New Old (1979) - full transcript
"Chronicles of the Present Times" - An experimental trilogy comprising 'Visa De Censure No.X', 'Livre De Famille' and 'Anima Mundi'. New Old flows together footage from more than a decade of his wandering between scenes, sets, and drugs, an accelerated world tour through various iterations of the counterculture.
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---
I don't really like people prying,
no, I don't need people
to tell me what to do,
no, don't need no cops, priests,
doctors, solicitors or militaries,
For sure those poeple
didn't work it out,
A velvet glove inside
an iron hand.
I've got only one life
don't fool me.
Why all these bars?
All these borders?
Why all these barriers?
Why ain't you my brother?
You've called the police,
hold the line.
You've called the police,
hold the line.
Things, they can't do,
why as well forbid them to me?
I can't say all,
who has decided
that earth would be like hell?
I am going through
the looking glass...
and white turns into black,
hope... despair,
agreeing... disagreeing.
If I cut my wings off,
flying will be meaningless,
nothing has been done yet,
we are waiting for you to start.
There are no happy doctors,
there are no happy cops,
there are few drug addicts,
there are many drunkards.
Read carefully, listen carefully,
easier said
than done,
no, I don't really
like people prying.
A velvet glove inside
an iron hand,
I've got only one life,
don't fool me.
Why all these bars?
Why all these borders?
Why all these barriers?
Why ain't you my brother?
Is it by chance...
we are on the same road again...
Time has passed...
The sky is clouding over.
The Earth opens.
Lightnings across the sky.
My mouth speaks with thunders...
here we go here we are...
at the music-hall of Metropolis.
Run away from
these cities of perdition.
A need for space,
to get out of mental ghettos
where one gets stuck.
The great magicien...
Jean Cocteau...
may I pull your leg...
on ice-cold water
of calculated selfishness...
...fights
that I led.
As far as I know
no French citizen...
has been taken to court...
because of what he said
or his opinions...
confessing his will
to bypass administration...
and to victimize it expiatorily...
and to give it to
a disillusioned public opinion...
the international conference
opens tomorrow in Geneva...
on the refugees from Indochina...
Thursday 26 of January.
The army opened fire
on demonstrators in Tunis.
The toll: Over 250 dead...
most of them kids
aged between 15 and 18.
Flash was awaiting war
in a blue-wind tornado.
The queen was evpecting him
in the shop-window of the drugstore...
streched out light from an opium bed.
A light satin cock
telephoned him horrified...
the crime was getting clearer
in his gestures...
Flash pressed
firmly against her back...
a withdrawal symptom erection.
Put under house arrest,
by this heavy mouth
with failed sensuality...
Flash made himself
prisoner of crazy love...
and made up a girl
riding a white horse.
That was a start of something
which no longer evists.
Psychic collapse
in sepia light...
Like hell's angels telling over
the sea an old Parisian fantasy,
Flash opened up a sick man
waiting for him behind the counter.
"I want to know where
blue rascal's house is" said Flash,
unfolding his old newspapers
in a jug of stout beer.
He peeled his clothes and skin off...
and sat in a bath tub on fire.
She would always think
of him as a saint.
She would refuse
to make love to him.
She started by pushing him away...
and then she said to herself:
"Why are you being so stupid?"
Making a fuss
just because he is a film star...
and you sleep around.
She let him go for it...
saying to herself how much she had
wanted to make love to him...
and the way she had reacted
was nothing but snobbery.
The way he was making love
to her was so rough...
that Gloria had no pleasure.
His sev was inside her,
her head was
on the edge of the bed...
on which he had pissed,
her eyes were closed.
Only half an hour later
the first sensations came.
She raised her eyes,
evpecting him to stare
at her with adoration.
He was watching
a war movie sound off.
She told him he was a child...
knowing nothing about women.
That made him laugh.
She stayed with him.
Two days later
she became more agressive.
In the middle of the night
she entered the second bedroom...
I was eight.
Maybe nine,
when the Organisation
took control of the city.
It separated children
from their parents.
I hardly remember my relatives.
I think my father is dead,
but I am not that sure.
I don't know
what has become of him,
But I don't mind...
since they managed to erase
his image off my mind.
I know that my mother
was put in a asylum,
but I didn't really care either.
I just went to the town hall
to sign a discharged form.
At that time...
she used to live
in the quarter I was born,
12 stops away from here.
It doesn't seem that far,
but actually it is.
I don't want to talk about passes,
barbed-wired to jump over
to go from place to place...
but about generation gap,
between the old ones,
and us.
Here in the quarter where we live,
in this privileged area,
there are only evecutives,
and members of the Organisation.
No old-timer can be seen,
I mean:
People telling stories of the past.
I will try to evplain...
what has been going on lately,
during insomnia
right after Franz's death,
Words,
images, dreams became obvious...
as if springing up
out of my memory,
and of my badly washed brain,
in fact they brought release
from Franz's death.
I thought my mother would know...
and might help me understand...
the meaning of these words,
images and gestures.
Her face and her words started...
to haunt my sleep.
I remembered the song...
she used to sing to me at night.
I remembered the underground
station number 12, line 7,
serving the quarter
where I was born...
and outside,
the street full of neon lights,
very very bright lights,
and glittering shops.
I saw again beggars
lying under the arcades,
outside discos...
Different streets,
different avenues
criss-crossed by cars...
and around a corner,
hidden down a dead end,
a grey mansion
enclosed by high railings,
our local asylum.
In Soucy,
after spending a few days in Paris...
nervous tension,
maze,
perception,
webcobs,
going round,
lack of space, lack of sky,
lack of skyline...
Love is a mystery,
love is not a definition...
Today the first of June,
the first day
of ?ric Duvivier's film shooting,
about a diary of a schizophrenic...
Discovering crackled skin
on your face,
vision of the unreal
in mysterious present...
of the hallucinatory
cinema mystery...
short circuits...
lightning allowing
to catch a glimpse...
dark room
with multinational ideas...
visualizing...
conception...
illuminating lightning...
fields of vision...
taking delight
in seeing the loved ones...
unlimited happiness...
living in peace...
rest of the soul...
perfect...
reunification...
consciousness of realisations...
guessing...
perfect...
visions of repetitive illuminations...
sense of perfection,
sense of continuation...
reality...
point of no return...
self acceptance...
definitive passage...
Who are you?
What are you doing
in this house?
What's your name?
Please, stay...
What are you doing
in my house?
You don't want to answer...
Wait little girl
You make me run...
Great...
great...
Today,
I would like
to tell you a story...
the story of a real ghost...
NEW OLD
or The chronicles of the present
A film by Pierre Cl?menti
Produced with the help
of the audiovisual department...
of Georges Pompidou Centre.
Text excerpts by:
Editing
Sound production
Many thanks
and expression of gratitude to:
See you soon.
Translation:
Asia & Christophe Daoudal.
---
I don't really like people prying,
no, I don't need people
to tell me what to do,
no, don't need no cops, priests,
doctors, solicitors or militaries,
For sure those poeple
didn't work it out,
A velvet glove inside
an iron hand.
I've got only one life
don't fool me.
Why all these bars?
All these borders?
Why all these barriers?
Why ain't you my brother?
You've called the police,
hold the line.
You've called the police,
hold the line.
Things, they can't do,
why as well forbid them to me?
I can't say all,
who has decided
that earth would be like hell?
I am going through
the looking glass...
and white turns into black,
hope... despair,
agreeing... disagreeing.
If I cut my wings off,
flying will be meaningless,
nothing has been done yet,
we are waiting for you to start.
There are no happy doctors,
there are no happy cops,
there are few drug addicts,
there are many drunkards.
Read carefully, listen carefully,
easier said
than done,
no, I don't really
like people prying.
A velvet glove inside
an iron hand,
I've got only one life,
don't fool me.
Why all these bars?
Why all these borders?
Why all these barriers?
Why ain't you my brother?
Is it by chance...
we are on the same road again...
Time has passed...
The sky is clouding over.
The Earth opens.
Lightnings across the sky.
My mouth speaks with thunders...
here we go here we are...
at the music-hall of Metropolis.
Run away from
these cities of perdition.
A need for space,
to get out of mental ghettos
where one gets stuck.
The great magicien...
Jean Cocteau...
may I pull your leg...
on ice-cold water
of calculated selfishness...
...fights
that I led.
As far as I know
no French citizen...
has been taken to court...
because of what he said
or his opinions...
confessing his will
to bypass administration...
and to victimize it expiatorily...
and to give it to
a disillusioned public opinion...
the international conference
opens tomorrow in Geneva...
on the refugees from Indochina...
Thursday 26 of January.
The army opened fire
on demonstrators in Tunis.
The toll: Over 250 dead...
most of them kids
aged between 15 and 18.
Flash was awaiting war
in a blue-wind tornado.
The queen was evpecting him
in the shop-window of the drugstore...
streched out light from an opium bed.
A light satin cock
telephoned him horrified...
the crime was getting clearer
in his gestures...
Flash pressed
firmly against her back...
a withdrawal symptom erection.
Put under house arrest,
by this heavy mouth
with failed sensuality...
Flash made himself
prisoner of crazy love...
and made up a girl
riding a white horse.
That was a start of something
which no longer evists.
Psychic collapse
in sepia light...
Like hell's angels telling over
the sea an old Parisian fantasy,
Flash opened up a sick man
waiting for him behind the counter.
"I want to know where
blue rascal's house is" said Flash,
unfolding his old newspapers
in a jug of stout beer.
He peeled his clothes and skin off...
and sat in a bath tub on fire.
She would always think
of him as a saint.
She would refuse
to make love to him.
She started by pushing him away...
and then she said to herself:
"Why are you being so stupid?"
Making a fuss
just because he is a film star...
and you sleep around.
She let him go for it...
saying to herself how much she had
wanted to make love to him...
and the way she had reacted
was nothing but snobbery.
The way he was making love
to her was so rough...
that Gloria had no pleasure.
His sev was inside her,
her head was
on the edge of the bed...
on which he had pissed,
her eyes were closed.
Only half an hour later
the first sensations came.
She raised her eyes,
evpecting him to stare
at her with adoration.
He was watching
a war movie sound off.
She told him he was a child...
knowing nothing about women.
That made him laugh.
She stayed with him.
Two days later
she became more agressive.
In the middle of the night
she entered the second bedroom...
I was eight.
Maybe nine,
when the Organisation
took control of the city.
It separated children
from their parents.
I hardly remember my relatives.
I think my father is dead,
but I am not that sure.
I don't know
what has become of him,
But I don't mind...
since they managed to erase
his image off my mind.
I know that my mother
was put in a asylum,
but I didn't really care either.
I just went to the town hall
to sign a discharged form.
At that time...
she used to live
in the quarter I was born,
12 stops away from here.
It doesn't seem that far,
but actually it is.
I don't want to talk about passes,
barbed-wired to jump over
to go from place to place...
but about generation gap,
between the old ones,
and us.
Here in the quarter where we live,
in this privileged area,
there are only evecutives,
and members of the Organisation.
No old-timer can be seen,
I mean:
People telling stories of the past.
I will try to evplain...
what has been going on lately,
during insomnia
right after Franz's death,
Words,
images, dreams became obvious...
as if springing up
out of my memory,
and of my badly washed brain,
in fact they brought release
from Franz's death.
I thought my mother would know...
and might help me understand...
the meaning of these words,
images and gestures.
Her face and her words started...
to haunt my sleep.
I remembered the song...
she used to sing to me at night.
I remembered the underground
station number 12, line 7,
serving the quarter
where I was born...
and outside,
the street full of neon lights,
very very bright lights,
and glittering shops.
I saw again beggars
lying under the arcades,
outside discos...
Different streets,
different avenues
criss-crossed by cars...
and around a corner,
hidden down a dead end,
a grey mansion
enclosed by high railings,
our local asylum.
In Soucy,
after spending a few days in Paris...
nervous tension,
maze,
perception,
webcobs,
going round,
lack of space, lack of sky,
lack of skyline...
Love is a mystery,
love is not a definition...
Today the first of June,
the first day
of ?ric Duvivier's film shooting,
about a diary of a schizophrenic...
Discovering crackled skin
on your face,
vision of the unreal
in mysterious present...
of the hallucinatory
cinema mystery...
short circuits...
lightning allowing
to catch a glimpse...
dark room
with multinational ideas...
visualizing...
conception...
illuminating lightning...
fields of vision...
taking delight
in seeing the loved ones...
unlimited happiness...
living in peace...
rest of the soul...
perfect...
reunification...
consciousness of realisations...
guessing...
perfect...
visions of repetitive illuminations...
sense of perfection,
sense of continuation...
reality...
point of no return...
self acceptance...
definitive passage...
Who are you?
What are you doing
in this house?
What's your name?
Please, stay...
What are you doing
in my house?
You don't want to answer...
Wait little girl
You make me run...
Great...
great...
Today,
I would like
to tell you a story...
the story of a real ghost...
NEW OLD
or The chronicles of the present
A film by Pierre Cl?menti
Produced with the help
of the audiovisual department...
of Georges Pompidou Centre.
Text excerpts by:
Editing
Sound production
Many thanks
and expression of gratitude to:
See you soon.
Translation:
Asia & Christophe Daoudal.