the barrier of nothing
where all breathes.

"Where I live,
with my night vision,

"where geometry forms itself
in the immensity,

"modelling alveolar segments
of creation

"in multiple sanctuaries of thought."

Do you like the musical tension

we're creating?

How does the music seem to you?

You should tell me

if you think we're missing the point,

if we don't strike the right note.

You know.

If we've misinterpreted...

what you meant or imagined...

when you wrote it down.

If you can see any direction...

we should be taking or emphasising,

you must say.

Hang on.

Maybe not on the table.

Can you smell that?

It's basil.

Another slice of salami?

Do you like


I'm barbecuing melon.

She's honouring you.

Is that good like that?

Do you want a bit of melon too?

There's the head.

Is that good, then?

"They take the bread from my mouth."

Because she's not allowed
to have any cake.

You don't go short of food!

She's writing words in full
as the camera's here.

- You think so?
- Yes.

Now we know, she feels free to go.

Doesn't have to stay.

She hasn't totally hoodwinked us!

We need to clear things away.

Are you done?
Won't you finish the word?


You won't finish.

She's closing it.

You can stay a bit, Hélène.

Throughout her childhood,
she didn't react at all.

She was like a brick wall.

I stopped the work
I was doing in 1999.

She was 14.

- Is she 30 now?
- Yes.

She came home.

She was in a day centre before.

It was a total failure.

She was doing nothing.

It wasn't working for us either.

There was zero communication
between us.

She made no contact with her hands.

She didn't touch any objects.

She touched nothing.

- She ate with her hands.
- She touched that.

She touched only food
in order to eat.

She had no manipulative ability.

Which meant she had no dexterity.

But language comes
from this movement.

Pronosupination is what distinguishes
humans from other species

it creates a pathway to language
through articulation.

Autistics don't have this capacity.

I started closely observing everyone.

Psychiatrists have realised

that the thumb and index finger
joined, play a strange role.

They know that it's linked
to the language centre

in the brain

and to how a person functions.

Now she can join them,

but she still can't turn her thumb.

It won't turn.

They turn inwards to the palm.

Her thumbs were like this before.

We've worked and worked on it.

We've worked at setting up her body

to enable her to learn.

It took about 5 or 6 years,

to really set up
and organise her body well.

She had started using her hands,

I made sure
that she used them correctly,

she could move an object
from one place to another.

We organised her body
specifically for learning.

The story of her learning to read
is a good one.

It's a story in two parts.

My mother bought her a game.

Like all good grannies,
she bought the very best.

She couldn't fit the five
large objects into the moulds.

They were the wrong way up,

and were never put
in the right place.

My mum bought her a smaller one,

with masses of little objects.

I said "Wow!"

We're already having trouble
with five,

and these are all tiny.

But she worked better
with the small ones.

I hadn't really thought
about it further

until I overturned the box
on the floor.

I had to put them back.

I started wondering...

They went back

as long as you could read
the name of the shape under each box.

The objects were almost identical.

I hadn't noticed that.

I could only replace them by name.

- The written word.
- Yes.

So, I thought "Great!

"Hélène, you can't do it
if you can't read."

Then I began to really think

that she might be able
to learn to read.

As such, I started exploring that,

and gave her the tools to see

whether she could really read.

I made a list of questions

with the answers written on cards.

The results were astonishing.
even if there were 15 questions,

she didn't look to the side,
she filled the boxes.

It's particularly hard for Hélène

to use her eyes and hands
at the same time.

She photographs it mentally

and works by memory.

But the image
is backwards in her head.

It's a very complex affair.

But she was fairly dextrous
at the exercise.

We did a lot more tests

and finally, I ended up
by getting out the dictionary.

I had to find something new.

I'd put words on cards to see
if she could construct sentences.

She constructed good ones.

Then we started on letters.

So, then she had to learn to sort...

sort and select information.

- Is she in the car?
- Yes.

Poor thing.

- Shall I go and get her?
- Yes. She can't stay there.

Alone in the dark.

It might burst.

I went to live in the countryside

so that my child would have
more space to play with friends.

Hélène's happy
because she loves music.

- Mummy? Mummy?
- Yes?



Are you making a joke?

Come on now!

I'll take all that away.

We'll keep "frenzied".

"Back and forth."


"Of my lantern."

I'll put the letters away.

"Free to exist,
my words can only emerge

"from the frenzied back and forth
rhythm of the flashing

"of my lantern."




You're an incandescent light, then.

- Must be OK!
- Magic lantern.

Will you let us select
just some of your words,

rather than all of them?

You haven't got the lid.

Your means of writing.

"The maker."

Take it easy.

Try and get to the end.

Is it difficult for you?

Hang on.

Take it easy, now.

It's nothing, Hélène.

Calm down.

She must be having difficulty
in expressing her feelings.

Or they're not clear to her.

She was going to say
"You're the producer."

After "maker",
she stopped it.

She didn't have a screaming fit
although she's capable of it.

Throwing herself on the ground...

I'll tidy up for you.

Julie has got a question, as well.

And you're in good spirits!

I just wanted to know, Hélène,

how you feel about the camera,
whether it bothers you.

Let's see if she throws the box!

If I may continue filming.

I'll put the "a" in "camera."

Let's see.

"The camera smiles at me."

Go further.

"The camera smiles at me."


"its eye..."

What about its eye?


"With its mocking eye."

I'll replace letters to gain space.

Want to take a short break?

You've put "of",
"My love of..."

Hélène, look.



Yes, that's great.

Stretch your arm right over there.

It's a long way for you to reach.



"My fantastic love adores."

Hélène, I've got your cereal.

What's the matter?

What's up, sweetie?

Crying already?

Are you coming?

You're lovely.

Comb a bit more.

The other side.


Hey, cheeky monkey!


You rub it in.

Keep going!
You've got two hands, two cheeks.

Look at yourself.

Let's keep the draught out.

Will you close the door?

In Floriane's car,

she points out the way because
she likes going to Rennes.

Floriane always says
"I'm using the indicator."

She carries on pointing.
"I'm indicating."

Then all of a sudden,
Hélène said "indicator".

Some words are emerging.
It's organising.

I haven't found the way in yet.

I found it for writing.
It works every time.

I haven't yet hit
the spoken language spot,

the whys and wherefores.

If I discover the trigger,

then I can

pull it again, as with the writing.

Then she'll take over.

She said "yes".

Shall we go?
Shall we continue the walk?

Where are you going?

We work for the radio.

In sound.

I'm doing a project
on phantom language.

Concerning language and non-language.

All forms of expression.

Wait, I'll put the letters back. OK?

Recording the sound of my silence."

The desire to write...


Didn't come easily.
I had no daughter.

I was living with someone
who didn't exist for me,

she couldn't communicate.

So, we explored it together.

Initially, who we were to each other.

Why didn't she recognise me?

It's a typical problem with autism.

They relate so differently
to their surroundings

that they don't recognise others.

After a while, we started
to see each other

and learn to trust each other.

You have to offer yourself up
at such a deep level.

You have to look so far in
to go beyond your blockages,

that you need immense faith
in yourself and the other person.

Hélène has, quite obviously,
an immense intellectual capacity,

a very thorough
intellectual identity.

But her body can't express any of it.

She does it for us because we needed

to hear it, to understand
Hélène's true identity.

She knows who she is,
showing it is irrelevant.

We had so many barriers
to break through.

It has been a long
and arduous journey,

to discover in what place
she led her existence.

It was all there. I taught her
nothing about writing.

She's always had it in her.

Words exist inside Hélène.

I don't know how or why.

She screamed
if we took her in our arms.

It was extremely complex,

trying to discover
how to approach Hélène,

and as I love to laugh,

I did it by attempting to locate

the laughter in her body.

Where did she laugh?

After a time, I found it.

It worked through touch...

I used an object at first,
we couldn't touch her.

I familiarised her with it.

She put something in her mouth,

if it was an object she really liked,

I moved it over her body.

It made her body laugh.

And it became something of...

It was a way in for her.

We thought it would be preferable
if Hélène laughed,

rather than screamed,
and far more sociable.

How did her writing suddenly exist?

Because her body became less mute.

But she allowed it, only because
we'd hit the right spot.

Otherwise, her body just shuts down.

"Babouillec or orator?"


"Without frontiers..."

"Forbidden a passport."


So, she's just explained
everything to you!

Do you want to try?

Can she hear anything?

The sound of the birds.

The birds singing.

You'll hear yourself as well.

The fluffy microphone.

They're aquariums, in fact.

Ah yes! The brain!

With the black matter,
the anti-matter.

Let's try again.

What can you say,

to encourage us?

Shall we continue?

Shall we write something, Hélène?

Shove up a bit.

Yes. You can continue.

She's answered, Pierre.

Her reply is on the table.


We'll continue, then.


I've just been contacted
by the Avignon festival.

They're interested.

In our...

Are you having me on?

No, no!
I'm quite serious.

They'd like us to perform
at the next festival.

We'll have more experience.

But they won't like it
if it's too slick, either.

You're really one
of the working team.

Do you want a drink?

"To see."

- What?
- "To see."

No, no. Carry on.

"See the mischievous gaze."

We'll find out soon.

Wait, Hélène.

"To see Julie's mischievous gaze."

Go on.

"Watching me..."

My role is a mute one, as well.

Hang on. No, no.

"Watching me without..."


"Does this mean that I am..."

You need some more letters.


No, "filmomagnetic".

Hélène, it's not finished

just because I said it.
Finish it.

Very, very filmomagnetic.

Poor camera!

Caught out by Babouillec.

You didn't do it on purpose, either.


"To whom should we belong, resemble?

"How does
the established model think?

"Do we depend on the law of limits?

"Are we creatures of light

"freed from bodily matter?

"I ask you, ladies and gents.

"Beasts of the universe,

"dinosaurs amongst them,

"homo sapiens on the road,

"asking the eternal question:
who am I?

"The end of the tunnel
is the start of the adventure."

Truly excellent!

Why laugh at another?

"I never learnt to read or write

"and I'm considered
to be the village idiot."

She never went to school.

Six months in the infants.

She's starting to like things,
want things.

- She's responding.
- Yes.

She's responding a lot.
She tells me she loves me.

She's responding a great deal.

She loves other bodies now.

We couldn't even touch her before.

It's a source of joy for her now.

You're aware of that, Julie.

Throughout the show, she rested
her head on Julie's shoulder.

Totally delighted to be able
to enter into this domain.

She's had some grapefruit juice
and a few raisins.

- OK?
- Yes.

We'll go and eat.

She needs to.

A drop of champagne?

- She's downing it all.
- Go easy!

You won't be able
to walk straight to the meal.

Twice now, your work has been
adapted for the stage.

So, you've heard actors
recite your words.

How has it affected you?



It's amazing, she spells perfectly.

It's very practical

and very surprising.

People often ask us
why it's the case.

But she never learned
and I don't know.

Maybe she can tell us why.

- Did you read to her?
- No.

I can't give you that as an answer.

How did you learn to write?

It's a fairly basic question.

"By playing with each..."

"By playing with each space..."


"Each secret space in..."

"My gherkin."


Her gherkin of a brain.

It must be hard work

playing with each secret space
in one's gherkin of a brain.

"Who, at this precise moment
of the human adventure,

"facing the emotional wasteland,

"can ontologically affirm

"the place of thought
in the body,

"and the body in thought,

"and the link between
Romeo, Juliet and the universe?

"And Adam and Eve?


"Let's read
the possible inscription together,

"fallen from nowhere,

"hijacked, hurled, ejected

"from the depths of a roaming body,
a passer-by on earth.


It's not the same work.

I know.

It's like Bach

being played by different pianists.

It's not the same.

But even if the sonatas
are different,

you recognise them.

The laughter's funny.

The audience's laughter,

and her recorded laughter on stage...

I let the book fall open
and read a short extract.

It's really marvellous.

When are you doing the reading?

- Thursday at 11 a.m.
- I sent you an email.

But you weren't available.

I'll take them.
They're all there.

We've never sold this many.

I don't doubt it.

It's extraordinary.

Marvellous work!

- Do you come every night?
- Yes.

- Really?
- She adores it.

That's the...

The manifestation of the writing
is one thing, but...

I'll read the article
in this morning's Libération.

"The play Forbidden di sporgersi,

"conceived by Pierre Meunier
and Marguerite Bordat,

gave us the opportunity to talk to
its author, a young, autistic poet,


"Explode the rainbow."

- What's up, Hélène?
- Nothing.

"It's difficult to see
the gesticulations..."

You don't want me to read it.

I just wanted you
to hear the article.

No, no, no!

We're going to have a problem.

Explain what the problem is, Hélène.

No, no, no!
She's covered in bruises.

I don't know why.

Don't you want to hear
what she wrote?

She's faithfully transcribed
everything you said.

We'll have to do things differently.

You need to explain.

No, don't do that, please.

Come and write with me,
express yourself.

Hélène. That's enough. Stop.

No! Stop, stop!

Wait. Where's your paper?
Here it is.

Tell us.
Let's try to solve the problem.

Tell us what's going on.

Pay attention.

Tell us all about it.


Gently, gently.

"Red in myself."


That's enough.

We're listening.

No. You were there.

You've already used the "o"..

Try to re-establish where
you exist. You've put "my".


"Reveal my intimacy."

I'll find you the letters.

Please don't do that.

I want you to discuss mathematics.

What intrigues me,

is to understand
the connection you have with it.

Mathematics don't only
serve to explain things.

You're a mysterious person.

Mathematics are there
to reveal mysteries.

To express them.

It keeps your hair under control.

You amaze me.


"In truth, I am
a telepath and iconoclast."

Her initial answer.

We don't need to speak.

You know what we're thinking.

The iconoclastic maths I develop

are maths that speak about...

You've spoken of the transgression

of the path that separates beings.

I remember that.

The transgression
of the distance between beings.

These mathematics work with

the three beings that make up
a person's identity:

the real being,
the lived being and the dream being.

There's the Hélène that's objective,

Hélène that experiences subjectively

and Hélène's idealised Hélène.

Mathematics enable us
to bring the three closer together.

Your dream, your life and your truth.

And the difficulty of the gaps
separating them.

How painful they seem to you.

Does that mean she's fed up?

It's just that she likes
to reply rapidly.

- Sorry.
- Don't worry. It's fine.

"The functions."

"The foundations."


"Enumerate the" or "it..."

What suspense.


"To and fro."

Is that it?

"Of energy"?


"Can you enumerate the foundations

"of the to and fro
motion of cosmic energy?"

Ah right, OK.

"Of cosmic energy."

I'll just put these letters back.

That's a good question.

You've got me there.

It's hard to answer, Hélène.

Many think there's no
to and fro motion,

that it only moves forward.

As was said of you, you never
go backwards when you write.

That there's only cosmic expansion.

But you think the opposite,
that it's a constant ebb and flow.

You have the key.

Do you think there's a return

or is there no return?

Is there a return,
yes or no?



"As a free teller of tales..."

"As a free teller of tales, the..."


"The cosmos."

Don't speak about books to Hélène.


"As a free teller of tales,
the cosmos feeds my journeys..."

"Our luminous beings..."

"We feed our luminous beings..."

"We feed our dimly luminous beings

"with time knowingly
destroyed by ignorance."

Your sensitivity is overwhelming.
That's beautiful.

Difficult to translate

If I might translate it,
knowing Hélène,

it's that she's fed by a light
that we don't see.

So, she'd like to know the formula

for knowing why the light
feeds her and not us.

Time has destroyed it.

We no longer possess it.

Is that it?

What you mean to say?

Perhaps understanding that

will enable her to speak.

This to-ing and fro-ing she has

with the cosmos,

which makes her telepathic.

The holy grail of speech.

It's about that.

Do you want to find a way to speak?

A symbolic translation
of the pathway to it?

A way to words.

A self-explanatory way.

Finding a voice.


"My existential geometry..."

"My existential geometry asks

"for its own arithmetic substance."

This mathematics is without error.

In maths,
there's only one forbidden action.

That's dividing by zero.

When you divide by nothingness,

the calculator prints out "error".

We often say the Latin
errare humanum est.

You must have heard it.

It's been badly translated.

When we say errare humanum est,

we translate it as
"error is human".

But if you look
at a Latin dictionary,

errare means two things.

Either "to be mistaken",

or "to journey", being "errant".

If we translate it properly,

it means "to journey is human",
not to err.

And your journey,
your way of dividing nothingness

and multiplying it,

takes us on an infinite journey.

But never in error.

I salute your arithmetics.

"Algebra" means
to restore what is broken.

From the Arab "al-jabr".

The science of fractures.

Used for the setting
of broken bones.


I think you're doing algebra.

Trying to join fragmented parts.

In your existence and the world too.

You're algebraic, Hélène.

But if something
has always been broken,

how can it be re-made?

That's the limit of algebra.

"Why can't nothingness
be our meeting point?

"Our own question mark
marking the spot.

"Between two lines.

"Describing a part of the story

"whilst seeking the words to tell it.

"Why not?"



You're in my heart, Babouillec.

You make me dream.

What a success!

A wonderful last performance.

It's been such a great day.

Your over-charged brain cells

unblock in a series of flashes,

The work of your mind

Silence is your pseudonym

In your box of runes
It is raining petals

Of rose

And your mouth is wide open

And your mouth is wide open

Arrival of sounds
Playing drum rolls on your eardrums

Fluorescent tube, thick smoke

White-hot springs

Like in a music box
You always hit the sides

Badly adjusted bolts, sound on mute

Which of us

Is the crazy one?

Your eyes shielded by the light

As powerful as a star

Dressed in your dreams
As Tinkerbell

The other as Stendhal

Astride your Pegasus

Acrobat in the air

You fly

Elected queen for a day
Smelling of meadowsweet

Prancing about on top of the ladder
At the district social club

Like some naughty kid
who ends up breaking free

When our gluttonous minds
Sink into the magma

You will end up
Resembling the image

You have of yourself

Subtitling: ECLAIR