Mr & Mrs Adelman (2017) - full transcript

Mom?

You ready?

I'm coming.

In these troubled times

rife with intolerance and barbarity,

I am moved to speak to you
on this occasion.

So many memories,

fits of laughter,

so many shared struggles.

We are mourning a poet.

For it is indeed a prodigious writer
who has just left us.



So many masterpieces to list:

The Burdensome City,

Thirsty as a Bear,

as well as The Windmills of Silence,

his latest
and perhaps his finest masterpiece.

Victor was one of the funniest

and most daring men

I was lucky enough to know.

On top of a huge body of work,

Victor has left us

his wife, Sarah,

his lifelong partner.

Mr & Mrs ADELMAN

Say what you like,
I find it very strange.



At Etretat,
you really have to try to fall.

How did it happen?

I don't know.

Mrs. Adelman?

Am I disturbing you?

Who are you?

Antoine Grillot.
I'm doing a book about your husband.

You called me this morning.

Yes, I'm sorry. I was expecting you.

Thanks for coming.

I don't want to disturb you.

Please do disturb me.

These kids and old folks.
I can't stand either.

Sit down, young man.

Your husband's study?

How intimidating.

I think I know the story
of this piece.

Lamartine's desk you bought him
for his 70th?

Exactly.

You've done your homework.

It cost me a bomb. He never used it.

- So what do you want to know?
- Really, it can wait.

What's your book's angle?

Well, there are plenty of biographies
on your husband.

Too many!

So I'd like to explore the influence
of those close to him.

What I'm interested in actually
is you.

We know little about you.

It'll bore people shitless.

What?

No one's interested in writers,
even less their wives.

See those people out there?

Yes.

They're all wondering
if I didn't kill Victor.

You think so?

I can't imagine you could have.

Well, you're wrong.

"Did the old lady kill the old man?"

Now there's a hot topic
for people your age.

Want to sell books?

Well, yeah.

Then let's get going.

Mind if I smoke?

Victor and me...

It's a story in itself.

Chapter 1
The Strategy of Chance

I'd love to tell you
we met in a bookshop,

or after a Pierre Boulez concert.

It would be so classy.

But it's not true.

It was maybe the seediest nightclub
in Paris.

I was about to go home

when suddenly I saw him.

It was like an apparition.

That kid was so handsome.

He had a kind of inner charisma,

such a deep gaze.

I was like a bug
drawn to a light bulb,

about to fry.

Idiot. Fool...

Bitch.

What crap.

I feel like puking.

We talked hours.
He told me his life story.

What's your name?

Sarah.

We felt very close right off.

Finally!

You know what, Sarah?

Publishers are assholes.

They're sheep.
They have no imagination.

Two years of work for nothing.

See this book?

I wrote it with my blood.

They prefer glitz to my blood.

I should've used my shit.

He was already very witty.

I don't think so.

Anyone ever say
you look like Brigitte Bardot?

No one ever did?

No one ever said that.

What?

That I looked like Brigitte Bardot.

Of course not.

Who'd say that?

You look like you.

You're pretty as you.

How are you?

What's your name?

Sarah.

Want to make love?

Fucking shit!

The Algerian war
really messed things up.

Now it's like there were two worlds.

They're not far apart.

There's like a border.

As if the Arabs
were on your left cheek...

And the...

You're so beautiful.

I love you.

What's your name?

Sarah.

I'm going to make love to you.

As if it were the first time
in my life.

Shit.

I didn't want to offer myself
the first night.

You have to temper
men's beastly impulses.

Those who think thunderstruck
is a metaphor

never woke up next to Victor.

He was still asleep,
and I already knew

my whole life would revolve
around him.

It was simple:

I had to have that guy.

Did turning pages wake you?

Oh fuck.

Anyhow I finished.

Last night did we...?

Nothing, don't worry. You passed out.

Drunk as shit.
So I read your manuscript.

I've got lots to say.

The beginning is very good.
Classic, but very good.

Too bad you depict the main character
so fully

right from the start.

But it works.

But the preliminary structure is...

Hang on. I'm very interested,

but my head's pounding.
I'm not used to drinking so much.

It's just that you were so furious

at publishers, literary critics.

But to be honest,
the book can't be published as is.

Oh really?

Great dialog!
You have real talent for dialog.

There's tons of it.

It's almost halfway between
a novel and a play.

I can detect influences.

You're a fan of Sartre's Nausea.

You've read Camus.

Maybe too much.

Excuse me, but what do you do?

I'm doing a PhD in Classics.

My field's not the novel.
It's poetry.

But I took the liberty
of making notes.

You annotated my manuscript?

I was afraid I'd forget.

You annotated the whole thing?

Look, page 17. Full of redundancies.

And all these adverbs!
Get rid of them.

Ok. I'll do that.
But I really have to go.

I haven't finished!

We can talk about it later.
Another time.

When?

I really have a lot to say.

I took notes on the novel,
but on you, too.

On me? Meaning?

The way you sleep is admirable.

That's very sweet.

But it won't earn me a living.

And you kiss really well.

I have to shower.

I gotta shower.

Ok, but we really have
to get together.

I wrote everything down here.

My parents' phone.
That's where I am mostly.

The restaurant where I work weekdays.
17 Rue des Petits-Champs.

And Julie's,
where I often crash on weekends.

I guess I have everything.

What's your number?

Mine?

Was it the drink
or did she turn ugly?

When I woke up she wasn't the same.

She's 6 feet tall!

Tall girls
can't have the slightest flaw.

I don't like them tall either.

I love them tall,
if they're gorgeous.

A flaw on a tall girl screams at you.

Sure. Like she was entitled
to her mediocrity.

Take big teeth:
on short girls they're cute.

They look like little squirrels.

- But on a tall girl...
- They look like mares.

Like mares.

I was sure
he was praising me to the sky.

I can't date a girl like that.

She's smart, she's sharp,

she's read everything.
An MA in Classics.

I think she even studies
Chinese and Korean authors.

Last year you were miserable
because your girl didn't read.

There's a happy medium.

What would it be?

I don't know.

But even before coffee she quoted
Kafka, Huysmans, Dostoevsky!

She talks about notions
I've never heard of.

Is there a time of day
to be interesting?

You bet!
Especially after getting sloshed.

You'll admit, in the morning
Dostoevsky is pretty heavy.

Fuck Dostoevsky.

Fuck everyone.

You said so yourself:

I have to focus on my self-esteem.

I have to like myself a little.

Every other night,

I dream of myself hanging
from a curtain rod.

I can't be intimidated
by a Sorbonne hussy

tutoring me as we make love.

Besides, I couldn't even...

I was too drunk. How embarrassing.

Even without liquor I'm not sure

I could manage a decent erection

with a girl who edits out my
adjectives and present participles.

They say love prevails
over pride and hang-ups.

A lot of bullshit.

I called him a hundred times,

spent hours dialing that damn phone.

Undeniably,
he set women's bodies on fire

like a pyromaniac fireman.

Undeniably,
he hadn't found his style.

Sated with women's desires,

Fabrice paced the crumbling dominion
of his soul in a daze.

He really wrote crap!

Is she pretty?

Maybe that's the trouble.

No.

She's not great,
but she's not horrid.

And she has charm.

With a little work, a little makeup
and a good dentist...

So what's the problem?

She wants to castrate me!
I can see her coming.

I see her coming

with big scissors.

I see the blood and everything.

Already I don't have balls.
What I've got left isn't much.

Very little even.

My mom castrates me,

my dad castrates me,
my brother even more.

Not exactly supportive.
It kills the urge.

I'm an infant again.

A baby.

With a little baby willy.

A little baby dick.

You talk a lot about the size...

- Do I?
- Yes.

Of your privates, your balls...

And your little...

cock.

You should branch out a little bit.

Even a terribly proud person
can wallow in ridicule

when the dial tone continues
to echo in the void.

Look, miss, stop calling.
You're almost scary.

Hello?

In fact, ever since then,
I don't phone people.

I wait for it to ring.

I'd reassure myself,

thinking we were too young
to get serious.

We lost touch for a while.

Then chance threw us together.

April 21, 1972

Queen of hearts!

Butts in the ashtray!

Relax!

You can smoke, but watch the carpet.
It's brand new.

I don't believe this!

Victor, get the door?

Victor, answer the door!

I'm going.

It's my place,
but it's your birthday!

Gimme that.

- What are we drinking?
- A Bloody Mary for you.

Happy birthday.

What a nice place!

It's my brother's.

His place is a dump.
Nowhere even to sit.

But that suits him.
He's the family poet.

Meet my brother.

The rightwing brother. Delighted.

Cut it out.

Nobody's perfect.

- Kiss me.
- What?

I said kiss me. A good French kiss.

Hey! How's it going?

- Great, and you?
- Fantastic.

- I have to see you.
- Sure.

- Hi.
- Hi, how you doing?

Victor, you don't know Sarah.

- I do.
- No.

I'm Philippe's girlfriend.

So I see.

Come in.

Here. Happy birthday.

Thanks.

We don't know each other?

As Romain Gary said,

"I know there are mutual loves,

"but I don't lay claim
to that luxury."

Sorry! I didn't mean to.

December 1972

At first nothing about Victor
indicated

that he grew up
in such a posh environment.

His parents' house

exuded an air of big game hunting
and industrial success.

The walls were loaded with paintings,
the furniture with knickknacks

and his mother with white wine.

Not for you, you rascal.

We are here to win the elections!

We are here to govern!

The left side needs more balls.

If you want,
there's another box downstairs.

Chapter 2
Christmas Gift

Let me, Mom. You're tired.

No, darling, I can do it myself!

- How long's she been drinking?
- 32 years.

That must be your brother
with his new girlfriend.

You call that a girlfriend?

I'd say a slut.

Do you know the new one?

- No, he drops them too fast.
- So does Victor.

At least he doesn't bring them home.

And you can be sure
they're not after his money.

That's for sure.

He's teasing you.

I don't believe in fate,

but fate seemed to believe in us.

Mao, Stalin, Mitterrand,
all the same.

You can't compare, they're different.

Sure I can!

A commie's a commie.

If you want a gulag in France, fine.
But count me out!

I didn't work so Stalinists
can take my money.

I totally agree.

Stop kissing the dog!

He'll get soused.

He's kissing me.

You licked him. It's gross!

What's Baudelaire think?

- Is that me?
- Yes.

- About what?
- The Union of the Left.

Baudelaire thinks it's fine.

Naturally! He doesn't pay taxes.

Be nice to your brother.

Honestly, we should stop
giving sponges the vote.

I love you, Victor,

but the day you get a job...

Why say he doesn't work?

We mean a real job.

Victor's not the only one here
not in business.

Sophie doesn't work.

- Sophie's different.
- Why?

First, she's a woman.

So what?

Is she a feminist?

I don't know.

"She" has a name,
even if she's a woman.

I offended you.

It takes a lot more than that.

Your turkey's delicious, ma'am.

Tell Philomène. She's in the kitchen.

In the kitchen on Christmas?

Yes. Does that bother you?

Dad, please.

His parents welcomed me
like a daughter.

Those commies'll end up ruling us!

Claude.

I'm all at sea.

I'm lost.

Sorry, it was just a question.

I forgive you, miss.

The advantage for pretty women is

when they spout nonsense,

it's almost alluring!

Funny, I think the same of old men.

Their nonsense can be touching.

She's got balls!

- You sure she's a girl?
- Certain.

Are you?

We only just met.

- Cute bowtie.
- No, it's ridiculous.

It's to please me. It's tradition.

- Stop drinking, darling.
- Oh, come on...

She tipples?

Less than your wife.

My wife's an alcoholic.

I'm going to bed.

Dad!

Good night.

What about the gifts?

You can give them their gifts!

My gift is to be alone!
When I see you,

I don't know what world I'm in.

The world's a mess.
The maid in the kitchen?

Where else? The Elysée Palace?

Dammit!

Forgive me.

For other reasons, I'll turn in, too.

Already? Why?

I'm tired.

The fun was just starting.

Sit your behind back down!

No beddy-bye
until you play the Christmas song.

Not the Christmas song!

I can take a lot,
but respect tradition!

What's the song?

- Sophie, stand up.
- No, Mom, please.

Shut up and sing!

It's Christmas day
that Jesus was born

It's Christmas day
that Jesus was born

He was born in a place in the hay

What are you doing?

I can't sleep.
And what are you doing?

Having a smoke.

But what are you doing in this house?

- I was invited.
- What's your game?

First you date my best friend,
now my brother.

Is it against the law to be in love?

You're in love with him?

- Jealous?
- Why? Think I like you?

I wonder!

Why would a guy get pissed if
a girl's making it with his brother?

- What do you care?
- Stop it.

- Several times a day.
- Please.

- In complex positions.
- Makes me sick!

Me too.

So why do it?

What do you see in Antoine?
He's bland, humorless, boring.

I love his nose.

We have the same nose.

Maybe that's it.

You gonna do the whole family?

Your dad's not bad.

- You're shameless.
- You're immoral.

Sarah, what's going on?

- What?
- Nothing.

- Did you just kiss her?
- Not at all.

You didn't kiss her?

- Come back up.
- Why? What's going on?

- I'll kill you!
- Don't touch him.

- Fuck you.
- Don't talk like that.

She's my girlfriend.

Watch your tongue, and she's not.

What're you doing there?

It's ok.

He's doing my girl!

- What's going on?
- She's a slut!

- Who?
- Me.

Of course.

What're you doing?

Waiting for Santa Claus.

Go ahead and wait. He doesn't exist.

- Why's she say that?
- That's Granny.

You tell them now.
They'll be so disappointed.

He doesn't exist!

Let's split.

Nothing's more exciting than
taking off with the man you love.

Hello?

Sorry to bother you.
Can we have a room?

Nice to see people in love.

So in love!

For me it's been a long time.

I did two jerks to get here.

Sorry.

Chapter 3
Ecstasy

And it was

a fiasco.

I never told him.
But he was so clumsy!

Why did he crush my face like that?

It was hardly exhilarating.

I found it vulgar.

And a bit aggressive.

He took so long.

Let yourself go!

So long.

Yes, that's it.

I don't mean
that later it wasn't good,

but at first it was a slog.

That's it.

Goddam!

What next?

Next it gets boring.

Why's that?

Because we were happy.

Smile.

Again?

No more. It'll wear off.

- Please.
- No.

Why not?

Because now we have to keep going
for years on a few qualities.

Like on an epicurean tightrope.

If I satisfy all your desires,

you might have erection trouble.

- I won't if you smile at me.
- Really?

Smile.

Victor!

- Smile or I jump.
- Stop!

Smile or I jump.

Wanna talk philosophy?

Please, come back up.

Epictetus says our romance
is a slow death.

And Schopenhauer says in 3 months
you're with someone else.

So smile.

Victor, get back up here.

Give me a smile.

Her smile...

Man, her smile's like a jukebox.
You want to insert a coin.

You can't imagine
how excited it gets me.

I don't even mean sex.

Sure she loves making love with me.

I felt strong vibes
between us right off.

She gives me such an urge to write!

I have an idea every 15 minutes.

Sometimes hers, sometimes mine.

You gotta be dumb to think
a smart girl cramps your ego!

Mediocre, petty!

On the contrary, we add
to each other, we multiply.

Words are sex!

But we don't live in luxury.

Since Dad cut me off,
I can't even repair the toilet.

I have to pee!

You have to climb two flights.
Embarrassing.

But who cares?
Because in the morning I laugh.

At noon I laugh, and at night.

I have what I dreamed of.

In fact I'll pay up.
I don't need you.

If you say so.

No need to drink. That girl is vodka.

I like her take on things, people,

movies...

I read her biography.

A follower!
Say "he's cute," she blows him.

She'd kill Anne Franck
if you tell her to!

How can you say that?

She led a resistance group. A hero!

Even her logic gets me hard.

Careful, eh?

I'm careful.

Run!

Victor!

You're fine...

It's all right. It was just a car.
It's nothing, don't worry.

The serious stuff started
in a Paris café.

Chapter 4
Adjustments

I'll never forget.

- I have a gift.
- See who's here?

Serge Gainsbourg was there.

Already smashed.

To think he's made it with Bardot,
Juliette Greco, France Gall...

I hope they like music.

I find him sexy.

- Him, sexy?
- Yep.

Sexy?

- You could kiss him?
- No, I'm with you.

You're with me?

That's good, coz...

What is it?

Nothing. It's fake, but well made.

You're giving me a ring?

Yes.

- Why?
- Dunno.

When people are in love,

they need to express it materially.

It's my bourgeois way
of saying I love you.

I love you, too, love.

I've never felt so good.

I'm delighted.

But one question: What about Marion?

Marion?

In fact,
maybe it's time you left Marion.

- Who?
- Marion.

Who's that?

You know, your girlfriend.

The one you see a few times a week.

- How do you manage?
- It's not always easy.

Sort of

redhead, sort of ordinary.

I no longer love her.

- Why not break it off?
- It'd make life easier.

But it would unbalance
my life with Sarah.

I knew being faithful
wasn't his strong point.

You shrugged it off?

It was 1973. Different times.

Don't pull such a face!

I know you see her out of habit.

Simone de Beauvoir

linked jealousy with possession.

Even if I wanted to cut his dick off,

a smile is more effective.

Physically, she's not so hot.

You criticize Gainsbourg,
but Marion's no Jane Fonda.

Knowing you screw a turkey like her
boosts my ego.

But now I'd like you to stop.

You sleep with both of them?

No.
Yes. On paper, sure.

But it's not really me
sleeping with Marion.

It's the old me. Before Sarah.

Oh, that one.

Sure it's a drag
to dump an ugly girl.

But I'm asking you to.

I want to introduce my folks
to someone faithful.

Your wife is here?

Yes, uh...

Sorry. It's her day off.

- Would you rather I...
- No.

Do it tomorrow?

I promise.

Fine.

- A scotch?
- Sure.

I thought so.

The Goncourt Academy
has awarded the Book Prize

to Patrick Modiano.

The bastards!

What's wrong?

Patrick Modiano got the Goncourt!

I don't believe it.

- So what?
- It's outrageous!

I read his crusty prose.

He's so pedestrian,
he has no vision for society.

Modiano writes like an old fart.

Why get so worked up?

It's the biggest prize
in this damned country!

And it's a rip-off!

Who'll remember Modiano
in 10-20 years?

What's the necktie?

It's a necktie.

It's not a party, it's my parents.

So I dressed up.

No need to dress up. They're casual.

I'm staying home.

You can't do this to them.

Do what?

Hurt them.

Look at yourself.

They raised an exceptional daughter.

You're kind, beautiful, cultivated.

And you bring home this bum,
this failed writer.

I'm jealous of the whole world.

You won't meet them
until you get a Goncourt?

I'll never get a Goncourt.

To hell with the Goncourt.

Victor was wallowing
in self-deprecation.

- By the way, they're Jewish.
- What?

My parents are rather very Jewish.

Really?

Very much so.

Then so are you.

Well, yeah. Why?

Nothing. You just never told me.

I didn't know it mattered.

I'm not religious,
I don't even believe in God.

I don't mind.

I'm just surprised.

Darling, my name's Sarah Adelman.

Sure, of course, it's...

I heard the name, but...

That bother you?

Not at all. On the contrary.

What's that mean?

"On the contrary"?

You're pleased I'm Jewish?

Yes. I don't know. I don't care.

You don't care?

No, I don't not care.

I told you not to serve appetizers.

Now we're not hungry.

Who's not hungry? Everyone is!

Are you still hungry, Victor?

What?

In French, Dad.

You still hungry?

No, I'm fine. It was good.

I spent all afternoon making dinner.

It moved me to see him sitting
where I grew up.

It put him at ease
with his money hang-ups.

Their kindness was inversely
proportional to their income.

How do you say gefilte?

Who cares? It's fish.

Look how pretty she is when cross.

I'm not cross. I'm fine.

Look at this beauty, Victor!

The beauty of these two women!

You can't say who's prettier.

You could write 5 volumes

to compare these two beauties.

Not to mention you, Mama.

But she... She's staring at me.

He's skinny, this boy.

L'Chaim. To your health!

L'Chaim.

Bravo!

Sarah?

You sure he's not a faggot?

Granny!

What d'you mean?

What's up?

Granny says you're sophisticated.

Thank you, ma'am.

Why's he thanking me?

I said he was a faggot.

How can you say that?

What'd she say?

Enough of this!

Dessert!

That's when he realized
a whole new world opened up to him.

You can borrow it.
Take anything here.

I have everything:
Isaac Bashevis Singer,

Bernard Malamud,
Albert Cohen, Saul Bellow,

Georges Perec.

Why give him only Jewish writers?

So he reads the best.

I can give him Marguerite Yourcenar.

She's a goy,
but she's very good, too.

Goy writers are intelligent.

But Jewish writers

are funny and intelligent.

For instance

Philip Roth.

- Know him?
- I've heard a lot about him.

- Have you read Portnoy's Complaint?
- No.

It's Roth's best!

There's a hilarious chapter
on masturbation.

He's in the bathroom
pulling on his plonker.

Sorry honey, but to be political,
clever and poetic

while talking about jerking off,

only a Jew can do it!

Albert Cohen,

Saul Bellow, Isaac Bashevis Singer,

Bernard Malamud, Georges Perec...

Sarah?

I think I'm Jewish.

What?

I feel Jewish.

Cut it out. It's late.

I'm serious.

I love your family.

You told me three times.

They're everything I love!

All those people who suffered,
almost died.

Come to bed, please.

Can you believe it?

They were kicked out of Germany,
Poland, France, India.

And they can still laugh about it!

Your dad's right,
you can be funny and intelligent!

I love that humor, that despair,
that sense of family,

the conviviality,
the self-expression.

I love everything about the Jews.

Victor, enough.
I have an exam tomorrow.

And that's nonsense.
There are lots of Jewish jerks.

You'll meet my uncle.
Not funny at all.

He's a Gaullist and spouts bullshit.

He's horrible!

Listen to me.

What?

Did you know that 1 in 3 Nobel prizes
has been awarded to a Jewish writer?

Where'd you get that from?

It's no accident I'm in love
for the first time in my life.

Because I'm Jewish?

I didn't say that.
But admit it's strange.

You're really full of it.

I have to write.

It's 3 a.m.

So what?
I've wasted too much time.

I curled up next to Rebecca

who was sleeping as if liberated.

What if that night in August '44

had finally rid us of tears and fear?

Our snores would rid us
of the Führer's mustache,

officers' boots and my mother's sobs.

Tomorrow, no more fake name.

No more orders from on high.

For Rebecca and me
the trip into insanity was over.

We have a half-century left

to dance on the ashes
of our grandparents.

May 1974

Every day another poll.

This morning a survey in the Figaro
taken by SOFRES Monday and Tuesday:

The results confirm
earlier campaign trends.

François Mitterrand: 44%,

that's up 2% for SOFRES,

Valéry Giscard d'Estaing, 31%,

up 3%,

Jacques Chaban-Delmas, 17%,

Jean Royer, 3%.

Chapter 5
The Secrets of Success

What is this?

Are you serious?

Victor?

What's this
about "deported grandparents"?

Hang on!

They died at Auschwitz?

It's fiction, sweetheart.

- What's fiction?
- It's a character!

It's all in the first person!

Saul Bellow writes
in the first person.

Yes, but he's Jewish.

Well, I feel Jewish!

I'm a novelist and I feel Jewish.

But you're not Jewish!

Who cares about religion?

You have talent.
Even if you were Buddhist.

I hate religion
and its intellectual ghettos.

My whole life Dad told us
we were the best,

the funniest, the unhappiest
and the most misunderstood.

That Jewish food was better,

that sex with a Jew was better.

Maybe it is.

What's this?

Victor Adelman?

Who's that?

It sounds good.

Doesn't Adelman sound better
than De Richemont?

It's softer.

He's totally nuts!

You should have your head examined.

I want my kids
to be called De Richemont.

It's a very literary name.

De Richemont evokes

manors by the Loire,

hunting scenes,
duels between aristocrats,

palace intrigues!

Just what I don't want.

Who cares how it sounds?

It's for love
I want to take your name.

Really?

You said so yourself:

Why should women always take
their husband's name?

I'm for women, for abortion,

and for equality.

That's not equality, that's theft!

Are you saying
he wasn't really Jewish?

No more than you're a redhead.

How come nobody ever knew?

Because reporters do a bad job.

You ask the wrong questions.

My God.

God has nothing to do with it.

What difference does it make?

The Burdensome City is an excellent
postwar account of the Ashkenazim.

For good reason:

It's my grandparents' story.

You can come in.

Why are you crying?

Because it's good.

You like it?

Immensely.

Everything?

Everything.

Ok, and now?

- What?
- Your reservations.

- May I?
- I'm listening.

Alright then,

page 1.

The dress episode in the present.

- The whole paragraph?
- It'll be more powerful.

Then nothing until... page 2.

"The sky defied my despair."
A bit bombastic.

Poetic license.

Well, I mean,

I've never seen the sky defy despair.

Nothing to say about page 3.
It's wonderful.

Oh, yes there is.
Still too many adverbs.

"Genuinely," "confusedly..."

I welcome a young author
who has won acclaim for

The Burdensome City
published by Grasset.

He's compared to Roth
and great Jewish American writers.

Good evening, Victor Adelman.

I suppose
you've drawn on family memories.

There, it's out.

The Goncourt prize
goes to Victor Adelman

for The Burdensome City.

Yes, I just heard.

I want to thank the committee members

and...

A special thought for someone
I care deeply for: Sarah,

whom I'm about to marry.

You're getting married?

If she says yes.

Mr. Adelman,

open your book, please.

Excuse me a second.

He won't stop moving. Come feel.

Right here.

It's wonderful.

Wonderful.

We saw the doctor today.

How'd it go?

He said everything's fine.

I doubt he'll have it.

Have what?

Trombiosis.

What?

Trombiosis. I've explained it.

What's trombiosis?

A genetic thing
from my mother and grandma.

What's that do?

It attacks glands at first.

Then it shrinks the genitals.

The genitals? Are you shitting me?

Yes.

- Oh, shit. No!
- Sorry.

Sorry.

Forgive me!

No one touches my child's genitals!

He'll have a wonderful penis.

A great big penis.

- Like my dad.
- Really?

Are there family problems?

Neurological troubles?

Don't worry, he'll be very smart.

Very smart.

A famous surgeon.

Or a famous author.

What should he write?

Proust's Remembrance for starters.

We wanted him to be perfect.

We were wallowing in narcissism.

Tell him, Joyce's Ulysses, too.

And Belle du Seigneur.

I may have loved Victor partly
for the genetic qualities

he'd likely endow upon
our children.

Chapter 6
The Miracle of Life

Where do we stand?

Labor is starting. All will go fine.

- Want to come in?
- I'm coming.

Are you alright?

I'm ok.
It's just, my wife's having a baby.

I see.

It's hot in here.

Do they keep the heat up
for the babies?

Is it your first?

Yes. It feels weird.

Soon enough I'll have a teenager
with big feet and acne.

Would you mind?

Not at all.

Poor Victor.

He had to deal with fatherhood

and fame all at once.

- Who's it for?
- Hortense.

It's so tough to be a man.

Where is he?

- Where is he?
- He's coming.

I mean my husband!

I'm going to be a daddy.

A daddy.

- Where were you?
- The toilet. Couldn't hold it.

Bravo! I love you so.

I love you, too. Look.

I can't believe it.

He's so tiny.

That's my son?

My God. Can I touch?

You're my son?

This gooey little thing?

Will you wash him?

Doesn't he look like Nobel material?

He's Nobel material.

The Nobel prize goes to Arthur.

Arthur Dostoevsky.

He's Dostoevsky.

Except he soon knew his son wouldn't
write The Brothers Karamazov.

It's still too early. We can't say.

It's true that in his case
the learning process is very slow.

We still might be surprised.

Child development is relative.

He does talk.

His vocabulary is limited,
I grant you,

but the onomatopoeia stage
is important.

Do you think he'll be able to

have a normal education?

No.

You're going to need patience.

We're working from a perspective

of several years.

Patience, I'd say. Patience.

Put that down!

Basically he said he's retarded.

He just said to watch him.

What's that mean?

That's all we do.

I don't know.

Victor drowned his worry
in literary soirées.

He pretended to place more importance
in punctuation

than in our son's problem.

He immersed himself in writing.

His new novel told the dismal life

of an aristocratic, alcoholic and
clueless mother in the 20th century.

"Her husband cheated,
her daughter hated her,

"her sons despised her.

"This poor man's Madame Bovary,

"bloated with white wine,
racism and bitterness,

"spewed her love on the only one

"who showed her
a crumb of consideration:

"a little chihuahua

"known for its loyalty, its stupidity

"and its dreadful bad breath."

This short, ferocious story

came out in bookstores
in late summer.

Even if he changed her name,

the location
and the color of her hair,

Victor's mother was rather upset.

Chouky?

Down, baby. Don't move.

Forgive me, darling.

Goddammit to hell.

Oh fuck!

Goddammit!

Gentlemen!

Some books, as we know,

can be as deadly as a bullet.

I, too, would be a victim one day.

Go fetch!

A good start!

Gentlemen.

Victor's father claimed Sylvie fell
watering plants

and never read a line her son wrote.

Victor acted like he believed him.

But he didn't sleep for 14 weeks.

His next books
were widely translated.

I quit school.

We moved a lot.

Chapter 7
In the Money

Victor's success went to my head.

Especially when I bought this manor
in Chantilly.

The house wasn't like us at all.

But we started to be like it.

He did a lot of book tours.

And I took stock of my life.

Hello, sir. May I?

No, thank you.

Honey, I'm home.

Thank you.

So what did you do while I was gone?

Not much.

I talk with Arthur.
He's made progress.

Really?

He never ceases to surprise me.

It's amazing.

I didn't tell you:

I started Indian dance.

Absolutely fabulous.

Really. It forces you to work

on recentering yourself,
your breathing...

It's great.

And I feel much better.

I'm so glad.

And there's a counting exercise
I love:

You count to 5:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, then backwards.

You say 1, then 2,

and then you replace the number 2
with "zip."

1...

Zip!

1 zip, 3, 4, 5.

Then you replace the number 4
with a slap on the thigh.

Real fast. It goes 1, zip, 3...

5, 3, zip, 1, etc.

So how was China?

Fascinating. Really.

And the food?

Chinese.

Meaning?

A lot of rice.

It's cliché, but true.

I love rice.

- 1, zip, 3, 4, 5, 4, 3...
- Zip.

Good!

Hello, sir.

Honey, I'm home!

To all,

my warmest wishes...

Thank you, Floriane, it was divine.

And I will add a wish:

that those of us lucky enough
to be happy and in good health

not forget the less fortunate.

Who's Hortense?

Darling, she's been with us a year.

Oh, that's her.

- And the man I saw?
- Edouard?

What's he do?

I don't know.

Hello, sir.

Honey, I'm home.
A lot of dogs!

The Rouards stayed for five days.

She had nine dogs.

Adrien cut Sophie off and asked her
to burn the house down.

He handed her a match,

and made her watch
all the extravagance burn.

The Le Corbusier sofa,
the bone china,

her Farah Fawcett hair, etc.

So I told her...

I won't pretend to like it
if it's awful.

Of course not.

When are you off again?

In two days.

Already?

You travel more and more.

Yes.

I get bored here.

Excuse me?

I'm bored.

Right now. Bored!

But...

I don't know what happened.
I don't even want to come home.

Not at all.

- Are you serious?
- Very. We've become very serious.

Really?

You haven't noticed?

No, but if you say so.

- Maybe it's the house.
- What about it?

This life, the country...

That's not it.

I love the country. It inspires me.

We're not moving
to the Champs-Elysées for excitement.

What's happened to you?

Look at me, Sarah.

Did you join a cult?
Are you brainwashed?

Why say that?

You were funny, original,

you didn't care about going green,

being friends with so-and-so...

Is anyone there?

You hear me?

You want to split up?

I want us to have fun!

To share things!
To laugh like we used to.

If you've met someone, tell me.

That's not it, come on!

I love your body.

I could spend hours
fondling your breasts.

But that's all.
When we talk, you're different.

If you could see your gaze.

Like my mother.

Me?

I keep a diary.

I checked it:

You haven't interested me
in 7 1/2 months.

I wonder if you're even glad
to see me.

Are you kidding?

That's all I think about.

Then rehearse your lines.
Because I'm starved.

All your problems with dogs,
paintings...

And all these servants, what is this?

I'm a leftist writer.

I urge people to vote Mitterrand.

I write op-eds in Libération.

I defend immigrants,
but here I feel like Louis XIV.

And why are they all black?

This isn't a plantation!

Do I wear a pith helmet?

I'll dismiss them all.

He got his kicks out of hurting me.

That little rich kid believed
he was speaking

for the unemployed, the working class

and all those
he'd never spend an hour with.

You're the wackiest woman I know,

so why act like Giscard's wife?

Goddammit!

Listen to yourself! You're insulting!

You know what? You're right.

I don't know who I am!

I'm not made to be rich. Or poor.

But this life isn't for me!

I don't know what happened.

You're right.
I don't care about fancy food.

I'm sorry.

And this kid makes me dumb!

So there!

I say that because I love you.

Good. I'm pregnant.

What?

Leave it. I'll clear.

Fuck me.

On the table. Now.

Hortense, take the kid to his room.

He'd never spoken to me like that.

I was furious,
but I couldn't lose my husband.

So I sold the manor
and dismissed the servants.

Ready, honey?

I'm coming!

And I fixed myself up a bit.

Chapter 8
Vitamins of Love

I'm ready.

Just a little dish of milk.

It's so cold in Quebec
that men always have a hard-on.

It's amazing how much
you can say and do

with an alert mind and a light heart.

It's not pleasure or desire.
It hardens from the cold.

Words came effortlessly and my days
filled as fast as my nostrils.

This victory belongs
to the forces of youth,

the forces of labor...

Today is a historic date,
even for you, Jean-Marc,

so friends,
get yourselves intoxicated.

Tonight, I want puking!

You haven't even ruined
the carpet yet!

I'd recovered my form
and everyone was delighted.

- Where you going, honey?
- To pee.

Again?

She'll empty out!

I'm warning you.

If someone dislikes my roast,
I'll punch 'em.

Even you, Mom!

Especially you.

I cooked it with passion.

Calm down a little.

Can't we be glad? Mitterrand won!

Watch the knife.

Roast beef is good, huh?

So good!

I should eat it every day.

Until the day it started to show.

I love roast beef. It's delicious.

I could eat it all day long.

There always comes a time
when the engine jams,

and people's looks ruin your party.

Honey...

It's nothing.

Be careful! Stop!

What is it?

My waters broke.

I think it's time!

What're you doing, Arthur?

Not my dress!

How long have you been on it?

Later, ok?

No, now. How long, Sarah?

Push!

Five, six months.

So no cystitis?

Keep pushing.

Why'd you do it?

I wanted to make you laugh.

You said I'd changed, that I was
boring. I didn't want you to leave.

But you're pregnant!

There's the head. She's coming.

2 in 7 fathers leave
when their wife's pregnant.

There. A pretty little girl.

Maybe she's totally high.

Is she normal? Can she say anything?

She's a baby!

A spaced out baby.

Luckily the baby was unaffected.

She was even particularly alert.

But our son was
a big source of concern.

Chapter 9
The Problem

Friday he even bit a cat.

He bit a cat?

He drew blood!

And he can't stand
being in the Down's syndrome group.

He urinated
in Benjamin's pencil case.

Your child isn't stupid,

and as he doesn't say much

and can sit staring for hours
without moving,

you think he's "elsewhere,"
but he's not.

He's right there,

and he's sizing things up.

He looks around and gauges things.

Your boy isn't stupid.

But he's extremely nasty.

Sorry.

You think it's funny?

No, forgive me. It's nervous.

It makes you nervous?

It makes us nervous, too.

Especially Mrs. Herrera

since Arthur tried
to have relations with her.

Sexual relations, ma'am.

Mrs. Herrera is a wonderful woman

who's over 70 years old.

I don't find it funny.

Over 70,

with a bad hip.

And Arthur
made more than clear gestures.

But he's a child.

Yes, a child.

You know, ma'am,

he has attitudes
that are anything but childlike.

It gives me goose bumps.

He's capable of anything.

Really, it's that bad?

Maybe we can do something to help?

What can you do with a wild animal?

Here. Where does the blue one go?

Look at that!

She's amazing!

Look at the fire in her eyes.

They don't just glow,
they're incandescent.

You're so pretty.

Who's the smartest?

Not Marguerite Duras.

Not Nathalie Sarraute. It's...

Me.

You, my love. You're the smartest.

Why's he looking at her?

He's looking at his sister.

Think he knows she is?

Do you understand she's your sister?

What's the girl's name?

Focus.
Who's this cute little blondie?

The little thug, the ugly mug...

Ugly mug?
That's totally off the mark.

Who is she?

An easy question.

What an idiot.

Stop it.

Yes, he's an idiot!

They say he's special,
but he's not dumb. My ass!

He put dog shit in the carrot purée.

He eats cats, dammit!

He eats cats.

That's his problem, he's an idiot.

If he were autistic,
I'd write a book.

But he just has a lower
than average IQ.

Not enough to get benefits!
You're an idiot!

Idiot.

That's for sure.

Most parents would be shocked

to hear a father talk that way
to a 9-year-old.

You said it.

But most parents
don't have a son like him.

You're as disappointing
as Mitterrand.

The whole left wing finally in power,

and they leave us high and dry.

What'll we do?

Nothing.

What can we do?
Too late for an abortion.

We'll do nothing.
We love him as much as we can!

I spend all day with him,

I have to love him.

He's my son,

and I love him.

Shit. You ok?

I'm fine.

Daddy hair.

What d'you mean, "Daddy hair"?

What's she mean?

Am I losing hair?

Just at the temples.

At the temples?

Let her pedal on her own.

Not too fast!

Not too fast, darling!

Careful.

C'mon, Dad!

It just gets worse.

Since she was born I'm terrified.
All those perverts you hear about.

And the Gulf War,
the Chernobyl cloud,

it could be right over her head.

And rising unemployment.

Victor, if I may,

she's only 13.

But she's growing up so fast!

Sometimes I don't care what they say
about child socialization.

I want to lock her up in a cellar.

A cellar?

Not a creepy cellar.

A sort of underground world

with lots of books, a screening room,

a sort of burrow
where no one can hurt her.

A burrow for your daughter?

Why not?

The other day I had an awful dream.

It was in the future. She was 17.

She was in a room, looking lost,
in a bathrobe,

and there, naked,
were Charles Pasqua,

Patrick Poivre d'Arvor
and Michel Rocard.

They were all ogling her!

They started throwing cash at her
as if she were a whore.

I came in, grabbed a rifle
and started blowing them away.

It was sickening.

What I mean is,
I can't bear the idea

of letting her grow up
in an obscene world.

A world obsessed with sex and money.

No wonder I'm losing my hair.

So the mustache?

A way of compensating?

I hadn't thought of that.

You know what Freud
said about mustaches?

He said it was a sort of implant

of a woman's pubis above the mouth

in reach of the tongue.

What about your wife?

How does she view your intense bond
with your daughter?

She's fine.

It's as if she kept getting younger.
It's scary.

We were in the bathroom.

Chapter 10
The Inverted Curve of Desire

When I started,

I looked like an actor
who wrote books, remember?

Now I really look like a writer.

Stop it! You're very handsome.

We went opposite ways.

You're getting prettier,
and I'm horrible.

Coming to bed?

What's happening to you is so lucky!

Even your nose is smaller.
You'll wind up a knockout.

Come to bed.

I'll wind up with horns.

Bald with horns.

- You're too beautiful.
- Nonsense.

- There are fine-looking bald men.
- Really?

Who?

See, you can't name one.

Cut it out. Who cares?

I didn't fall in love with your hair.

What'd you fall in love with then?

Jacques Chirac.

- What?
- He's bald and handsome.

You like Chirac?

Not at all.

But physically speaking...

Physically, you like Chirac?

Don't be ridiculous.

I don't vote for him,
but not because he's bald.

- You know what I think, anyway.
- About what?

About marriage.

- About free marriage.
- Oh?

I mean, if you felt
a sort of sexual erosion,

it would hurt,

but I'd rather you sometimes
have pleasure with whoever

than imagine you fantasizing all day.

I'm talking
about pure satisfaction of...

Call it physiological hygiene.

I don't think you can separate
sex and feeling.

Sure you can.

How do you know?

I don't know, I imagine.

And sometimes I jerk off.

Are you kidding me?

I know you jerk off
thinking of other women.

Hush! She might hear us.

There's a gulf
between you masturbating

and my getting laid
by one of your friends.

Why a friend of mine?

I know no one else.

You've already thought about it?

Of course not!

Or just for laughs.

For laughs?

I imagine doing it with everyone.

My professors, my friends, my dad.

- What?
- It's a mental exercise.

I project myself for a few seconds.

Even with your dad?

Sure.

I'm not saying I liked it.

It even hurt me. But I can't help it.

So with François?

No! He's your publisher
and our daughter's godfather.

But in your head?

Sure. I said, with everyone.

Even the electrician.

How was it with François?

Weird.

Doable?

Technically, everything's doable.

- So you're holding back?
- No.

You hold back not to hurt a bald man.

You idiot.

Good night.

What're you doing?

It's awful,

but imagining you with François
does something.

Stop it.

Don't want to?

I don't feel like it now.

See? What'd I tell you?

Where you going?

To work.

I'm not Dostoevsky,
but I have to work.

If I were Dostoevsky,
would you want me?

Good night.

Dostoevsky was bald,

but what a genius!

My husband's talent was dwindling.

He was increasingly short of ideas.

At night I'd hear him scream
in frustration.

Goddammit!

Me? The French Academy?

That's for old reactionaries,
it's totally fossilized.

Name me one writer we like
in the Academy. Just one.

He's right, after all.

You go there and die.

He's not wrong.

I'm alive. I dunno.

Anyway, you, darling,

is it age, children or love?

You look fabulous.

Thank you.

I keep telling her.
Prettier all the time.

My wife just gets prettier.

You're having more cheese?

Afraid I'll get fat?

It's inevitable: I age and get fat.

And I'll have more wine.

I'm a writer, not a model.

I should've been...

When you see my latest book sales.

Victor, cut it out.

Anyway, it's hard
to write anything new.

It's not true? It's all been done.

Spoken style, dope head style,

porn scenes,
incest scenes, violence...

Everything! Irony about the left,
the right, Jews, Arabs,

women, redheads, the Corsicans,
homos, everything!

It's all been done.

Everyone writes, no one reads.

There.

I guess that's that.

Happy birthday, François.

Cheers!

He's not bad looking.

You're right.

- Physically, he hasn't changed.
- Thanks.

You were never handsome.

You don't have far to fall.

I didn't tell you:
My wife wants to fuck you.

What?

Didn't you say so?

Are you drunk or what?

Sorry, don't listen to him.

Maryse, I never said that.

I swear she did.

I couldn't make that up.
Own up, honey.

I just said I imagined it.

She does it with everyone.

The waiter, everyone. She imagines.

Her father!

Are you nuts?
Like I'm a nymphomaniac!

This is a non-smoking area.

Non-smoking? Now what?

You can't stop people
smoking in restaurants.

Here.

Everyone's a cop.

Can't smoke, can't drink,
can't write, can't be a leftist,

can't eat,

can't screw.

I'm hungry!

Here's dessert.

That's nice!

What's the big cake?

I want some.
I can do what I like with it.

Drink, eat,

I want to drink, smoke,

do everything.

I'm bored shitless!

I'm outta here.

Happy birthday.

Him?

Victor was going through
a rough time.

His last two novels didn't do well.

We found out that fame
was a big tease.

I'm home!

Did it go well?

I can't stand crowds anymore.

I get cramps
doing all those signings.

What a crowd! Everyone was there.

It makes your readers happy.

It makes your readers happy.

All that love in your face!

So much love is almost suffocating.

You bought the latest Le Clézio?

It was given to me.

Le Clézio's handsome.

I have to give him that.

He is handsome.

People think their failures

or weaknesses alienate them.

It makes them unpleasant.

But it's their unpleasantness
that's alienating.

- Where you going?
- You know.

No, I don't.

My voice lesson.

Not painting lessons?

That's on Wednesday evenings.

You're beautiful.

Thanks.

All those classes get you out.

Sorry,

I don't work, I watch the children.

I don't believe you. Where you going?

Tell me the truth.

I'm late.

Wait!

Who'll watch the children?

How dare you? I'm not a maid.

I make you live like a maid?

Let me by. I'm late.

- Give me a kiss.
- I don't feel like it!

We haven't made love in months.

- Don't bring that up now.
- Why not?

You know there are times.

We've been together for ages.
We can't always...

Why not? Kiss me.
Why not always?

Because you reek of whiskey!

Is that how you dress for voice?

A recital already?

Why high heels?
You said you were too tall.

I guess I'm ok with it.

Tired of going flat.

- I wouldn't take it badly.
- What?

If you went out with someone.

I'm outta here.

No admiration kills desire.

- I admire you.
- Bullshit.

I chose the only woman
I can't impress

with what I do, what I write,
what I think!

The only one!

Find yourself an idiot!

If I were a woman,
I'd dress like that for my lover.

If I were a man,
I'd act like that so my wife leaves.

Who'll you meet?

No one. But I'll think about it.

There we are!

That's when he started writing
his misogynist novels.

Withered Heart

Beware the Weeping Woman

The Devil's High Heels

Most women stopped buying them

and since readers are mostly women,

we sold the car,
jewelry and some furniture.

I came home one evening.

It was my birthday.

Sit down, honey.

Let's toast.

And you're...?

This is Pablo.

Your birthday gift.

I was looking for an idea.
I thought,

What would she like?

- Is this a joke?
- Not at all.

Pablo's a pro.

Right, Pablo?

As you know, I'm not a pro.

Let's not kid ourselves.
We don't do anything.

Not a thing.

We did it

a long time ago.

So you had me send the kids
to my parents?

It'd be weird with the kids.

You want the kids here?

What am I supposed to do?

I won't draw you a picture.

Want me to explain
how to put a dick in a pussy?

This is very embarrassing.

Sorry, young man, but you may go.

Don't move.

I paid!

I don't think
the lady's very pleased.

Sure she is!

She's just being a hypocrite.

You're totally perverse!

It's not me who's perverse.

Getting humped secretly
by someone else

is perverse.

Look at that life. He's handsome,

strong,

muscular.

I don't know what you're up to,
but it's not funny.

And it doesn't excite me.

You talk too much.
I wanna get my rocks off.

You know how?
By seeing you get your rocks off!

Finally.

Alright.

I've nothing less to lose.

You want to see me fuck someone else?

Yes.

Down with boredom!

Down with boredom.

Go in the bedroom, Pablito.

She likes to be licked.

Hope you've got a muscular tongue.
She takes forever!

You take forever, darling.

You bitch.

Are you sure

you want to continue?

Yes!

Sure!

Go on.

Look at me.

Yes, love?

If you make me go in there

it's over forever.

Let's go.

Wow, he's quite a hunk.

What'd this cost?

A lot.

Let's not waste time then.

Sit down to watch?

It's better for your back.

Over there.

Let's go, Pablo.

We're not teenagers.

Are you nuts?

Little Chilean whore! Beat it!

Who d'you think you are?

Beat it!

What'd you think?

Forgive me.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

For 20 years I was afraid
he'd leave me.

That fear enabled me
to love him so long.

I was no longer afraid.

Chapter 11 - A New Departure

You ok?

The first lunch after separation
wasn't very cheerful.

You're just a slut.

My, my.

You raised her well. A true soldier.

I'll die without you.

Hear that? He'll die.

Chloé, someday you'll know
it's not that simple.

Leave! In 6 months
you'll come crying back.

It'll be too late.
We won't need you then.

I'm sure you'll be fine together.

A word of advice: use condoms.

Sorry.

What a slut!

You like that word.

- See you back home.
- Please stay.

She pisses me off. Let go.

One last question. We were wondering,

where's the iron?

Up your ass.

Take that!

Come on.

Don't do this to me.

I'm sorry.

I'll change.

I swear, I'll change.

It's really too late.

You know I did all I could.

I'll die without you, Sarah.

No you won't.

Look at the bright side.
You said you had no material.

Now you have something
to write about.

I don't care about that!

Come home.

You're my wife. Come on home.

Come on.

- Come on now.
- Stop that.

Stop it, Victor!

- Come, now!
- Stop! Are you nuts?

Come, we're going home. I love you.

I'm going, then.

I'll pay.

I'll handle it.

You sure?

Goodbye.

Hello, doctor.

Mr. Adelman, how nice of you to come.

If I'd known you were ill,
I'd have come sooner.

How do you feel?

They do what they can, but...

Tell me how you are.

Honestly, terrible.

May I sit down?

Sure.

Sarah just left

for another.

My world's collapsed.

I'm...

Sorry, doctor, the timing's bad.

But I can only talk to you.

I thought she'd never leave.

I thought we were...

I don't care.

What?

I don't give a rat's ass.

I've listened to you for 30 years.

I'm dying and you come bug me?

Can't I croak in peace, dammit?

All my life listening
to people's woes!

Couples in love, out of love,
loving badly, loving less,

tearing themselves apart, making up.
Think that's original?

It's so ordinary!

If at least you were schizo...
It would be interesting.

But now, just please get out of here.

Get lost, once and for all!

Silence.

Silence. Death. It's nice.

Aren't you ashamed?

Why not blow your brains out?

You're a piece of shit.

A big piece of shit.

I think you're done.

You've hit bottom.

It took him two years
to agree to divorce.

It wasn't easy.

I have decided
to dissolve the National Assembly.

I got remarried, to Marc.

A very nice man

who'd made a fortune
in new technologies.

I went back to school.

Then I designed software for e-books,

a bit silly, but it amused me.

In any case, I made a fortune.

Maybe that's why
Chloé came to live with us.

Mom?

Yes, darling?

Sorry, you're busy.

Can I have money for a cab?
The kids are beat.

It's in the drawer.

Thanks, Mom.

I'll call you later.

Poor kid.

8 years of school and still no work.

Talk about progress.

What about your son?

Arthur?

Want to know the truth?

I got rid of him.

Don't worry,

I did nothing to hurt him.

On the contrary, if you only knew.

One day he went off to live

with a rather strange woman of 61.

A 61-year-old?

No accounting for taste.

What about Victor?

He vanished for a few years.

We found out
he was living in Brittany

in a lakeside house
with lots of cats.

Thanks, darling.

Chloé visited once or twice a month.

That's where he wrote his bestseller.

Until the Goncourt prize, my father
thought I was a genetic error.

Look, Victor,

I'm very fond of you,

but you can't raise a family on that.

For him "artist"
was a form of pederasty,

and pederasty
an advanced state of degeneracy.

Sometimes I live my life to write it,
without really living it.

My daughter's childhood

was a draft of two dull novels.

I should've put down my pen
to savor it.

Sarah.

I only heard her criticism.

I was still unable to see that
lighting tenderness that struck me.

It's disturbing
to read your own life.

I can't even explain
what it did to me.

We think we're sensual when in love,

convinced our desires are contagious.

She must have suffered so
from my cocky awkwardness.

Instead of gratifying her,
I ran roughshod over her.

I'd give all my books
for one of her smiles.

Sarah's smile was my only religion.

It may seem hard to believe,
but sometimes

you encounter irreversible love.

Victor Adelman's big comeback.

Our viewers know
he's not my favorite author.

The last one was maybe the worst.

But with The Time of Smiles,
what a surprise.

Too bad he refused
to come talk about it.

It's a cruel, acidic autopsy
of a painful marriage.

The story of my life was snatched up.

It made my second husband sick.

One day Chloé said
her dad was coming for her.

Chapter 12
The Contract

October 3, 2000

Please, have a seat.

Chloé said she's running late.

Sorry, I'm not good at coffee.
Not too bitter?

It's fine.

So you're back in Paris?

Just for a few days,

to give a lecture.

Chloé told me
where you live is charming.

The pond, the birds...

She's right,
it's a very beautiful spot.

Sorry, I'm laughing because

if you knew how often
I dreamed of seeing you dead.

It sounds harsh,
but it's ancient history.

I thought of everything:

strangling, knifing,

emasculation.

But you're charming.

So are you, Victor.

Big place you've got.

Yes, rather.

What is it you do again?

I'm in computers.

That's right.

Isn't that my stereo?

Could be.

I recognize it.

Even my CDs.
Chloé must've brought them.

Can I put something on?

Be my guest.

I've come to get you

I knew you'd be waiting, too

I'll turn it down a little.

Of course.

Can I see that?

Sorry.

Sarah didn't buy that, did she?

I ask because,

if I remember,
she hates glass tables.

That was before.

The years have been good to you

She'll come down.

I'll warn you, I'll be moved.

I might even shake.

Possibly even throw up.

Want a valium?

No. I've tried
to lighten up on those.

I took a lot when you stole her.

But now I go easy on them.

Victor Adelman.

I think we've met.

So you left me for a guy
who collects china turtles?

He tried to put on a good show.

Don't like turtles?

But he was lost.

They're ok.

I'll give you one.

Help yourself.

Don't say that.
I might take her back.

That'd be a shame.
You write better when she's with me.

I sell more books.
Not sure I write better.

You said it.

Nice place here. Nice.

The neighborhood's nice.
You make a nice couple.

In the evening you must have
a glass of wine on the big sofa.

But you kept ours, too.

I like this sofa. I'm glad.

It looks dumb next to the big one.

A bit intimidated.
Don't let 'em walk over you.

I'm glad to see you.

You like this sofa?

Not much.

Poor old thing, he doesn't like you.

You should, it's so comfortable.
I have good memories.

Mind if I stay a few days?

You're a funny one.

I don't know if I'm funny.

Are you?

Does he make you laugh?

Answer him.

He doesn't make you laugh?

He doesn't make you laugh.

Nothing's more exciting than leaving
with the man you love.

Ready to go?

Even if it's the same one.

You were all packed.
You knew I was taking you back.

I'm taking you back.

Here.

What's that?

A letter.

Read it.

"I, Victor Adelman de Richemont,

"swear never to criticize my wife

"for being another man's wife
for 5 1/2 years,

"never to ask
if he was better in bed,

"never to interrogate her.

"And see a psychiatrist twice a week

"to be able to honor this contract."

Now sign.

I bought this house
with my divorce settlement.

Chloé moved to Lyon
to pursue pointless studies.

Victor and I were alone.

He courted me
as though we'd just met.

He was adorable,

elegant, reassured.

It was total bliss.

Until our son's partner left him.

He came back to live with us.

Not eating?

Ok, darling.

That child was too full of poetry.

He hasn't progressed much.

Not enough.

Against expectations,

he who was late in everything

died very prematurely.

Our thoughts go
to Sarah and Victor's deep sorrow.

What will their life be like
without Arthur?

Don't cry, honey.

I'm crying because I'm not sad.

I know. But it's not your fault.

He wasn't very endearing.

He was stupid.

Yes, love.

He was mean.

Very mean.

My husband wrote
The Son I Didn't Love.

Despite the scandal,
he entered the French Academy.

They heaped praise on him.

We had our best years.

I loved that decade.

Until he took
that damn professorship.

From then on, jealousy changed sides.

Letter to his brother Mikhail
about Crime and Punishment:

"I have put my flesh and blood
in this novel...

He may have lost
the charm of his thirties,

but one must not underestimate
the erotic power

of knowledge and fame.

...that crazy epileptic Dostoevsky
passed his hang-ups on to us.

First there was Julie,

then Moïra,

Ingrid...

Anaïs...

And finally

Mélanie.

Chapter 13
Mélanie

He presented her as his protégée,

a future Françoise Sagan.

He invited her
to share our free time.

Poor thing. Only 25 and I saw her
dying a terrible death.

Well? What do you think?

About a professor
who falls in love with his student?

- Why not?
- Are you joking?

It's fiction because the guy's
a redhead and the chick's Asian?

Darling...

And you want my opinion?

Well, I'll tell you.

It's a piece of shit.

The story's totally contrived.

Poor Victor!

And that wedding scene at the end...

One of the dumbest things
you ever wrote!

Why say that?

Because, darling,

the slut wiggles her ass
for the literati.

Of course she won't sleep with him.

Because he's married.

Because he turns her off!

Ask around. Your little protégée
has slept with half the Left Bank.

Is that true?

It pains you?

I'm not talking about Mélanie,
but your character.

You know it's fiction.

And here's what I do
with your fiction.

- Don't, Sarah.
- There.

What do you see in that kid?

She admires me.

She respects me.

You're happy
to be admired by an idiot?

Any esteem is better than nothing.

Are we reduced to that?

Excuse me.
Have you seen my cell phone?

Get out of here. Now!

Beat it!

Françoise Sagan my ass!

When Mélanie left, my husband
sank deep into depression.

He stopped teaching.

He stopped writing.

He just stared out at the trees

as if only they could understand
his sexual frustration.

The years left their cruel mark
on Victor's face.

I watched him grow old.

He became a TV fan,

especially the Sunday talk show host,
who became our virtual lover.

Then one morning,
coming back from the store...

What was my brother's name?

I've drawn a blank. Tell me.

- Are you joking?
- No, tell me.

It was Antoine.

At first I thought
he did it to annoy me.

Chapter 14
The Fall

Our daughter Chloé, after 36 years
of virtual incest with her father,

finally decided
to revere another man.

The eve of her wedding
we had a dinner.

Who's that?

Who do you mean?

Her.

That's your daughter.

The chubby one?

He started losing his memory
exactly one year

after his hard-ons stopped.

I'm not sure there's a causal link.

Victor, look at me.

What's this?

A glass.

And what's this?

A comb.

No, it's a thermometer.

And who am I?

I'm your wife.

Why not?

You're way too old.

That's sweet.

So who's your wife?

Mélanie.

Poor Victor.

He never recovered his wits.

One day he began looking at me
like a child.

Mom...

Mom?

What do you mean?

Sorry, Mom.

Who are you talking to?

Forgive me for all I wrote.

There was so much else to say.

I could've written about childhood,

the birthday parties,

your smile,

the gentleness of your gaze.

About your sense of decency

and your odd humor.

I apologize, Mommy,

from the bottom of my heart.
Forgive me.

I forgive you, son.

Thank you, Mom.

For his birthday,
I took him to Etretat,

where we'd spent our first vacation

45 years earlier.

Something wrong? Want to go back?

- I love you.
- What?

I love you.

Oh really?

Of course I do.

But who am I?

You're my wife.

Are you dumb?

Who's your wife?

Why, it's Sarah.

Light of my life.

I made you walk blindfolded.

It made you laugh. Remember?

Yes. And you remember that?

Sure.

I remember everything.

Wait.

Put this over my eyes.
Let's do it again.

Are you sure?

Please. I want to.

- No.
- Come on.

- We'll get hurt.
- No, I trust you.

- Want to?
- Yes.

- I'm not hurting you?
- No.

Come on, you little pest!

Be careful, ok?

Trust me.

Walk.

Trust me.

Sarah.

There you go, princess!

Take off the scarf.

It's beautiful.

Yes, it is.

I love you.

Me too.

It's so nice to see your old self.

Why are you crying, ma'am?

Are you sad, ma'am?

Do I know you?

Come on.

Here, Victor. Put this on.

Why?

Do as I say.

Don't be afraid. I'm here.

To your left.

Straight ahead, Victor.

Walk straight ahead. I'm here.

In these troubled times
rife with intolerance

and barbarity,

we are mourning a poet.

I take solace
in the fact he didn't suffer.

He fell 500 feet!
Amazing, at his age.

You weren't there when he fell?

I was cold. I went back to the hotel.

He wanted to admire the view.

I see.

That's what I told the police.

What do you think?

Me?

Yes, you.

I think you loved him,

and it was time for him to go

for both of you.

Very well.

It's late.

I think we've covered it.

Thank you immensely.

I thank you.

They're all gone.

You saved me from those old wrecks.

Through you, I spent time with him.

Reading his novels again,

I noticed a clear difference
in both style and content

between what he wrote
when you were together

and what he wrote
while you were apart.

What exactly are you getting at?

How can I put it?

Did you help write some of his books?

What's this?

A suggestion. Just a suggestion.

You changed it all!

I just adapted some passages.

Except now, I've become Jewish!

You said yourself you felt Jewish.

I don't care about the Goncourt!

Victor Adelman?

My father's name.

Don't like it?

He's compared to Roth
and great Jewish American writers.

The Goncourt prize

goes to Sarah Adelman for
The Burdensome City.

I only wrote the first 30 pages.

I chose the only woman
I can't impress!

Goddammit!

Not going well?

Look in the left-hand drawer.

Under the bills.

It's just a draft. Some 30 pages.

I think you'll like it.

It's like you.

What's it about?

Here.

What is it?

You left it on the kitchen table.

I read it. It's great.

The Windmills of Silence?

Did I write that?

Of course, darling.
You've been at it for months.

You must be pissing yourself.

Don't write a word
about what I just said.

If you do, I'll deny everything.

I'll say you're a shit and a con man.

Why not tell the truth?

It's my right.

People only think of fame
and what others think.

They have no secrets.

I love secrets.

Readers have a right to know.

Readers!

I don't sleep with them.

I had one reader,

the man I loved.

I had all I wanted.

With a little humor and imagination,

what goes on between two people

can be worth all honors.

Off you go now.

Excuse me, but...

Why tell me?

For the fun of seeing
the look on your face.

Like a little beaver.

Ever consider hair implants?

Expensive, but worth it.

Good night.

A Man under the Influence
by Victor Adelman