A Story of Water (1961) - full transcript
A young woman is going to Paris by bus, but when she steps out of her house she discovers that her garden and the whole village is flooded with water. With a boat and a bike she succeeds to reach a dry spot in the village. There a young man in a car offers her a lift. They drive around in circles, trying to find a way out of the area, but all ways are blocked by the water. Concurrently with the ever rising water the emotions within the two young people also start rising. At last they find their way out of the flooded area. When they reach Paris and the young woman looks up at the Eiffel Tower, she knows that she is going to spend the night with this man.
A HISTORY OF WATER
I went to my flower bed, To pick some roses red
...
Nothing!
Always the same every February!
So much water! So much water!
Cry all the people of Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.
rapidly fleeing
the avalanche of Alpine snow
transformed by the arrival
of spring sunlight over Île-de-France
Where
I go every morning to take the bus to Paris.
What a mess, this flood!
Luckily...
My Cousin Bebert, old stuffed shirt
happens to be passing.
Then I made like Blondin.
If you do not know
Blondin... What a shame!
I was afraid I'd be late for class,
so I called for boots,
"Yes, boots!"
from my second-cousin Léon.
Handsome young Léon
King of the accordion
I felt the water grope my legs
and watched it invade garages,
and watched it invade garages, and living rooms.
I said, "Farewell, My Lovely!"
Thinking of Raymond Chandler,
a writer I admire.
A suburban "Puss in Boots"
I ventured forth
like the famous Arthur Gordon Pym,
and so did many of my fellow citizens.
Old Man Franju yelled that no buses
were running due to the inundation.
From the Latin,
in, "on" unda, "wave."
I hitchhiked and caught a ride
with a guy who wasn't what?
Wasn't bad at all.
We sped off...
- Together...
- towards Paris.
We had to outrun the water
before Highway who-knows-what.
before Highway who-knows-what was flooded.
Do not know how many times you were interrupted.
We turned back often...
because of water blocking the path.
so that the car,
skipping like a fox over the bumpy roads,
was again nose to the water
five minutes later.
Did you know that on the French Riviera,
"after" means "before"?
You're going to say
I'm straying off-topic, that I shouldn't digress,
.
but it reminds me of something
at the Sorbonne,
Aragon giving a lecture on Petrarch.
Here, I'll digress
everyone despises Aragon.
I love him. End of digression.
Then in "La Sorbonne".
Louis Aragon lectures on Petrarch.
He starts off
with a terrific tribute to Matisse.
It goes on for at least 45 minutes.
Finally, a student
shouted from the back of the room.
"Get back to the subject!"
"The originality of Petrarch
lies precisely in the art of digression."
said "The originality of Petrarch
lies precisely in the art of digression."
For me this is the same.
I'm not straying from the subject,
and if I do, that's my real subject,
exactly like a car that strays
from its usual path
because a flood forces it to drive
across fields to reach the road to Paris.
Instead flirt with me and tell me:
I have aristocratic ears...
I have adorable breasts.
the guy next to me
kept talking about his car, praising its qualities in a voice
that contrasted artistically with the sound of the wind
against the hood.
The Ford Taunus is "queen".
Then I thought "403", Chrysler,
Maserati, Lotus, sure...
but not "Ford Taunus".
Not because it's German.
I love the Germans.
Hölderling, Max and Moritz ,Wagner.
But not the Taunus.
The Fordist asked
what I had against the car, and what things I was for,
and I said I was for getting to Paris
before nightfall.
Do not worry.
- He said, avoiding a slug on the road
...
that had been, for the last 20 minutes,
winding around the Parisian basin,
and flashing past rhythmically
in the rearview mirror.
By driving all over
trying to find the highway,
we ended up going in circles.
We passed the pool where Léon
taught me to breaststroke last year.
Then we ended up where we'd started.
We saw Émile and Gaspard.
They yelled, "Try Villeneuve-le-Roi."
Too late.
The floods had trapped us.
In France it is always the same, I said.
"They say you're free, but it's a lie.
Here's proof."
Though "freedom"
isn't an empty word in France.
Paris, for example.
It's the only city in the world
where you can walk down Stalin Avenue
and end up on Nicolas II Boulevard
So, France is a free country.
But free as we are,
we still had no way to get to Paris.
- Result?
- We decided to continue on foot.
It may not look like it,
but I'm thinking of a million things:
The damp air, the sunshine.
Baudelaire is the ideal poet.
- He's the one who said:
"The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious, Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears."
- What can you say after this?
- Be quiet!
Okay, I'll be quiet!
Usually, I don't care about the image.
It's the words that matter.
But this time I'm wrong.
Because here, everything is beautiful.
No noise, no music. Silence.
And now you wll see...
How the young belle
will be seduced...
by a wolf.
He kissed me.
He caressed me.
Around us the flood damages cost
more and more money, not "Monet."
The picture was impressive,
not Impressionist
"How about another kiss?" he said.
- "No."
"Nothing wrong with having fun,"
he added. "I don't feel like it."
"I bet I can make you laugh,"
he went on, forgetting our dire straits.
"I bet you can't."
We made a deal:
If he's able to tell me a funny story,
okay, he can kiss me.
"I'll start," he said.
"Know this one? 'Madam, is that egghead your son?
How many do you have?'
Twelve.' 'What an omelet!'"
I thought, how stupid!
How about the Yugoslavian
who spent his life proving
The Iliad wasn't written by Homer,
but by another Greek, also called Homer?"
"What's funny about that?" No I got it.
"How about," he continued,
"the two madmen telling jokes?"
'You start,' says the first one.
'18,' says the other.
'Ha, ha! That's a good one!'
'You tell one now.'
23!
'I've already heard that one.'
"I've already heard that one too."
He made a face
because it was a flop.
"Have you heard the one
about Prince Yusupov?"
"I might have."
"It goes:
This happened to Prince Rechewski.
He hosted a banquet in honor of Prince
Youssoupof, the assassin of Rasputin.
Do you know it?"
- No!
"Good. I'll continue," he continued,
"Prince Yusupov agrees to come, with the
condition of not talking about Rasputin.
'Dear friend,'
Rachevski says, 'I promise.
We won't even mention Russia.'
After dinner, a guest asks
to be introduced to the prince.
Rachevski brings him
to Yusupov and bows.
'Allow me to introduce Prince Rasputov.' "
Should I laugh or cry?
He kissed me and it hummed on my lips
like a drop of water.
He kissed me and it hummed on my lips
like a drop of water.
To return to the matter at hand. From drops of water to a flood
is only one step,
and our problem was:
How to get to Paris?
It was impossible to continue on foot.
We started looking for a boat...
to reach the Ford Taunus,
now separated from us by a lake.
I was lost in my thoughts...
Thoughts rose
and flitted across my brain
as clouds are whirled by the wind
across the gray veil of mist
that shuts out the sun..
Those aren't my words, but Balzac's,
in The Duchess of Langeais.
While we passed...
- Without transition.
From one stage to the other.
My unfortunate partner said it was not a "serious" girl.
But the drama in our time
is that everything is done seriously.
No one whistles anymore,
we work out of duty.
It's true. Today, art is ruined
because everything's so serious.
Those Pied Nickéles comics
were smashing.
Now, everyone loathes
the word "smashing."
Instead, we use
horribly ordinary words,
Like "authentic" for example,
when "smashing" was
accurate and charming.
There are other words too.
It's a shame they've disappeared.
Like "moolah" instead of "money"
and "popinjay"' for a fancy young man.
"Popinjay" was wonderful.
But that's all over now.
Valery Larbaud is dead,
Paul Eluard is dead, Jean Giraudoux is dead
This string of ideas
trotted through my heart
while the Taunus' 18 horses galloped happily
down the road to Paris, found at last.
The more the Fordist
accelerated more quickly,
the less his loving demands
made me die less quickly.
Like that thing, you know?
The less I pedal, less quickly,
the more I advance more quickly
or the more I pedal less quickly,
the less I advance more quickly.
Anyway...
we arrived.
And water was already climbing
the base of the Eiffel Tower.
Well, I was happy.
This guy, who I called "Pig!"
when he kissed me, this popinjay,
I'll probably sleep at his place tonight.
If water covered France,
to me, that's happiness.
You should know that this is a film of François Truffaut
and Jean-Luc Godard
Photography by Michel Latouche
Produced by Roger Fleytoux Dedicated to Pierre Braunberger
Dedicated to Mack Sennett,
by Films de la Pléiade
(Censorship No. 21,696)
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's over.
I went to my flower bed, To pick some roses red
...
Nothing!
Always the same every February!
So much water! So much water!
Cry all the people of Villeneuve-Saint-Georges.
rapidly fleeing
the avalanche of Alpine snow
transformed by the arrival
of spring sunlight over Île-de-France
Where
I go every morning to take the bus to Paris.
What a mess, this flood!
Luckily...
My Cousin Bebert, old stuffed shirt
happens to be passing.
Then I made like Blondin.
If you do not know
Blondin... What a shame!
I was afraid I'd be late for class,
so I called for boots,
"Yes, boots!"
from my second-cousin Léon.
Handsome young Léon
King of the accordion
I felt the water grope my legs
and watched it invade garages,
and watched it invade garages, and living rooms.
I said, "Farewell, My Lovely!"
Thinking of Raymond Chandler,
a writer I admire.
A suburban "Puss in Boots"
I ventured forth
like the famous Arthur Gordon Pym,
and so did many of my fellow citizens.
Old Man Franju yelled that no buses
were running due to the inundation.
From the Latin,
in, "on" unda, "wave."
I hitchhiked and caught a ride
with a guy who wasn't what?
Wasn't bad at all.
We sped off...
- Together...
- towards Paris.
We had to outrun the water
before Highway who-knows-what.
before Highway who-knows-what was flooded.
Do not know how many times you were interrupted.
We turned back often...
because of water blocking the path.
so that the car,
skipping like a fox over the bumpy roads,
was again nose to the water
five minutes later.
Did you know that on the French Riviera,
"after" means "before"?
You're going to say
I'm straying off-topic, that I shouldn't digress,
.
but it reminds me of something
at the Sorbonne,
Aragon giving a lecture on Petrarch.
Here, I'll digress
everyone despises Aragon.
I love him. End of digression.
Then in "La Sorbonne".
Louis Aragon lectures on Petrarch.
He starts off
with a terrific tribute to Matisse.
It goes on for at least 45 minutes.
Finally, a student
shouted from the back of the room.
"Get back to the subject!"
"The originality of Petrarch
lies precisely in the art of digression."
said "The originality of Petrarch
lies precisely in the art of digression."
For me this is the same.
I'm not straying from the subject,
and if I do, that's my real subject,
exactly like a car that strays
from its usual path
because a flood forces it to drive
across fields to reach the road to Paris.
Instead flirt with me and tell me:
I have aristocratic ears...
I have adorable breasts.
the guy next to me
kept talking about his car, praising its qualities in a voice
that contrasted artistically with the sound of the wind
against the hood.
The Ford Taunus is "queen".
Then I thought "403", Chrysler,
Maserati, Lotus, sure...
but not "Ford Taunus".
Not because it's German.
I love the Germans.
Hölderling, Max and Moritz ,Wagner.
But not the Taunus.
The Fordist asked
what I had against the car, and what things I was for,
and I said I was for getting to Paris
before nightfall.
Do not worry.
- He said, avoiding a slug on the road
...
that had been, for the last 20 minutes,
winding around the Parisian basin,
and flashing past rhythmically
in the rearview mirror.
By driving all over
trying to find the highway,
we ended up going in circles.
We passed the pool where Léon
taught me to breaststroke last year.
Then we ended up where we'd started.
We saw Émile and Gaspard.
They yelled, "Try Villeneuve-le-Roi."
Too late.
The floods had trapped us.
In France it is always the same, I said.
"They say you're free, but it's a lie.
Here's proof."
Though "freedom"
isn't an empty word in France.
Paris, for example.
It's the only city in the world
where you can walk down Stalin Avenue
and end up on Nicolas II Boulevard
So, France is a free country.
But free as we are,
we still had no way to get to Paris.
- Result?
- We decided to continue on foot.
It may not look like it,
but I'm thinking of a million things:
The damp air, the sunshine.
Baudelaire is the ideal poet.
- He's the one who said:
"The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious, Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears."
- What can you say after this?
- Be quiet!
Okay, I'll be quiet!
Usually, I don't care about the image.
It's the words that matter.
But this time I'm wrong.
Because here, everything is beautiful.
No noise, no music. Silence.
And now you wll see...
How the young belle
will be seduced...
by a wolf.
He kissed me.
He caressed me.
Around us the flood damages cost
more and more money, not "Monet."
The picture was impressive,
not Impressionist
"How about another kiss?" he said.
- "No."
"Nothing wrong with having fun,"
he added. "I don't feel like it."
"I bet I can make you laugh,"
he went on, forgetting our dire straits.
"I bet you can't."
We made a deal:
If he's able to tell me a funny story,
okay, he can kiss me.
"I'll start," he said.
"Know this one? 'Madam, is that egghead your son?
How many do you have?'
Twelve.' 'What an omelet!'"
I thought, how stupid!
How about the Yugoslavian
who spent his life proving
The Iliad wasn't written by Homer,
but by another Greek, also called Homer?"
"What's funny about that?" No I got it.
"How about," he continued,
"the two madmen telling jokes?"
'You start,' says the first one.
'18,' says the other.
'Ha, ha! That's a good one!'
'You tell one now.'
23!
'I've already heard that one.'
"I've already heard that one too."
He made a face
because it was a flop.
"Have you heard the one
about Prince Yusupov?"
"I might have."
"It goes:
This happened to Prince Rechewski.
He hosted a banquet in honor of Prince
Youssoupof, the assassin of Rasputin.
Do you know it?"
- No!
"Good. I'll continue," he continued,
"Prince Yusupov agrees to come, with the
condition of not talking about Rasputin.
'Dear friend,'
Rachevski says, 'I promise.
We won't even mention Russia.'
After dinner, a guest asks
to be introduced to the prince.
Rachevski brings him
to Yusupov and bows.
'Allow me to introduce Prince Rasputov.' "
Should I laugh or cry?
He kissed me and it hummed on my lips
like a drop of water.
He kissed me and it hummed on my lips
like a drop of water.
To return to the matter at hand. From drops of water to a flood
is only one step,
and our problem was:
How to get to Paris?
It was impossible to continue on foot.
We started looking for a boat...
to reach the Ford Taunus,
now separated from us by a lake.
I was lost in my thoughts...
Thoughts rose
and flitted across my brain
as clouds are whirled by the wind
across the gray veil of mist
that shuts out the sun..
Those aren't my words, but Balzac's,
in The Duchess of Langeais.
While we passed...
- Without transition.
From one stage to the other.
My unfortunate partner said it was not a "serious" girl.
But the drama in our time
is that everything is done seriously.
No one whistles anymore,
we work out of duty.
It's true. Today, art is ruined
because everything's so serious.
Those Pied Nickéles comics
were smashing.
Now, everyone loathes
the word "smashing."
Instead, we use
horribly ordinary words,
Like "authentic" for example,
when "smashing" was
accurate and charming.
There are other words too.
It's a shame they've disappeared.
Like "moolah" instead of "money"
and "popinjay"' for a fancy young man.
"Popinjay" was wonderful.
But that's all over now.
Valery Larbaud is dead,
Paul Eluard is dead, Jean Giraudoux is dead
This string of ideas
trotted through my heart
while the Taunus' 18 horses galloped happily
down the road to Paris, found at last.
The more the Fordist
accelerated more quickly,
the less his loving demands
made me die less quickly.
Like that thing, you know?
The less I pedal, less quickly,
the more I advance more quickly
or the more I pedal less quickly,
the less I advance more quickly.
Anyway...
we arrived.
And water was already climbing
the base of the Eiffel Tower.
Well, I was happy.
This guy, who I called "Pig!"
when he kissed me, this popinjay,
I'll probably sleep at his place tonight.
If water covered France,
to me, that's happiness.
You should know that this is a film of François Truffaut
and Jean-Luc Godard
Photography by Michel Latouche
Produced by Roger Fleytoux Dedicated to Pierre Braunberger
Dedicated to Mack Sennett,
by Films de la Pléiade
(Censorship No. 21,696)
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's over.