Jane B. for Agnes V. (1988) - full transcript

This image is very calm,

timeless,

motionless.

Yet time seems to be passing,

drop by drop.

Each minute,

each second,

weeks,

years.

I distinctly remember...

my 30th birthday.



I was alone in London.

The children had stayed in France.

I was making a movie in England.

I was alone in my room,
in bed,

drinking a bottle of sherry...

Sickly sweet stuff.

I drank,

then I felt sick.

I crawled on my hands and knees
to the bathroom,

to the toilet,

to puke in the toilet.

I pulled... the thingamajig.

Then I saw in the john

little bits of carrots
floating about,



so I flushed again.

Off to one side,

I saw some socks
hanging from a rack.

I took them to wipe my face

which was red and tearful.

I saw myself in the mirror

and said, "Shit!

"So this is 30!

"Ifs not a pretty sight!"

Jane b. by Agnes v.

B. for Birkin
v. for Varda

2 questions:

Do you like being filmed?
Talking about yourself?

Yes.

And no.

I like relating with the director,

finding out what he wants.

But sometimes...

I don't know the rules of the game.

In wanting to give my all,

I really try to drown myself.

They rescue me and say no.

"Be phony,
that was too real."

Sometimes ifs the other way round.

What will you ask me?

Which questions?
Real or phony?

Want a drink?

Coffee.

I've noticed
in photos and interviews,

you never look at the camera.

Why?

I don't like the hole!

Look at it.

Ifs embarrassing.

Why?

It's too personal.

Why?

Like staring at someone.

It's too personal.

Maybe it's a mirror.

Others don't look at you
in a mirror,

you look at yourself.

Exactly.

I'm filming your self-portrait.

But you won't be alone
in the mirror.

There'll be the camera...

which is a bit me.

Never mind if I appear

in the mirror or the background.

I'll look at you,
but not the camera.

It could be a trap.

I don't want to trap you,
corner you.

But a film shows
24 portraits a second

or per hour.

You must play by the rules.

Look at the camera
as much as you can.

Look into it.

Otherwise you won't be
looking at me.

I'm trying!

- You agreed to do the film?
- Yes, boss!

Action!

If a painter or a filmmaker
wants to do my portrait,

I don't mind distortion.

Ifs like with you.

What counts
is the eye behind the camera,

the person holding the paint brush.

I don't care what you do to me,

as long as I feel you like me.

Why a film with you?

You're beautiful.

Like a chance encounter
on an editing table

between a tomboy Sloane Ranger
and a plasticine Eve.

I agreed to act for you
and be your model...

modestly.

But I suspect myself.

I'm not so sure
I agreed out of modesty.

Let's start
with a traditional portrait

a la Titian or a Ia Goya.

You're stuck on money!

Some princesses speak in jewels,

but when you speak,
cash rules!

You were asking for it!

You're infuriating!

You claim you looked for the cash!

It's in a book?

Look at me! Which book?

Truth in eyes
is worse than lies.

I'm looking at a real looker!

The only hitch,

you wanna be rich,
not be with me.

I want you!

- Knock it off and look!
- I am.

Then find it, don't look.

As Picasso...

used to say.

Damn! You lost $15,000..
In cash!

You told me to stash the cash.

Look at this red...

Blood!

Beautiful the way it spurts!

And the Hockney blue!

The color of parking tickets.

Clear blue.

"Big Splash"

Swimming pool blue.

California blue!
All Hockney blues are beautiful.

The swimming pool freak.

It's all drivel.

He's got his pool,
I've got my stripes.

You're finally selling,

don't change your style.

I shouldn't have trusted you.

I should have rented a safe.

Or a trunk.

Something weird about trunks.

In old portraits, in the background,

there's an open trunk

and a woman rummaging in it.
Look

It's always the same.

Behind all the ladies,

a servant bending over a trunk.

Mysterious...

The only mystery
is why you are lying.

Where's the cash?

Did you spend it?

Lose it'? Give it away?

Why are you hassling me?

I'm the painter, it's my money!

You may paint, but I sell.

Without me,
you couldn't sell a single painting!

Was I thinking
of a man I emulate?

EM... M...

Matisse!

Magritte.

Munch.

Monory.

Milshtein.

Manet.

Monet.

Money! That's it!

It must be in there!

No way, José!

I really don't know.

My memory's going...

You should've marked the loot.

Look at this article,
"Magritte's Legacy:

A Surrealist Puzzle."

The only Belgian joke
that's not funny.

Yours will be easy.

- My what?
- Your legacy.

I'm not dead yet.

A dealer has to look ahead.

Dead painters

sell better.

Bitch!

You're tough,
but I love you.

A girl disguised as a man-eater.

You're pathetic,

a loser.

I'm sick of you.

Don't say that, Janou.

Don't dump me for $15,000!

You're my everything.
Give me time.

' Sot it!

Cash, wealth, dollars, Dali...

Golden Dali!

It was Breton's anagram.
"Salvador Dali" becomes

"Avida Dollars!"

My love...

I was a good child.

I wanted to be
like my big brother Andrew.

My sister Linda was more girlish.

She was pretty.

Once they disguised me as a girl
to give flowers to the Queen.

Prince Philip asked,
"Did you grow them yourself?"

I didn't know what to say.

My childhood was happy.

Then, being English,

I was sent to boarding school
at age 12,

far from home.

Suddenly I was "99",

subjected to teasing
in the showers.

"Hey 99, still nothing?"
The usual.

I survived thanks to Jane Welpley,

an older girl I adored.

She never noticed me.

My first walk-on role
was in "The Knack".

Still, I married the man
who wrote the score!

I was a nymphet in "Blow-Up".

Scandal:
I was naked for 20 seconds!

A dumb skin scandal.

But in England,
they never forgave me.

They called me
"Jane-Blow-Up-Birkin".

The good news:

I was pregnant with Kate.

Luckily, I went to Paris
to make a movie.

Who do I bump into?
Serge Gainsbourg.

At first, he thought I wasn't so hot.

Then things changed.

Our story made all the papers.

I posed for pictures,
any type of picture.

I was happy that
Serge was proud of me.

I wanted a Jewish baby,
Russian, like Serge,

with Slavic eyes.

And I had her. Charlotte.

She was very pretty and very yellow.

We called her "Apricot Charlotte".

I was like any other mother,

except more photographed.

I thought it perfectly normal
to pose for girlie magazines.

I loved being considered pretty.

I remember one issue.

I was handcuffed to a radiator,
naked,

in nylons.

A Christmas issue!

I'm discreet now.

I live with someone
who detests indiscretion.

He wanted a daughter.

And we had her.

Lou Doillon

She looks a lot like him.

You told part of your story.
Can you let the oat out of the bag?

Sure!

The small one, too?

Find anything out
after seeing what's in the bag?

Even when you show it all,
you reveal very little.

But you were revealed
by the men you loved.

They wrote films for you.

And songs.

You inspired them.

I can see you as a Muse,

a Romantic one.

I was told Muses never die,

but some die of boredom.

They pine away, let themselves go,

wreck their hair color,
bite their nails,

and stop singing.

Still, these weary Muses

know their job.

They weep in eternal delight.

I'm weeping in anger.

I spent years inspiring my poet,

helping him work,

changing his slightest tear

into poetry and song.

His fame killed him.

At least you're immortal.

I'm immortal, but dumped!

He had the nerve to die young!

If only I could break this,

I'd break his neck!

I would!

Or, if only I could die too.

My childhood home is gone.

The stairs, the wallpaper are gone.

They demolished it.

My brother and I
play a game now.

We enter the hail,

wonder how many steps there were
to the room on the right.

Was the room
on the right or the left?

The clock was facing us.

On the right,

the stairs were covered
by a red carpet.

We played make-believe.

Here, on the middle stair.

It was hard to detach myself
from my childhood home.

They say it's a major step

when you get your own house.

Just like you!

Gift-wrapping my house!

Thanks for the pink ribbon!

Your house isn't a gift?

A gift.

I paid for it. Nearly.

I've paid off 213 of it.

The bank's got the other 113.

I'm afraid a man in a bowler hat
will drop by and say,

"Hello, I'm from the bank."

He'll move into
this 113 of the house

look around and say,

"Nice place we've got here!"

I wanted my home to be
like my English home,

I wanted my home to be
like my English home,

warm and cosy.

I put fabric on the walls,
bought some antiques

and lots of knick-knacks.

What am I saying?

Who cares about
old furniture and walls?

You don't fall in love
with a museum.

You love a house
for the people in it.

I love what a house contains,
the people.

A house is for living
with a man and children...

When they're out,
I get bored,

I don't know what to do
with myself.

One day they'll all go.

On that day, I'll follow
the last one out the door.

I'll go too.

I'll live in a hotel.

This is my home.

When I get home,
I change into clothes that are "me".

This is a small living-room.

I bought some antiques,

I bought some antiques,

had the floor re-done

to make the room old and cosy.

I don't think

this living room turned out right.

Maybe it's the telephone
or the answering machine.

I come home, change,
then see the red light.

25 messages! Nice messages,

but they mean
nagging responsibility.

The answering machine
makes me dislike this room.

But there is the good old TV set.

Lou watches cartoons.

Charlotte and her friends

watch the same old videos.
Funny...

They prefer "Forbidden Games"
and "Gone With the Wind".

Though I dislike the room,

I love the stairs.

I love staircases.

I filled it with pictures.

Everyone's baby pictures.

Me, my mother, the children,

my babies, other people's babies...

It's a 25-page photo album

over 3 floors.

I've always loved photos.

If you think
this is another living-room

you're wrong.

It's the kitchen.

My favourite spot.

Come in!

I wanted a big room.

I tore down a wall

and put in this big table.

The girls work here.

Kate used to do homework here.

Now she does her fashion lay-outs.

Charlotte plays piano.

The piano was my first purchase.

She plays while I make the meals

and Lou scribbles in her books.

I like having people around.

Do you feel protected
by family and friends?

People spoil you with flowers.

I know I'm very spoiled.

But that doesn't mean
I'm never lonely.

One can be spoiled and lonely.
Covered in flowers and lonely.

Like a tombstone.

I like white flowers.

My friends know,
so I get a lot of lilies.

I leave them in the vase,

let them rot

until there's a pretty mold
on the surface.

With other bouquets,

I leave the plastic on

until they dry out.

I keep everything.

Why are you staring at me, Gustave?

Afraid he's still here to scold you?

You should have heard my Gaston,

yelling all the time.

He'd scare the life out of you!

Poor little fellow!

What II we have to eat?

Veal and mushrooms...

Hambone delight...

Pété...

What's this?

A letter from Gaston I never read!

"I'm setting down my last request,

"my dear wife.

"Respect it in memory
of my binges with my buddies."

Goodness me!

Mercy me!

I feel funny.

He liked to drink.

God, how he drank!

He'd come home and shout,

"Where the hell are ya?"

Then he'd beat me up,

pass out on the floor
and start snoring.

But I loved him.

I loved him so much.

He was my first husband.

"Scatter my ashes

"on the Montmartre vineyard

"where we had so much fun.

"Kisses while I'm still alive,
Gaston."

My Gaston...

See? I'm doing just as he said.

In memory of his drinking binges

and my young girl's dreams.

It's funny, anyone who eats
these grapes or drinks this wine

will eat my husband and drink his...

What a thought!

I should keep some.

Why not?

He never said "all my ashes",

just "my ashes".

You won't leave me,

little fellow?

If you die,

I won't cremate you.

I'll stuff you!

So you'll never leave me.

I don't like caged animals,

so I buy them...

stuffed.

They're not captives that way.

On the piano there's a rat,

a sewer rat.

I'm told they're hard to find,

but there's a taxidermist nearby

who's very good.

I went to his shop to buy a turkey,

but I saw a Pekinese
I wanted to buy.

He said someone
was coming in to pick it up.

I mentioned my oat and he said,

"Bring it in to me right away!"

I said, "No, ifs alive!"

Poor Mowgli! Then he said,

"When its day comes,

"bring it in fast
or keep it in the fridge!

"When you bring it in,

"I can set it
in its most natural pose."

A nice offer,
but I don't think I could...

I'm not a gourmet cook.

I do 2 or 3 nice dishes
the children like.

I do it for them.

For today's meal

I'll take "Lancashire Hot Pot"

and mix it with a French dish
called "Spring Mutton".

You need a lot of onions.

That smarts!

Look at the camera, Jane!

God, these onions burn!

They say actresses like to cry.

I don't know about that.

If the role's sad, true to life,

then I like to cry.

Then I like to cry.

"In the park, silent and vast,

"Two shadowy figures passed.

"Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?

Why should I remember at all?

"Does my name set your heart aglow?
Am I still in your dreams?

"No.

"In the park, silent and vast,

"Two spectres
conjured up their past.

"Our ancient ecstasy, do you recall?

Why should I remember at all?

"Does my name set your heart aglow?

Am I still in your dreams?

"No...

You sleep badly?

Often?

You suffer from insomnia?

Every night?

Almost every night.

Every other night, like clockwork.

As if I were punished
for a good night.

The sleepless night
is like a punishment.

I'm used to it.

Maybe the good night's sleep
is a reward

for a bad night.

Do you dream?

Very much.

Good and bad dreams.

I haven't had a flying dream
in ages.

The most wonderful dreams.

I fly everywhere, over all of Paris.

Once I even landed on my own roof.

The best thing about those dreams
is when you drift down,

you're never hurt.

You remember a recent dream?

It was horrible.

Two policemen came for me.

They'd found the body of a woman
I'd murdered long ago.

It was a horrible murder.

She was hanging
from the edge of a well.

I stomped on her fingers
then threw her to her death.

Before she died,

she scrawled my name in blood

on the side of the well.

When they found the body,
they saw my name.

They knew I'd done it.
She'd "told" them.

When I woke up,

I wasn't afraid of the crime,

which was horrible,

but of everyone
reading in the papers

that I wasn't nice.

Does that matter?

Do you care
what the papers say?

You're asking
because we're near a newsstand.

Yes, it matters.
I want everyone to like me.

I want to be nice,

natural.

I like being loved, popular...

Hing on!

Christmas

is the prettiest time of the year.

Ifs nicer than summer, birthdays,

the most beautiful time of all.

It brings back childhood,

the taste of tangerines.

Every Christmas is the same.

Brandy butter, turkey...

the family in England.

That's Christmas!

When snow blankets a city,

you lose your way,
your sense of time.

You forget, you dream.

Cold weather is nice,
yet it has drawbacks.

The cold brings snow, emptiness,

a dream world, silence,
and childhood,

but cold kills the homeless

who have nowhere to keep warm.

At any time, in any place,

in summer and especially in winter,

there are always people
less fortunate than ourselves.

The underpaid, the exploited,

the unhappy, the unlucky,

and the unemployed.

Patience is a virtue.

Whoop-de-doo!

The Job Centre says
spring'll be great,

plenty of work.

I just have to wait.

The jobless must behave
and be patient

But the thaw's begun.

And soon the sun
will warm the rhododendron!

Rule A: Patience.

Rule B: Courage.

The jobless must play the game.

Lardy!

I've been looking for you.

You must be feeling the cold!

Come with me!

My boss needs help.

I told him about you.

Built you up!

You know I respect you.

You don't look pleased to see me!

Don't you like me?

Is our friendship in the ashcan?

Why don't you say anything?

You hiding something?

BAKERY-GALLERY

Fine time to show up, lazybones!

- I have a reason, Boss!
- More like an excuse!

I have a surprise for you.

I found an assistant.

Another of your buddies!

A barefoot layabout!

He has shoes!

Meet my friend, Lardy.

Well, young man!

I need a smart right arm.

He means, biceps and brains!

Here's my arm!

Any experience in baking?

I'm not kidding!

I've work to do...

Recite your résumé.

Goon.

You'd like a run-down of my travels
and my talents?

I don't have time,
there's bread in the oven.

Maurel,
show him the ropes.

Times are hard... So is the boss.

He only pays $10 a day,

plus 2 buns and a pie!

Can you imagine?

Here's an advance

for not talking to me

and for hurting my feelings...

Meanie!

I've upset the applecart!

My applecart!

Are those your paintings?

You exhibit here?

Backwards?

Why?

I'm discreet.

He's shy!

Do you sell any?

You need better marketing!

You don't think I have talent...

Yes, I do!

Of course!

You've never respected me.

You're condescending.

Hardly!

I hate when you condescend!

My parents are dense

but not my descendants!

My kids are smart,

smarter than you.

You're jealous
I have a show in a gallery.

Exhibiting beside a bread oven!

Are you calling my art crummy?

I'm a doubting Thomas.

Seeing is believing.

You're the cream of the avant-garde!

The cream of the avant-garde
in your face!

Idiot!

Meanie!

You've no right to waste my dough!

You guys are real goof-off artists!
I've never seen such nonsense!

This is kinda fun!

Rule A: Patience.

Rule B: Courage.

The jobless must play the game.

Did you identify with Laurel?

Did you like the role?

Yes and no.

I get so nervous

imitating someone,
especially Laurel.

I felt awkward.

The awkwardness

made me so anxious,

I understood the anxiety
in Laurel.

My emotion became
Laurel's awkwardness.

That's what acting is all about.

You take everything inside yourself,

then transfer it to someone else.

Do you think
you can play anyone?

I think I can dress up as anyone!

I hate this!

If someone asked me,

"Which costume would be
your worst nightmare?"

I'd say, Spanish dancer!

I'm allergic to castanets

and Spanish pride.

Ifs not me at all!

See me?

Take a good look,
'cause I'll never do this again!

Never again!

What I'd like

is to make a feature film

about howl really am:

jeans, old sweaters, messy hair,

barefoot in my garden.

Just once,

I'd like to forget
wigs and pretty costumes.

I'd like to be filmed
as if I were transparent,

anonymous,

like everyone else.

You're the queen of contradiction.

You want stardom and its perks.

Money, glamour, fame...

Yet you want to be filmed
like everyday people,

who love you for that very reason.

You are different,

but want to seem nondescript.

You dream of being
a famous nobody.

Once, when I was a teenager,

a drowned woman
was found in the Seine.

She was so beautiful
a death mask was made.

Copies of the mask were produced.

"The Unknown Woman of the Seine"
sold well.

I bought one.

I contemplated her enigmatic smile,

as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's.

Had she been happy to kill herself?

Or had someone in the morgue
forced her mouth into a smile

for the mask?

No one knew anything about her.

So everyone could fantasize
about her.

She was an extraordinary nobody.

An amazing unknown.

I wonder if the only true portrait

is the death mask.

A frontal view of a motionless face.

That's all that remains of someone.
A motionless face.

Like an ID picture,

a frontal view, motionless...

Silent or speaking,

but facing us.

I'm Jane B.

I was born British.

My height is now 5 feet 7 inches.

No distinguishing marks.

No exceptional talents,
but I'm here.

You're watching me.

And time is passing.

Some time has already passed.

Your desire
to be both known and unknown

makes you a public fantasy.

Maybe that's what fascinated me.

Made me want to make this film.

I can transpose you
into my dreams,

mythological stories,
movie memories,

idle thoughts.

And I can dress you up.

What counts most is your partner.

Not the costumes.

When I played opposite Depardieu,

he made me good.

Piccoli really held me up,

yet I was praised.

It was all his doing.

He even stuck my lines on his hat.

Anyone in particular
you'd like to act with?

Too expensive!

How about a French actor,

almost as good, but cheaper?

I like actors...

directors who act, cult actors...

Godard,

Jean-Pierre Mocky,
Jean-Pierre Léaud...

I like Léaud now

more than
in his French New Wave days,

because he somehow has
a desperate look.

I like that a lot.

A lost look.

I must only like lost people.

All of nature is in one autumn leaf.

- Remember the mustard?
- No, my love.

- Remember me?
- I could never forget you.

Are you wearing the boots I adore?

With the flowered skirt.

We can picnic wherever you want,

Why here?

You said you missed the outdoors.

I had a dream

about leaves.

I was crouched,

silent under a pile of leaves,

like those on the sidewalk,

raked up.

No one knew.
I hoped someone would find me.

I would have saved you.

But you'd have to know

which pile of leaves I was under.

I'd get there,

find you without looking,

and gently brush away
the rubbish hiding the princess.

A hero of our times!

Chicken?

No birds!

I was a jailbird!

I'm so tactless!

Can't be too careful!

No more jail for me!

Sorry!

I had another dream...

You may be lovely,
but you're no exception.

Other people's dreams are boring.

I lived in a closet
off a courtyard,

just inside the carriage entrance.

I was soared.

I had forgotten
to lock the door of my closet.

Don't talk about closet dreams!

I lived a closet nightmare.

A close closet encounter.

Case closed!

I was closeted away for 4 weeks,

close to crazy in the closet,

'cause I thought you'd quit me.

You wouldn't wait.

But I waited!

I wanted you.

Now that you're out,
I tell you every day,

"Calm down and carve the roast."

I almost forgot your gift!

More chains!

Kisses, huggies,

cuddlies!

And yet you dream about leaves.

And closets!

I can't help not dreaming about you.

No one can.

Exactly!

If dreams express our subconscious,

then I'm not part of you!

I'm a daytime fling!

Humdrum!

I daydream about you,
about our future..

I'm in a waking dream.

That's not a real dream about me.

Maybe I experienced
your imprisonment

by dreaming of leaves and closets
out of sympathy.

I don't need sympathy!

I want to penetrate your dreams!

If I can't,
this is only puppy love!

Do you dream of me?

There are deserts in France

and lots of sand quarries.

No, you had to come
to scorching Africa!

You'd never go anywhere.

Armchair and TV
are more your speed!

Armchair travelers
never get in trouble.

I saw "Sevilla la Torrida".

More like corrida.

"The Fiery Kiss Over Naples"

The fiery kiss you gave that Italian

got me a week in the slammer!

You tore the bracelet off his arm!

Must've hurt,
some of his hairs came off!

If they only knew
what I put up with!

Understand, guys?

What a beautiful day!

It's hard not being able
to communicate.

You and I
have the same problem.

With them, ifs worse.

Look

I'll give them cash.

$10! Are you crazy?

You throw money away!

I don't know! Buy 'em a drink!

What's to drink?

What do we do?

You could give them a belly dance.

What would that accomplish?

Please...

try it.

See if they react.

Do it for me.

Just for you.

You're sweet.

Raymond! I'm stuck!

Hopeless.
You're as sexy as a locust to them.

I remember once when we were little,

we were at the seaside in England.

A crumpled newspaper
blew over to us

across the sand. We opened it.

It said, "Marilyn Monroe ls Dead".

We said, "No, not her!"

She was like a naive muse,

inspiring our dreams
of being beautiful.

We want to move like her.

We want to be graceful,

pretty, lively, funny.

We have one thing in common,

one small thing.

A song she sang so beautifully
called...

Marilyn and I are alike in this.

I'd love to sing a song
for my Daddy.

I don't remember all the words.

I remember
thinking it was funny

that at the end of the song,

she said something in French.

Remember?

She sang...

"My heart belongs to Daddy"

He owns it.

She used French words

to make the song even sexier.

The French have that reputation.

Nice going!

You always exaggerate!

Ifs a celebration of life!

You call this life, the desert?

It's an adventure.

I'm in deep shit!

If it's no trouble, put the cape

on the sand.

Push together.

Help push the oar.

Get it moving!

Fine.

Next time my oar breaks down,
it won't be here!

I don't believe these guys.

Let's split!

Listen.

We'd better stay here.

Let's sit down. Good idea.

Let's mingle.

Quite an adventure, isn't it?

It could be our last.

True. We'd be safer
on a French beach.

Howl miss Mom's mussels!

Now talk about
whats behind the scenes.

Backstage!

So many years of movies,

plays, travels,

trips abroad, imaginary travels

through painted scenery
or real countrysides...

Under a sky as false as this

or the real sky above us.

But the real sky
can be threatening.

It can threaten me,

but this fake one never does.

Artists painted it just for me,

so it will always be a friendly sky.

The crew is behind the scenes.

Every move you make,

they're behind you, watching.

Looking after you.

It gives you a warm feeling.

When you stumble and fall
in the street, no one cares.

Here, you're not alone.

They watch,
waiting for the tear to fall.

The dolly grip
may be the first person

to be moved when you cry on cue,

or when you flub your lines.

You feel everyone around you
coming together

to help you make the scene work.

Yet behind it all,
everything is fake.

The real Titian painting
is in Italy.

We painted a copy here,

so I could walk by it.

We open a book, ifs an imitation.

This is authentic.

When you act in a fairy tale
it should seem fake,

because it's not a true story.

But oddly it's not fake.

On the contrary.

It reminds me of my childhood.

Mother would tell me fairy tales.

Now I tell them to my daughters.

Fairy tales

are true, time-tested.

Snow White, Beauty and The Beast.

They're true.

When I go home,
my kids ask me what I'm doing.

It's hard to say, so I answer,

"I'm not sure.

"I think
I'm in a painting by Agnes."

lt's hard to know
when you're being...

filmed in close-up
or in the background,

way in the background.

How often must I show you
how to fold!

Always scolding!

Quiet, poor fool!

Get to work.

Why do you harp on my poverty?

There's no shame in being poor.

But shame is a form of poverty.

Ifs all wrinkled.

Run the iron over it again.

Careful on the lace.
What a mess!

A plague on the orderly
and their orders!

The menial class
often forgets its place!

Make a chambermaid of a beggar girl!

She forgets the good earth
belongs to our mistress.

She forgets the fresh air

belongs to our mistress.

Of all humans, our Lady must be
the least human of all.

Yes.

She has everything.

Privilege,

too many dresses,

a life of leisure,

naked and wanton.

She has everything
and we have nothing.

My love

Lies within

"Kiss me again

"and again a kiss.

"Give me again a cause to delight.

"Your lover's lips on mine
must alight.

"Let us unite in fiery bliss.

"Troubled, my love?

"Your cares I'll dismiss
with my kisses so sweet.

"Our lips in happiness will meet.

"And in our embrace no joy

"will retreat."

Foolish girl Its forbidden

I'll throw you out!

I'll tell our Lady!
She'll throw you out!

The wicked are like flies
on open wounds.

Put that dress back.

Take off those pearls
you've defiled!

I told you not to spit.

Keep your filth inside you,

rotting inside you.

Evil woman!

She thinks her tits
are like heaven above!

A pox on her! May she grow old,

die, and rot in the grave!

Beauty is irritating.

Flies on a Venus

or graffiti on an Eve

are like salt in a wound.

They burn at the source of the heat.

This sort of statuesque perfection

leaves me unmoved.

I like a man or woman's body.

Precisely because of the flaws.

I like breasts that are too big,
skinny men.

Scars move me.

I like the idea
of time leaving its mark.

I like bruises,

swollen veins...

Perfection bores the hell out of me!

And beauty is scandalous!

It incites people
to scrawl graffiti.

But the guy who draws nipples

or pubic hair on statues

does it to make them more human.

What lovely eggs you have!

A girl's eyes tell you
about her breasts.

Her eyes gleam if she has them.

If she doesn't have any,

her eyes say "Sorry!"

When I was 16, I was flat.

I was very upset.

The long-awaited breasts
hadn't come.

I had a hang-up,

so I bought cotton and foam.

I stuffed my bra
under my sweater.

I thought only breasts
could make you appealing.

Luckily I met Serge.

Not only did he dislike breasts,

he was afraid of them.

He liked flat girls,

girls he'd sketched at art school.

I met his standards
of a desirable woman.

I forgot my hang-up.

But my desire to have them
hasn't completely disappeared.

On the beach,
when I see girls with big boobs,

I love how they flip-flop.

I'll never have
that independent bounce.

So I have a little regret.

Two little regrets.

What now? Where do we go?

We agreed the film would wander.

We'd head somewhere
then make a detour.

What if we lose our way?

I like mazes.

I like learning where I've been
at the exit.

Hope the audience doesn't exit!

We need an idea.

Like Hansel and Gretel
leaving bread crumbs?

Or like Ariadne,

who gave thread to Theseus,
so he'd escape from the labyrinth.

I can see you as Ariadne.

Shrewd, then in love,

then abandoned on the shore.

I like those stories.

But I imagine the myth differently.

Two people in the labyrinth,

Ariadne with Theseus
or the Minotaur.

Anyway, a monster chases her.

A monster's chasing you.

Can you get out of this maze?

Filming bits and pieces?

It's like a jigsaw,

a piece here, a piece there...

A picture appears,
with a hole in the middle.

Like at banquets.

There's a silence,
then someone says,

"Sing us a song."

A song?

Gainsbourg!

Do you mind the smoke?

If I hesitate often

Between Me and I

If I waver

Between I and Me

It's 'cause my mind

ls on the line

I don't kn ow

The rules of this game

"Cruel and tender game

"between Me and I.

"We lose sight of each other."

"And the game begins again..."

Get the breathing right.

Good. Closer to the mike.

Hit it!

In the cold of the night

I wonder

Where I am

You take me

I play your game

Of love and chance

Knowing full well

It's a dangerous game

Of love and chance

My head's spinning

Knowing full well

It's a dangerous game

You cheat at the game

So I hide my hand

Yet neither Me nor!

Can beat you

Very nice.

It's hard.

I'll do better next time!

Gimme a kiss.

The idea of singing
in front of an audience

always frightened me.

This year was my first time.

And it was the first time I ever
showed anyone a story I'd written.

You showed it to me, I read it.

I liked it,
so we'll put it in the film.

It's strange,

almost magical.

The first time I dare show anything,
it becomes...

a part of something,
done by someone else.

It's nice.

I've always written stories,

but I don't read much.

I like having books around.

Being surrounded by knowledge
is a warm feeling.

But I've jotted things down
since I was 12.

Now I write in the bathroom.

I bought old bookcases

and put the panels in the bathroom.

Ifs "novel-esque"...

Like the stories I dream up.

This is the only place
I can be alone.

The story's about a woman like me,
in fact she is me.

She falls in love
with a very young man.

Ifs a love story that ends badly.

I tell it as though
it were already over.

As though it were a memory
before it happened.

I like melancholy,

so I write in the past tense

and start with narration.

It might begin like this...

I remember how I loved him.

I remember
as if it were here and now.

Actually, I've changed.

I no longer like vodka,
or orange juice,

or mirrors in elevators,

or Easter eggs.

And I couldn't care less
what people think

or say about us.

It was our story.

I remember it all,

especially him.

When I wrote this little tale,

this little fragment of a film...

I don't have much imagination

so I used the people around me.

I couldn't imagine it
happening anywhere

but at home,
with me and my kids,

just the way we are.

Charlotte, who's as tall as I am.

Lou, my little moppet.

But not Kate,
who has her own home now

and her own baby.

I got the idea
from one of Charlotte's parties.

ltd been noisy,
they'd had a bit to drink.

The smallest fellow got sick.

I felt for him.

Very strongly, in fact.

It was like the start of a film.

Why don't we shoot it
as a family project?

' Set it!

With my son playing the boy
you fall in love with.

Of course.

I'll have to talk to Mathieu.

You better discuss it with him.

He has to puke in the first scene!

I drank too much.

- Just throw up.
- I can't.

You don't know the trick?
Open your mouth.

In another scene I imagined

driving into him

to add a little action.

Watch where you're going!
Shit!

You OK?

I'm fine.

They start seeing each other.

Then...

a scene in a hotel room.

Mathieu's only 14!

But the hotel room scene

is innocent.

Innocence in a hotel room!

We can go upstairs if you like.

Let's go.

He was in love with her.

Then perhaps
she fell in love with him.

Mathieu will be able
to resist your charms!

Really?

That's how I see it.

Shut up, "Mommy"!

Little brat!

It's written from my point of view,

about the absence of love.

About a woman

whose life was devoid of love.

The spontaneity of this boy

changes her life.

What about him?

I don't know.

I don't know any boys.
I don't have a son.

Why tell me? It bothers me.

Now I'm supposed
to spill my heart out to you?

I don't do that,
at least not at home.

They're at ease with peers.

If Mathieu acts in your story

he'll bring his world along,
the world of a 15-year-old.

His friends, games, slang...

At 15, they're already big boys.

You're really talking
about your childhood.

You want your family and England.

I'd like to take him back
to my childhood.

But London would mean
filming at my parents'.

So I'd be with Daddy

and Mummy, who's an actress.

I know people think

it's corrupting minors, unspeakable.

I might just corrupt your script

I prefer daydreams to psychology.

I like to jump around.

Toy with chance,

fleeting emotions and events.

Your teenage love story
isn't for this film.

It would take time to tell it right.

And time is money.

We'd have to finance it, take risks.

I'm taking risks right now.

My donkey doesn't shit gold
every morning!

No more bets!

We have to find money, take risks.

7 black, odds and manque.

Find money...

En plein.

Take risks...

$10,000.

For the dealer.

Place your bets.

No more bets.

32 red, evens

and passe.

Too bad!
How can you lose so much?

You can't die of a broken purse.

For the dealer.

Money and jewels aren't everything.

There's more to life.

Love of Painting

Love of Painting

Pay UP!

You won't get away with this!

We don't have time.

Gotta corner her.

Find the bag!

Thinks she's alone?

We're here, Janou.

He's not alone.
I'll try to talk to him.

Hide the bag, at least for now.

Why me?

Think you'll get away?

Forget it!

Think you've screwed me?

You're wrong

Crime doesn't pay!

But you will!

You'll pay up!

You won't get away with this!

Not scared of ghosts?

You should be!

I missed you.

Is that so?

Ifs true, I missed you.

Filthy liar.

When I shot you,
I knew I loved you.

Dead painters, stolen money!

Now love, to top it off!

Love is life's great mystery!

It's a mystery I loved you!

Pay up first!

The money's mine!

Yvan has the bag!

Get Yvan!

Make him talk!

You can't heal a cripple.

Where'd you hide the loot'?

Careful, Yvan!

Don't worry, he'll tell us!

Tell them!

No more bets!

It's all over!

It's over! I'll kill you!

I'm afraid!

Go on! Kill him!

My love...

My love...

It's exciting to die on screen.

People applaud dramatic roles.

They're easier to play.

Crying in movies is fine.

But laughing's hard!

Laughing on cue is awful!

Once in a movie, I had to laugh.

So a guy on the crew
pulled his pants down.

It was dreadful!

I'd much rather
have to cry in movies.

That's odd. People think of you
as cheerful and whimsical.

You mostly do comedies.

But comedies aren't all fun.

It's hard work.
Lots of retakes, slipping in shit.

Once there was this gag I loved. A seagull had to crap in my eye.

One of the crew sat on a rock

with a putty knife
and a big glob of fake bird shit.

He kept missing my eye,

then he finally got me!

It was great!

Then I had to look up and say,

"Off to a good start!"

I enjoyed that.

I like things simple.

A bit naive.

You Tarzan, me Jane.

Who's that chick?

Yadwiga.

What she doing?

Dreaming.

If I had to do a jungle movie,

I wouldn't play Tarzan's Jane.

No way.

She doesn't appeal to me.

I'd like to play Mowgli,

the little jungle boy,

the Wild child.

That's what I'd like.

I've never really seen myself

as a girl.

I see myself in roles

of girls disguised as boys.

Tomboys, Amazons

who remove a breast
to shoot better.

As brave as men.

That's howl imagine it.

Like...

Calamity Jane, with her shotgun.

"Dear Janey,

"You're almost 6 years old.

"Time has flown by.

"I didn't see you grow up.

"It nearly killed me to abandon you.

"Your foster parents named you Jane,
after me,

"so I call you Janey.

"I took a new trail today.

"The men from Bozeman
opened it up.

"They're on a dangerous mission.

"I'd best go along with them

"to scare off the Sioux.

"I'm the only human being
they fear."

ls the armour too heavy?

It's heavy.

But when I went skiing,
I was just as loaded down!

You wanted to play Joan of Arc.

It's a marvelous role.

But I could never play it.

I'd never be asked

because of my English accent.

I could never say,

"I'll rid France of the English."

The audience
would burst out laughing!

You could be dubbed.

Sure,

or I could play
the final scene, silent...

I'd try not to say anything.

I won't go!

Help me!

I'm soared!

Help me!

Why?

Cough again,
drop your head and die.

So...

Its been 10 years. Time passes.

I don't know

how it passes, but it does.

Being 39 was rather fun.

Maybe 41 will be too.

The even numbers

that end in zero...

They hurt a bit.

Even turning 20

was painful.

Anyway,

I'll be 40 tomorrow morning.

I know what you're up to!

Happy birthday, Jane.

Best wishes, dear Jane!

Love, Agnés Varda
Writer, director

With kisses from:

Subtitling: TITRAWS