After the Rehearsal (1984) - full transcript

After rehearsal
I like to linger on the stage...

to reflect on the day's work in solitude.

It's the hours
between afternoon and evening,

when the big theater
is quiet and deserted.

I must have slept a while.
I'm not sure.

As I look around,
I don't recognize the room.

Something has changed...

mysteriously and elusively.

What are you looking for?

A bracelet.
I'm always losing things.

Distance and weariness.



Distance and anxiety.

Distance and a sharp taste of iron
on the tongue.

I want her to leave.

This search for a bracelet
is obviously a pretext.

I want you to leave.

Go now.

Never mind.
It was nothing special.

I see.

- I'd gladly rehearse day and night.
- No need to apologize.

I'm not apologizing.

How old are you, Anna Egerman?

- Guess.
- Same age as my youngest daughter.

Your dad and I were filming.
We both had daughters within a week.

23 years and three months, right?



You and Dad had fun.

Do I hear a reproach?

Dad was always gone.
Mom was always sad.

Wasn't she
an especially talented actress?

That she was, Anna dear.

She was one of the most
beautiful women I've ever seen.

Charming, talented, passionate.

Then she married and quit the theater.
- You were in love with her.

We all were.

Did you have a relationship?
Why not?

She and I kept our distance.

Mikael was braver...
or more foolhardy.

And look what happened.

Mom had lots of kids she didn't like
and died of alcohol poisoning.

I asked her once
why she quit the theater.

She replied that she loved my father

and didn't want to squander her life.

She was such a sham.

- It's strange hearing you speak of her.
- Am I too harsh?

- You speak with no sympathy.
- How can I feign a sympathy I lack?

It was years before I dared
to hate her full-out.

Instead I nearly went mad
from depression.

Now I hate her,
and I feel much better.

I'm sure it doesn't matter to her now!

That's the big question.

I read an interview with you
where you declared

that this is our only life,

that "before" and especially "after"

didn't exist...

and that knowing that gave you
a deep sense of security.

You have a talent for irony.

It's only confusion!

Let me tell you something,
Anna Egerman.

At my age,
sometimes when you lean forward,

your head suddenly finds itself
in another reality.

The dead are no longer dead.

The living appear like ghosts.

What was obvious a minute earlier...

becomes peculiar and hard to grasp.

Anna...

listen to the silence on this stage.

Imagine all the spiritual energy...

all the emotions,
real and make-believe...

all the laughter, rage, passion,
and who knows what else.

It's all still here...

enclosed...

living its secret, uninterrupted life.

I hear them sometimes.

Often.

Sometimes I think I can see them:

demons, angels...

ghosts.

Ordinary people...

intently going about their lives.

Closed off.

Secretive.

Sometimes we speak to each other...

but just in passing.

There's that ironic smile again!
- Not at all.

I know what you mean,
but do you really believe...

Isn't that irrelevant?

Whether they're like
in the dreams I create,

entire plays with actors and dialogue,

or whether they really have
a life of their own, beyond my senses?

Isn't that irrelevant?

Yet you think my hatred hurts my mother,
even though she's dead.

Your hatred scares me.
I think it reaches her.

Then I'm glad.

You were about to say something.
- Play your part. It's your play.

Why cast me as Indra's Daughter?

- You're very talented.
- So you do think so?

I saw you
in a drama school performance.

Agnes in Brand. It was awful.
- Yes, it was.

You can only be that bad
if you're talented.

Then I saw you in a film.

A minor part in a bad film.

I'd just been asked to come back
and direct something here.

When I saw that film, I thought...

"I'll do A Dream Play...

with Anna Egerman
as Indra's Daughter."

This will be my fifth Dream Play.

There could be
a sixth and seventh too.

When I was 12,
I was allowed in here

with an organist
who played backstage.

Night after night I'd sit

there in the light tower,

watching the marriage scenes
between the Lawyer and the Daughter.

It was the first time
I experienced the magic of actors.

The Lawyer held a hairpin
between his fingers.

"Look at this.

It's two prongs, but one pin.

It's two... but it's one.

If I straighten it out...

it's a single entity.

If I bend it, it's two...

without ceasing to be one.

That means: The two are one.

But if I break it...

Now the two are two!"

There was no pin, but I saw it!

That's how it all started.

There I sat...

crouched between two spotlights
and a thunder sheet.

I'm too young for the part.

Indra's Daughter
is always too old or too young.

You've always modified the text.

Of course.
It makes things easier.

"I don't understand this... cut it."

"This sounds ridiculous...
I'll rewrite it."

"This scene is in the wrong place...
I'll move it."

I knead the text
for a specific purpose.

I use a giant cross
in the final scene,

or a hundred extras in rags,
their left fists raised.

I violate Strindberg!

It works. It's all the rage.

I get rave reviews.

Why am I saying this?
It's nonsense.

Tired clichés.

Why do I suddenly embark
on these ridiculous theatrics,

this parody of a conviction
that's gone sour and crumbled?

Why justify myself to this young person
who doesn't care what I say?

You want me to persuade you
you're right for the part.

That's my job, the sweet secret
of our relationship.

You assume I believe in you
and demand constant confirmation.

If I'm convincing enough verbally,
emotionally, and intellectually,

you'll eventually believe me,
and confidence will blossom forth.

Meanwhile, I'm inspired
by your trust and self-confidence.

The blood pulses.

Tiny veins filled
with red life branch out

to the furthest and dullest edges
of the ensemble,

lending color to mediocre cheeks
and making eyes shine.

That's how it is, Anna Egerman.

That's how it must be.

When you were a wild little troll
in your father's lap,

perhaps I thought,
"She'll become an actress."

When I saw you in that silly film...

your way of moving,
of speaking...

when I saw your eyes...

your eagerness and vulnerability...

it made me happy.

I felt that with you
I could set in motion

the wheel that gets
heavier every year.

If that's true, why are you so critical?

You find fault in everything I do.

I cry in despair when I get home.

I don't think you believe in me at all.
- Really?

You don't think I believe in you?

That's the only silly thing
I've heard you say these five weeks.

If I may hazard a guess,
I think your tears may be tears of joy.

You know something
is happening inside you,

a regrouping and restructuring
of your resources.

It can feel relentless and painful...

but it makes you happy all the same.

When we speak outside of work,

you're a worse actress
than when we're working.

Get rid of the private-life actress.

She steals energy
from the real actress,

thwarting impulses
you could use on stage.

- What a lecture!
- Yes, it was!

Now I'm off to my hotel for a nap
so I can work with you tonight.

See you.
- Bye.

Sleep well!

- So you think I act in real life?
- As a matter of fact, I do.

People are glad to see
the face they're expecting.

Someone expects you
to be pleased with a gift, so you are.

Someone wants you to show love,
and you get love in return.

You're supposed to be
sympathetic, funny, sexy, or sad.

Are you always real?

- Me? I live an isolated life.
- What about rehearsals?

Then it's about
the actors' emotions, not mine.

I'll do anything
to get the best out of you.

It's my job, and my only true joy.

Is it really so important
to be precise with my feelings?

How can I protect myself
from the world without my little act?

Guess.

Maybe I shouldn't protect myself.

Who tricked me into using
all these fake emotions?

It must start early.

Far back in childhood.

The anxiety to please,
the need to please.

Mom could be frightening, and Dad...

Yes, you know all that.

As a child you're at a disadvantage,

and later you keep it up
because it's easier.

There's something important
I have to ask you.

In the marriage scene
with the Lawyer,

you have me pacing
like a caged animal.

I can't do it the way you want.

I feel silly.

Keep trying. If it doesn't work,
we'll think of something else.

Maria was praised
for pacing like that

in your last production
11 years ago.

I'm not as good as she was,
and she was twice my age.

- You read the reviews?
- Of course.

What's so funny?
Maria's a dead legend. I have to...

If you don't want to pace like Maria...

you can do just the opposite.

Sit motionless the whole time...

as if chained to the chair.

Close to the stove. She's cold.

Don't get up until the Officer comes
to rescue you from your prison.

Then you get up
as if you'd been paralyzed.

That will be very effective.

And Maria will be turning over
in her grave.

So I sit motionless...

shivering by the stove.

But I can hold my arms out
to him when I say...

"Dearest...

I'm dying in this air...

in this room
with its backyard view...

with that baby's cries...

and endless hours of sleeplessness...

and those people out there...

with their whining and bickering
and incriminations.

I'll die if I stay here."

Then he walks over to me..

and embraces me...

then falls to his knees and says...

"Poor little flower."

That would be good.
That would help enormously.

A few days ago you said
the Daughter is heavy here,

that she weighs
hundreds of pounds.

But I can't find any weight.

- It's in your shoulders and hips.
- Yes, but...

It's not easy when
you're brimming with lust for life.

Stand still.
Delight in standing still.

Stand with your whole body,
not just your legs.

How do you know
you're saying the right things?

You've never acted.
- I feel it.

Are you never afraid of being wrong?

When I was younger

and had reason to be afraid,
I didn't realize it.

Many directors' paths are lined
with the corpses of actors.

Have you ever cared
to count your victims?

In life... or let us say
"in the real world"...

many have been hurt by my treatment,

just as I've been hurt by others'.

- But not in the theater?
- No.

I'll tell you the pure and simple truth:

I love actors.

I love them as phenomena.

I love their profession.

I love their courage,
or their contempt for death,

whatever you want to call it.

I understand their desire to escape,

but also their dark, ruthless honesty.

I love when they try to manipulate me.

I envy them their gullibility

and their perceptiveness.

I love them,
so I can never hurt them.

You say you love them.

Are you never disappointed?
- No.

Stop smoking all the time.

Sorry.

My old teacher once said
a director should learn to listen

and shut up.

Actors are creative artists,
but they're not very verbal.

You have to listen,
be patient, and wait.

- You say a lot to me.
- That's different. You're a beginner.

Your garden needs weeding.

There are lots of weeds,

but the roses are without peer.

Are you tired?

I often nap at this time of day.
My blood sugar's at rock bottom.

- Were you going to sleep here earlier?
- No.

I was going to wax sentimental.
- Don't let me disturb you.

Listen, you weren't wearing
a bracelet earlier.

I remember noticing that.

Could it be in the dressing room?

Anyway, you're not disturbing me,

and you could never stem
my desire for nostalgia.

On the contrary.
- Then I'll sit here.

"Come a little closer...

the better to see you,"
said the wolf.

- That hairstyle suits you.
- I'm growing my hair for the part.

The first few days you had some
modern hairstyle. It didn't suit you.

I wanted to look smart for you,
so I went to the hairdresser.

For me? Thank you!

I wanted to make an impression.

Would a modern, self-sufficient...

In that respect I'm not modern.

- My leg hurts like hell.
- Since when?

It's death gnawing at me
like eager little rats.

You and Dad are the same age.

Yes, we're the same age.

So here we are.
- Looking out over the dark auditorium.

Above us, the dust from the grid
falls on our heads.

And beneath us...
- An abyss of machinery

for the revolving stage,
trapdoors, and...

Here we are, sitting nicely.

That armchair there
was featured in The Father.

This sofa had a part in Hedda Gabler.

I used that table in Tartuffe...

and the chairs
in my last Dream Play.

Old acquaintances, all of them.

I greet them like old friends.

I like my rehearsal screens
best of all.

They remind me of my childhood.

I had a big wooden box
filled with plain building blocks.

They could be anything I wanted.

That's what I like best:

chair... table...

screen...

stage...

house lights...

actors in everyday clothes...

movement...

voices...

faces...

stillness...

magic.

Everything is "represented."

Nothing is.

Boring, Anna. Boring.

I love these old theaters.

They're like violins:

infinitely sensitive...

refined...

definitive.

But they tie us down.

Words, actors, audience...
that's all you need.

That's all you need
for the miracle to happen.

That's my belief...

my innermost conviction,
yet I never follow it!

I'm far too attached

to this depraved, dusty,
grubby instrument.

So it is and always has been.

You once said
acting is a moral business.

That sounds dreadful!

My old teacher divided actors
into two categories:

One walks on, the other walks off.

- Sounds unfair!
- No, not unfair...

but neither is it equal.

You don't care whatever X does,

but you'll look at Y,
even if he's not moving a finger.

I didn't really want to be an actor.

- Who forced you?
- I'd watch Mom and Dad fight.

They'd use their voices
and gestures and intonation.

A line from a play might slip in,

appropriately modified for the occasion.

Mom was the worst.

Couldn't Dad hear
how affected she sounded?

Couldn't he see her crying out of one eye
and monitoring the effect with the other?

Or how she directed the play,
forcing the oddest lines on him?

Mom was superb, but I wasn't fooled!

I said to her once...

"Don't act with me, Mom.
I'm a poor audience.

All your efforts are wasted."

She gave me...

a frightening look and said...

"This is how I express myself.

I have no other way.

Real or not...

I suffer...

and I'm lonely.
Try to understand that!"

- It's raining.
- Oh, really?

Yes, I hear it now.

- A real autumn rain.
- It is autumn.

- Were you napping?
- No.

Distance.

Indifference.

Weariness.

Fear.

Impotence.

Impotent rage.

Distance.

- Do you want to go to bed?
- Here?

In your room.
It's happened before.

You're not sober.

- How unpleasant!
- Yes, it is unpleasant.

Come on, Henrik.

I don't feel like it.

You feel like it.

You feel like it...

but you're embarrassed.

- We have nothing more...
- ...to say to each other.

We can still make love.

We've never had
any disputes in that area.

Have we, my friend?
- No.

I've looked into your face...

deep down inside.

We have no secrets from each other.

It's like a line from a bad play.

- One of yours, perhaps?
- Thanks.

Why do you force me to take
a part with only two lines?

Does it amuse you to humiliate me
in front of my colleagues?

- Do you want the truth?
- Yes! I always love your excuses.

- You really are a pest.
- A contagious one.

Would you be so kind
as to try to remember

that I called you a year ago
and told you about this production.

I asked if you'd play Edith's mother,
for old times' sake.

You cried and thanked me
and said I'd made you terribly happy,

that you were grateful
I hadn't forgotten you, and so on.

We talked for nearly an hour.

You called back later that evening,
quite drunk,

and said you were extremely grateful

and that you still loved me.

It's been exactly one minute,
and I've produced my explanation.

If there's anything I should add, it...

Never mind. It's irrelevant.

I can picture you
with the theater manager:

"I want Rakel to play Edith's mother."

He says, "Isn't that a bit risky?

She's been off sick
for three months.

I don't know
if you could put up with her.

She's become careless
and undisciplined."

You sit in silence for a while...

thinking of the old Rakel.

You nod and smile and say,
"I'll call her.

I'll let her decide."

- Are you still living at home?
- No.

Are you living on your own?

You know I live at the hospital.

- I didn't know.
- Don't pretend, darling.

I didn't know, honestly.

For Anna's sake.

What about Mikael?

Mikael bears all things,
believes all things, hopes all things.

He's kind. Mikael is kind!

- And Anna?
- Do you care?

- She's fine.
- That's an exhaustive account.

What do you want me to say?
She really is fine.

How old is she?

She'll be 12 in June.

She's more and more like you.

You're driving at something nasty.

- Anna sells people out.
- I don't understand.

She sells her mother out
to please her father.

Perhaps she has her reasons.

Naturally!

We're at the dinner table.
Mikael's reading the paper.

I ask him to stop.

He gets up, folds the paper,

comes over to me and hits me
in the face with the paper.

Then he puts on his coat and hat
and slams the front door.

The next day I overhear
Anna and Mikael talking.

Anna says she feels sorry
for her father.

She understands
that he can't take it anymore.

And so on...

Poor Rakel.

With me you can do what you like,
can't you?

Anything you like.

Isn't that so?

That's what's risky about you.

- I was the best, wasn't I?
- You were the best.

For 26 years I was the best.

You could still be if...

Thanks! That's kind of you.

- Can you tell I have false teeth?
- No.

I'm decaying bit by bit.

Even when I was 20,
playing Margareta...

You remember the final scene?

I already knew the score back then.

The decay.

It was there, already in place.

Yes, it was.

But it didn't show in those days.

Do you remember we did
a radio show with folk music?

We sang and played.

Then came The Crown Bride.

That was you too.

Why don't you want to sleep with me?

I've had two glasses of wine.

I'm not drunk, if that's what you think.

I don't think anything.

My thighs are as smooth
as a young girl's.

My breasts! Look at them!

What do you say?

Henrik says nothing.

Henrik is silent and watches.

He can't make up his mind.

Henrik is horny but ill at ease.

He's not looking
at my thighs or my breasts.

He's looking at my face.

My face!

Oh Christ!

Why are you staying at the hospital?

My kind doctor thinks it's best.

During your binges?

During my binges.

And otherwise?

Otherwise...

I have a small apartment facing
the courtyard behind the theater.

It's a beautiful courtyard

with an old chestnut tree
right outside my window.

In the summer the light in my room
is green like an aquarium.

Let's go to my place.
Five minutes...

I'm waiting for someone.

I see.

My doctor's very considerate.

We have long conversations.

It's called "conversational therapy."

He talks about himself,

then he fucks me slowly,
his hands cold and sweaty.

He's a dull, feeble little bastard.

You say you're waiting for someone?
That's strange.

You've never waited for anyone.

- Who is it?
- None of your business.

You're right.

My doctor calls Mikael,

and my husband and my doctor

discuss Rakel and her condition,

while Rakel lies on the floor
of her little white room and masturbates.

Does it ever occur to you
that they both mean well?

I'm absolutely positive

that they're both
absolutely positive they mean well.

Can't you get another doctor?

What good would that do?

I get the care I need.

A white cubicle
has been placed at my disposal.

There I can house
my screams, my prayers,

my vomit, and my fear.

I am what's called "privileged,"

and I'm infinitely grateful!

Can I never play a major role again?

Has the terror grown too great?

Will the fear kill me?

Do I have to throw up onstage,
have diarrhea, crap my pants?

You know I keep a bucket in the wings?

What can I do?

Whether I'm working or "resting",
as they say...

my fear is just the same.

You think my instrument
has been ruined forever?

In that case I must die.

No, I'm talking nonsense.
I don't want to die.

I'm afraid of death.

I couldn't imagine
doing myself any real harm.

Do you think my instrument is ruined?

Not really.

You idiot!

I told them over and over,
"Don't do it. Don't do it!"

It's a life crisis.

I know it's a life crisis.

I don't know what you're talking about.

You see, Mikael and I were having
an ordinary argument.

I knew he was lying.

I tried to get him to tell the truth,
just that once.

But he kept lying,
and he stuck to his lies.

I know I behaved badly.

I screamed and cried
and locked myself in the bathroom.

I hit Anna.

She started howling.

I tried to console her,
but she broke away from me

and ran to Mikael for protection.

Then I hit her again!

I'm sorry I did that.

Every single day
I'm sorry I did that.

Mikael called the police
and our friend the doctor.

He arrived together with a locksmith,

the police, and a psychiatric nurse.

I only wanted Mikael to tell the truth,

just that once.

You know how I want the truth,
however repugnant it is.

- People dislike your demands for truth.
- You were involved too.

You said there was a risk of suicide,

even though you knew
I had never hurt myself seriously!

- Please stop provoking me.
- You and Mikael and Doctor Jacobi.

Your conspiracy theory is unreal.

One of you alone couldn't crush me.
Not even two of you.

But three of you could!

Rakel, why don't you go to hell

where you belong?

I never want to talk to you
or think of you again.

I want nothing more
to do with you.

I've obliterated you once and for all.

You don't exist.

We were your lovers.

You raised us between your knees...

then you rejected us
and moved on to new victims.

You were already drinking
quite heavily when we met.

You were so hard on me
when you were drunk!

And so hard on yourself.

Dear God...

help me.

Why can't you risk it with me?
You won't be disappointed.

Rakel, I don't dare.

What a silly answer!

I'm a splendid instrument.
You've said so yourself.

Through me you hear tones
you've never heard before.

Isn't that worth a try?

"My own mother's sister said,
in her blindness,

that I, Dionysus,
was not the progeny of Zeus.

That's why I plagued
the sisters with madness

and drove them
out of house and home.

And I made the women
of the city of Cadmus

carry the emblems of my mysteries.

Now they have joined
the daughters of Cadmus,

sitting roofless on the rocks
under the silver firs.

This city, where my Bacchic revels
have never been heard,

shall, willingly or not,
atone for the affront to my mother!"

Does your own turmoil torment you so
that you can't bear the unpredictable?

- You're getting unbearably theatrical.
- You think so? Sorry.

I hate turmoil, aggression,
and outbursts of emotion.

I administrate,
distribute, and organize.

I don't participate in the drama,
I give it material form.

I hate all things spontaneous,
rash, and imprecise.

I have no room for my own confusion

except as a key to secrets of a script

or as a stimulus for actors' creativity.

My rehearsals are operations
in an operating room,

where self-discipline, cleanliness,
light, and stillness prevail.

That's the only way to approach
the infinite, the pain...

and the darkness.

The only way to solve the enigma

and learn the mechanisms
of repetition.

I manage scripts and working hours.

It's my job to make sure
your work isn't meaningless.

I'm not personal.
I observe, register, and control.

I'm not impulsive or spontaneous.
I don't participate.

It only looks that way.

If I were to pull off my mask and show
my true feelings and thoughts,

you'd rave at me, tear me to pieces,
and throw me out the window!

You silly fool.

Theater is shit, filth, and lechery.

Turmoil, tangles, and trouble.

I don't believe for a second
your theory about purity.

It's suspect. Typical of you.

How would it be if...

Forget it. It's no use.
I don't know why I should...

- Why not? I'm gullible enough.
- True.

All the lies I've swallowed
over the years!

Luckily I'm not just gullible.
My memory's bad too!

That's good.

Why are you so bored?

I'm not bored.

I'm just wondering
how many victims line...

Here I am in my beloved theater.

I'm 46 years old,

and my ex-lover,
out of sheer pity, has given me...

Christ, look at her improvising
and showing off!

A talented woman
making herself insufferable.

But I know exactly where
all this hamming it up will end.

Soon she'll be struck
by the moment of truth.

The brief but terrible insight.

The breakdown.

...my face.

I stink like rotten fish.

My skin gives off a moistness
that smells of decay.

Makeup won't stick.

It gathers in the crevices
in thick lumps.

I try to keep my nails clean,

but they crack and turn black.

I breathe decay.

You think I don't know that?

And you speak
of the victims lining my path!

Christ Almighty!

It was a compliment!

A compliment?

Oh! I'm sorry!

I know how you hate when I cry...

or when I blow my nose
on a dirty handkerchief.

But I got oil on my fingers,
and it's the only one I have!

I don't wish you any harm.

You hear me?

Let's do a comedy together.

Molière! I'd make a good Dorine.

She needn't be that young.

The French always make her
an old harpy. That's wrong.

She's supposed to have
a lot of cleavage, and I do...

- I've had no luck with Tartuffe.
- Then you should try again.

Besides, it's a boring play.

I've always thought so.

- Then I guess it's not a good idea.
- No.

I'll go now.

Stay if you like.

- No, I'm disturbing you.
- Not at all.

Besides, you're waiting for someone.

I only said that.

You're not happy I came to see you.

Rakel...

You never believe what I say...

but try to believe this:

Not a day goes by
that I don't think of you.

Every night before
the sleeping pill knocks me out...

I think of you.

You're always in my thoughts.

That's how it is.

- It's kind of you to say so.
- No, it's the truth.

It's kind of you to tell me.

Go tidy up at your place.
I'll be there in an hour.

You're only saying that to get rid of me.

I'll go.

I'll be off now.

Shall I fix us a nice dinner
like I used to?

Don't trouble yourself
on my account.

That's Henrik Vogler.
"Don't trouble yourself on my account."

Don't trouble yourself
on my account!

Don't be mad, Henrik.

I'm just joking.
Or is that forbidden?

You win, as usual.

When you come
I'll be newly bathed, fragrant...

and sober.

The deep waters
of unconsciousness!

Henrik, my dear friend...

you think I'd have been happier
if I'd learned to be cynical?

Go on, now.
I'll be there for sure.

Rakel!

It's the same old story:
I run after her, calling her name.

Then comes the lies,
the futile reconciliation,

the guilty conscience,
the fear, the muttered curses...

and then the sympathy.

Always the same.

I never gave any thought
to Mom's childishness.

Last Thursday you said
I'm childish for my age. It's true.

I am childish...

at times to the point
of embarrassment.

Gullible, careless, and naive.

Childishness is widespread
in our profession.

How else would it be possible?

I'm amazed people take us
seriously at all.

They build us big beautiful houses

where we can play our games.

Nurture your childishness.

It's a good filter
against consciousness.

When my passions flare up,
I'm not conscious.

- Do you get jealous?
- A normal amount.

I see.

- And yourself?
- Far from normal.

You look at me as if about to say
something astonishing...

and I think...

"Is this how Uncle Henrik flirts
with young women?"

- That wasn't very nice.
- No, I'm delighted.

Is that so?

I ruined what you were about to say.

I'm fond of you.

In love, if you like.

I'm happy you're sitting next to me
here on the Hedda Gabler sofa,

that I can touch you with my hand.

Happy we'll be working together
for five weeks,

that you're tied to me professionally,

and therefore emotionally.

I'm in love with you
because you're young and beautiful.

Because you're an exceptionally
endowed human being.

And because you're a good actress.
- That was beautiful.

Of course I'm jealous!
It goes with the territory.

I know you're living
with that flabby assistant director,

Johan something or other.

Not only is he exceptionally rude,
he has no talent to boot,

at least judging
by his Brecht play upstairs.

The fact he gets to sleep with you
can only be a triumph for mediocrity!

But perhaps he has qualities
hidden from the world.

What does your dad think?
- He thinks Johan is nice.

You sure he wasn't being ironic?
"Johan's a really nice boy!"

We're expecting a child.

I knew it.

- What month? Your second?
- Third.

- I knew it. It's ridiculous.
- What's ridiculous?

You'll be five months' pregnant
by opening night.

How long can you perform?
Two weeks?

There goes all my work!
Pardon my anger, but...

You're not so glad
to be working together now!

I don't get it.

A young, aspiring actress
is offered the part of a lifetime.

It's a decisive moment in her career.

She's known for over a year
that she'll be doing it right now.

And she gets pregnant!
I just don't get it.

Just fell out of love with me, didn't you?

No. On the contrary.

What do you mean?

Directing A Dream Play
with you as Agnes is wonderful.

The fact it will run
just two weeks is even better.

"There was no play.
There was a baby."

It's fantastic, the more I think about it.

Though I'm even more pissed off
with that assistant director you're with.

What a triumph for him
to sabotage my Dream Play!

Perhaps you'd like me
to have an abortion?

No.

Not for the theater. It's not worth it.
- But you said...

Forget that! That was the old
theater man in me speaking.

He wants his efforts to be worthwhile.

Forget about him.
I'm fed up with him myself.

I'll go see the manager tomorrow.

- And give up the part?
- Yes.

- Who'll take your place?
- Use Karin or...

There's no one I want!

You were the whole point
of the production...

I've said what I came to say.

- What about your bracelet?
- That was just a sorry excuse.

Anna...

Don't give up the part.

How would I put up
with all your aggression?

There won't be any baby.

- You already had an abortion?
- Last week.

- You got rid of it?
- I want my part!

I see.

My relationship with Johan
is essentially over!

Why say you were pregnant?

It just came over me.

I see.
You wanted to see my reaction.

Maybe I wanted
to see you lose face.

And I did.

Your little joke paid off.

I'm wiping away that sad face.

You remind me
of your mother sometimes.

I'm sorry I made you unhappy.

I don't like
when you put on an act.

Do you never read people wrong?
I wasn't putting on an act.

You caressed me
when you felt like slapping me.

- Absolutely not true!
- You're so like your mother.

If you say I'm like my mother
once more, I'm leaving!

You really are
very much like your mother.

- I have a surprise for you.
- Now I'm curious!

- Johan admires you. Surprised?
- Yes.

He hoped to be
your assistant on this play.

He was crushed
when you chose Eva.

"Only Henrik can teach me anything."

He was happy I'd be working with you.
Happy and jealous.

- Then you got pregnant.
- I wanted the child.

He's the one
who persuaded me to abort.

Now I've surprised you twice!
- Indeed.

I wanted the child...

even though it wasn't Johan's...

even though I wouldn't be
in your production.

I was afraid
I'd never have another child.

But Johan persuaded me.

So here I am.

In your hands.

And I in yours.

I've lived alone for eight years.

An older lady comes
for three hours a day.

She cleans, cooks,
washes up, and leaves.

I have a few friends.

We discuss politics and play chess.

My wife visits when she feels like it.

We spend the night together.
We're quite fond of each other.

I'll only come when you call me.

A cynical psychologist has said
that the temperature of a love

can only be measured
by the loneliness that precedes it.

I had different plans.

We'd have our work...

rehearsals...

the hours onstage.

A Dream Play and us.
- Sorry I've ruined your plans.

I'd give you my experience.

It's all yours!

I give you identification,

care, and tenderness...

from 10:30 to 3:00.

I make sure the audience loves you

and that you're beautifully lit.

I protect you from yourself
and make sure you don't fall.

From 10:30 to 3:00.

No, don't touch me.

I'm of no interest to you...

a closed chapter.

A closed chapter, nearly played out.

That's not posturing on my part.

I refuse...

to play a part in your drama.

It could only be ridiculous
and humiliating.

I don't mean for you, of course.

What did you have in mind?
A drama of passion?

An affair?

Or perhaps just a bit of overtime acting?

You already have
an extremely competent father.

Surely you don't need another.

Just before rehearsals began,
I lost a front tooth.

I was frantic.

"Am I to appear before Anna Egerman
with a gap in my front teeth?

She won't listen to me.
She'll find me repulsive."

A good dentist took pity on me
and worked a miracle.

I had my authority back,
and a new tooth.

In my predicament you always look
for something repulsive in the other,

something trivial you can magnify
and cherish and use.

I've found nothing of the kind in you.

I'm utterly vulnerable.

I keep telling myself
you're like your mother,

that I must be on my guard.

I think you can be
cruel and ruthless.

You lie cunningly...

not to gain advantage
but to manipulate.

I believe you've worked me
into your plans.

Perhaps our affair would stimulate
your failing relationship.

But what do I know?
Maybe I'm unfair.

- Then there's nothing more to add.
- You could say I'm wrong!

How could I ever convince you?

Don't take it so seriously!

Only theater critics believe
in an objective truth,

while they coyly argue the opposite.

- Put your hand on my breast.
- No!

Now there are no excuses.

A comic fiasco.

A pitiful retreat.

A ridiculous situation.

If I were ten years younger...

That's how it goes, my dear Ariel.
That's how it goes.

- You don't put up much of a defense.
- It's true.

If I were ten years younger...

So after a week we start
talking after rehearsals.

We have to discuss your part, right?

We go to the canteen for a coffee,

bringing a colleague along as an alibi.

Then we start meeting in my room.

We sit far apart

and drink mineral water
and nibble on biscuits.

When you leave, we kiss on the mouth.

One day we discuss
your messy relationship.

You sell Johan to me,

and I willingly buy your version of him.

A few days later
you show up at rehearsal,

eyes red from crying.

When I ask,
you just shake your head.

That day we work wonderfully together.

I ask you if you'll have dinner
with me that night.

You look at me
in sad earnestness and nod.

- When you show up...
- I'm late.

Johan and I argued
about my dining with you.

We eat and drink
and talk about you all evening.

At 11:00 I give you a ride home.

Our relationship is sweet
and full of promise.

I kiss your cheek.
"Take care," I say.

You look at me
with an inscrutable smile

and slowly shake your head.

Your eyes, your beautiful eyes,
fill with tears...

and you walk off without a word.

A few nights later we go to bed
for the first time, mostly for fun.

It's an experiment, just to see.

The experience leaves behind

a sweet, exciting feeling
of unfulfilled desire.

It's an encounter
that provokes curiosity.

Everyone knows,
but no one says anything.

Johan slinks around,

courted by sympathetic
female drama students.

There's a general atmosphere
of euphoria,

occasionally interrupted by violent
but harmless thunderstorms.

With four weeks of rehearsal left,
the crisis occurs.

- What crisis?
- I'll tell you.

One day during rehearsal
you and I have an argument.

About what? Something trivial?

I've gotten stuck four days
in a row at the same spot.

I feel particularly weak there.
You get annoyed and say...

Maybe you should take the time
to study that passage.

- It's no use. I don't understand it.
- I've explained it many times...

Maybe I'm stupid,
but you make it even more obscure.

Then memorize the text and say it aloud
so the audience can hear you.

- Thanks!
- It's an effective method

when someone insists
on not understanding!

- You think I'm being obstinate!
- I think nothing.

When we meet at the hotel later...

you apologize.

You're wonderful and loving...

Just the opposite.

My suppressed jealousy erupts
in an unbearable scene.

I say all the idiotic things
I'd sworn never to say again...

But it turns out
I'm even more jealous.

I fume about your beautiful,
tolerant, and charming wife

who has just visited.

You're at a loss for words!
- Shows how little you know me.

Far from being at a loss,

I offer to end our affair on the spot.

I say I'm too old
for your childish bickering

and proceed to wrap myself
in a melancholy silence.

You become insecure
and falter in your exit.

For the first time you see
that I'm old and bleary-eyed...

and a bit silly.

You have the knife poised for the kill
but you check yourself.

Yes, Henrik!

I'm suddenly moved,
seized by maternal feelings.

You're not seized
by any maternal feelings!

You're thinking of your role.

"What happens if we break up?
Will he take it out on me?

My colleagues will revel in it."

You won't give them the satisfaction.

"No, first opening night,
then I'll break it off.

That's how it'll be."

You lower the lethal dagger
and begin to cry.

I misconstrue your tears
and try to console you.

We make love,
an illusory reconciliation.

Now you're being nasty!

The last week is harrowing.

Each seeks to deflect the blame
in desperate monologues,

neither listening to the other.

The temperature rises.

Dress rehearsal:
lighting, costumes, makeup.

I feel miserable and inadequate.

I'd wanted to be the Indra's Daughter
you'd never forget,

who'd make it impossible for you
ever to do another Dream Play.

You're already planning a new
production with another lead. Right?

- You never know.
- See?

I cry a lot.

You're kind and considerate,
treating me as if I were fatally ill.

But you're pulling away.
- I'm separating from the production.

It's the same agony every time.

And I'm separating from you.

Then comes our last night together,

after the dress rehearsal.

We drink some wine
and get drunk with emotion.

We talk about the future,

other plans, other collaborations.

- Maybe even getting married.
- And having kids.

We point to various
long-lasting marriages.

It's all quite sad... and quite over.

And we're both
painfully aware of the fact.

- And when we meet later?
- It's all quite amicable.

Johan's included too.

We all have dinner together
and lament the dismal state of theater!

That's how it would be.

Was that so absurd?

No.

No, not really.

Our conversation made me sad.

Did it?

You're not looking at me.

Look at me.

I'm looking at you.

Shit! I forgot my 4:30 rehearsal
at the radio station!

Blame me.

Tell them that damn Vogler kept you.
They'll feel sorry for you.

- I'll call and say I'm on my way.
- Do that.

I'll stay a bit.

You hear the church bells?

No.

My hearing's starting to go.
You haven't noticed in rehearsal?

Maybe a little. No, not really.

Go make your call.

I don't want you to be sad.

My sadness has nothing
to do with you.

- You're sure?
- I'm sure.

I'll go call...

though it feels incredibly awkward.

What worried me the most
at that moment

was that I couldn't hear
the church bells.