Paris Does Not Exist (1969) - full transcript
PARIS DOESN?T EXIST
Damn it.
There?s a flight every two hours.
- For instance, flight 420...
- Yes?
You leave at midday and arrive
the same day at 11.30 a.m.
How come?
Different time zones.
Organise your skiing holidays...
In summer, buy firewood for winter.
- It?s always five minutes late.
- Is it?
We?ll take a look at it, sir.
You say a Jaeger
but I can?t see your name anywhere.
- When did you bring it here?
- In July ?47.
The 8th or the 9th, I believe.
Roughly.
Right. Goodbye.
Yes? No, I didn?t receive your column.
You said you?d send it.
This isn?t right.
When do I want it for? Last night.
Hello? Customer services?
The speaking clock?s out of order.
Where am I?
You know, at Laurent?s.
Everyone?s having fun. Are you coming?
What do you mean, since yesterday?
Maybe. I don?t know.
We?ve drawn the curtains
and stopped the clocks.
We don?t know if it?s day or night.
Like in Las Vegas.
Fabulous. Like everything Laurent does.
- Come, I?m waiting.
- I?m picking you up.
- She?s escaping me.
- She adores you, you know it.
She adores me...
And I disappoint her.
I don?t believe a word you?re saying.
No...
It?s to be expected.
I haven?t painted for weeks.
I?m totally empty. It?s unbearable.
She?s right.
So what?s up?
It?s rather difficult to explain.
Modern art is against me.
These days, people paint anything.
Really anything.
It?s about shocking the public
for three hours straight.
I don?t know how to do that.
Right.
Your problem
is that you?re a painter who thinks.
How silly.
- Even worse, you?re a painter...
- Who paints.
A kind of... dinosaur.
He takes all kinds of rare objects.
A complete series of the Minotaur,
a manuscript by Zola...
- A canvas by El Greco...
- A negative by Louis Lumi?re...
Yes. A dress that belonged
to the Pompadour.
- He burns all that in front of a solicitor...
- Using petrol.
Until it's completely incinerated.
He puts the ashes in a small container.
- He adds a list...
- Authenticated and certified.
He gives it a title,
?Annihilated Spatial Absolute?...
Number 24.
... and it becomes priceless.
With him it?s even easier. He takes
some large tin or copper plates.
He puts them against a wall
in the street.
He crashes into them at full speed
with a bulldozer.
And he gives the result a title...
- A resurgence.
- Resurgences.
In short, if you don?t cut,
you paste or you nail down.
If you don?t electrify, you spray,
you pull apart, you crush...
I?m more into...
You see...
I go home, I stare at a blank canvas.
That should be enough
for a gateway to...
I may be old-fashioned
but I still believe in something like vision.
Do you find that stupid?
Not at all.
But you live in a time
where a painter looks more like...
I don?t know... a pop star, a car racer.
- A stuntman.
- A skyscraper demolition expert.
Nowadays everyone?s an artist.
Tomorrow it'll be my taxman, my milkman.
You have a part to play.
Modern art is choking.
Dying of old age.
Rotting.
Tomorrow, people will buy...
what's raw, primitive, alienated.
It will be the non-artist?s turn.
- In order to be modern, writers don?t have to...
- Write manuscripts?
They?ll produce permutable work,
collect metro tickets, newspaper clippings.
- Table tennis balls.
- Kept in sandpaper boxes.
For me, they remain
gentlemen who hold pens
and write on sheets of paper
?A dream is a second life?.
Or ?Osiris is a black god.?
?And a chaser.?
We agree.
Painting and revolution
are two different things.
You want the painter in his ivory tower.
No, but I reject circumstantial painting.
Socialist realism
isn?t better than sacred art.
To call an abstract piece
?Homage to Guevara? is hypocritical.
I can imagine a political painter,
but what is political art?
War illustrations, posters perhaps.
Will they ever change subject?
All they can talk about is art
and that's all they think about too.
There's surely
a bit of space left for Angela.
Him, think about me?
He just broods
over his painting problems.
We all brood over problems
that are in the head.
They're not in the...
How intelligent!
- I?m going home.
- It?s no big deal.
Angela... come back.
Bye.
A bit early for being mesmerised.
Not a masterpiece, of course.
It?s only nine o?clock.
A bit early for a scene.
I wasn't after an easy life
but you don?t help much.
You don?t move much.
All your friends go full speed.
Only on the surface.
They forget
the profound meaning of things,
which is all I?m interested in.
The profound and the superficial...
and the latent and the visible.
Five years ago
you had more self-confidence.
Aren?t you throwing out those flowers?
They?re fresh.
I could have sworn...
Before, you wanted to blow up everything.
Look where we've ended up!
In snapshot land.
But a snapshot isn't about watching.
You?ve changed. You?ve become boorish.
Transformation of the artist?
Everybody changes.
It?s inevitable.
Don?t you think
the world itself is changing?
The essential must stay the same.
You?re definitely
a little girl from the past.
You?d like things to be immutable.
To stay in the same place, in a cocoon.
You?d like me to constantly
reassure you, as if I was...
Everything should be done now
before it?s too late, no?
Shouldn?t we be everywhere
at the same time?
You know we have different rhythms.
You run and I...
I hover and ruminate about genius.
I always forget.
It?s normal. It?s a body part.
Angela, your Romeo?s waiting.
- Philibert?
- Yes, your photograph.
You, concentrate on what?s latent.
You?re at least 15 minutes late.
Are you making a scene?
Why not?
At work they all think
we sleep together.
And of course you don?t deny it.
Why should I?
It?s good for my prestige.
Because you need that kind of publicity?
Congratulations.
Does it annoy you?
No. It?s unimportant.
Insignificant.
You?re entirely right. I?m being stupid.
Let?s go out.
I?ve had enough for one day.
Tell me, Mr Lautrec.
I?ve always wanted to ask you...
Why do you paint?
Dear... it?s rather simple, ma?am.
As you may have noticed
I?m a total lunatic,
terribly perverse
in spite of my noble origins.
I therefore decided to paint
what's on the surface of things
to prevent us
from noticing the sordid reality.
My dear Toulouse...
What is better?
The Alexander Bridge
or what it conceals from us?
Wake up.
Don?t worry, you?re just
in a memory delirium.
These kind of hallucinations exist.
They?re easily provoked under hypnosis.
Some people remember everything.
The light on a particular spring afternoon
twelve years ago.
The shine on a particular object...
at a very precise moment one evening...
in Reykjavik.
Some people even have
intrauterine memories
or they think they do,
which has the same effect.
Do you mean even precise memories
are partly invented?
I think memories, like dreams,
are partly fabricated.
So there may be something else
beyond the fabrication.
For instance?
Snippets of reality.
Neat and nicely shaped,
like tiny islands.
But I can?t figure out if they belong
to the past or the future.
Premonitions?
That?s a lot more interesting.
But you have to be sure of it.
You see...
we don?t know what separates
the past and the future.
- They could be one and the same.
- You reckon?
For instance...
I begin a sentence.
I begin a sentence...
The beginning
already belongs to the past
and while I?m talking
the conclusion belongs to the future,
and it does until I finish my sentence.
Once completed, the sentence
belongs entirely to the past, right?
If I don?t answer you, my response
will be a thing of the future forever
but my thought is in the past
because I?ve already thought of it.
You?re mixing everything up,
confusing two totally different ideas.
Let?s see.
The painting... No, too easy.
The vase.
A month ago.
- You?re working hard!
- Believe it or not, I am.
I shouldn?t disturb you, then.
I?m only passing by.
Women like it
when men bring food to the table.
Fireplace.
Clock.
Mask.
The bed.
And the table.
Right.
I shouldn?t disturb you, then.
I?m only passing by.
What?
Wake up.
You?re about to get a phone call.
Oh, you and your strange ideas.
Leave me alone.
Hello? Is that you, Angela?
- Hello?
- Angela?
- Did I wake you up?
- Yes.
You have to come right away.
- I thought I was coming this afternoon.
- No.
You have to replace me.
- So suddenly?
- I have to go away.
- Immediately?
- I?m not sure yet.
Okay. See you soon.
Do you know
where I put my black bracelet?
- On the big easel.
- Right.
Mr Heraclitus, I can bathe twice
in the same water.
You always
make the most of your inspiration.
Shape up, my dear.
You?re fading away.
You look like the Lady of the Camellias.
I can?t get my thoughts straight.
Do you remember
where I parked the car last night?
In front of the caf?,
Avenue Mozart.
Thank you.
July 9th... July 10th...
Simon, it?s been ages.
- You?re out of your sick bed?
- Are you ill?
No. You know her sense of humour.
- Are we interrupting?
- Of course. He?s working.
No, I was having a break.
You see, he needs to reflect a lot.
It?s hard for him.
- Are you in a new period?
- No, between two periods.
A calm period.
She?s teasing you
but you're all she talks about.
- It?s not true.
- Listen to that!
Oh, yes. Simon here, Simon there...
- That?s how we became art lovers.
- And we go to all the exhibitions.
You're perfect, all four of you.
The models. And the artist.
It?s also very touching.
The roaring years of fashion.
With a hint of Dadaism
in the background.
Maybe even Pre-Raphaelite.
Have you heard of that?
You haven?t.
I think it?s time
you offered them a drink.
Yes.
A little drop.
- And for you. Enough?
- Thank you.
Oh, it?s fantastic. Beautiful.
Come with me, woman. Your poor family.
- I know how hard it is to make ends meet.
- Oh, thank you, my good man.
Life is getting
harder and harder, isn?t it?
Look at the price of matches.
They keep on going up.
What?s that?
That?s it.
I?m fumbling
not knowing how far I can go.
Are you enjoying it?
Relatively speaking.
It feels like a hangover.
Something you can?t confess,
a bit shameful.
It makes me even more lonely.
- Tell me. They?re artificial.
- Yes.
Coming from you that surprises me.
You like this kind of ersatz?
There's something provocative
about junk, which I like.
An artificial flower is definitive.
It doesn?t change.
It?s eternal.
Yes, but it?s worthless.
You disappoint me.
And you, you amaze me.
Why? Do you think
I?m incapable of tricking you?
You can be predictable too.
You even told me. Past, future...
Yes, you know...
Some pretend the mind is a theatre
where our perceptions go about and mix
in an infinite number of combinations.
Perhaps time is a spiral,
an infinite succession of series
that we mix as we please.
In our dreams for example.
- You see, in a spiral...
- Yes, yes.
Well, I?ll sacrifice myself.
It?s strange.
It's hard to identify, but exotic food
doesn?t have to be outspoken.
- Unlike French food.
- Indeed.
Simple in its presentation
but saved by the senses.
It?s delicious.
Excuse me, you were saying...
Was I saying something?
What are you doing?
You look like a zombie.
It?s frightening.
- Forgive me. I was elsewhere.
- Where, I wonder?
I live with a shadow.
Very nice...
I don?t know how to say it
but the last few days...
I noticed.
Your famous inspiration crisis?
No... Yes, but that comes next.
Your painting? Next?
- Are you becoming half-human?
- Listen, I?m not joking.
I see things.
I don?t know what I did to myself
but I see things
that happened here in this flat.
As if I was wide awake dreaming.
Sometimes I also see things
that haven?t happened yet.
For example...
- The blue vase.
- What about the blue vase?
I knew you were going to knock it over.
What do you mean? Couldn?t you warn me?
It wouldn?t have helped.
It was already written somewhere,
I don?t know where.
In time.
You can be so abstract when you talk.
Look.
Here you see a lamp,
a fireplace, a dresser.
I see a stove, a shelf,
a country scene
by a little master from the 1910s.
There, a bead curtain
with a pink bed
and pale blue cushions.
The eiderdown is lilac.
Over there...
What is that?
What?
There, a very old-fashioned boudoir.
About thirty years old.
Go on.
There...
And now, what do you see?
A ghost, my angel.
An old decrepit ghost.
That of an old lady.
An old lady who lived here
30 or 40 years ago.
What an imagination!
And you complain about lacking inspiration.
- Good morning, Mrs Lopez.
- Good morning.
- I?d like to ask you something.
- Yes?
- Have you been here long?
- At least 30 years.
Has this flat ever been transformed?
This large room, for instance?
It hasn?t always been one room.
About 10, 15 years ago
a wall was pulled down.
There were two smaller rooms,
but it was very pretty.
I thought so.
What are you looking at?
I?m starting to believe
that you really see things.
That's normal
for a visionary painter, isn?t it?
You?re avoiding talking about it.
Tell me.
I?ve told you.
I reconstruct this room
the way it must have been...
a long time ago.
But what do you see?
Objects, curtains...
furniture.
What else?
Nothing at all.
It?s pure mental masturbation.
It?s going to depress you again.
Yes.
Aren?t you feeling well?
I have a headache.
And a sore throat.
Hold on.
You know what you should do?
No.
Draw a plan of the flat as you see it.
Note down the points
in common with ours.
It?s unnecessary.
Why?
Because I can see it.
Always very clearly.
I don?t need a plan.
No.
Yes.
- Are you going out?
- Yes.
Hello.
Hi.
Shall we go upstairs?
- No, I have an appointment.
- Let?s go for a drink.
Five minutes, then. I?m in a rush.
Have dinner with us.
- I can?t, I?m busy.
- Tell us if we bore you.
Me busy, is that so unthinkable?
You?ve also been able to
dedicate an evening to us.
You pop up after one year...
And we arrive at an awkward moment?
Don?t be silly.
Forget it.
- Any exhibition at the moment?
- Didn?t you get an invitation?
Nothing at all.
You were definitely on my list.
Still dedicated to lyricism
and critical calligraphy?
Inspired wanking?
Yes, I persist.
Don?t your political friends
matter anymore?
Of course they do.
On the right day
I?ll go down in the streets too.
- But building new structures...
- Too abstract for you?
Not your problem anymore?
Yes, but...
That requires clear thoughts.
Right now I?m a bit confused.
I?m not... available.
You see...
I think I have to take some bearings.
I?m in the middle of discovering
something that occupies me entirely.
I hope it?s worth it for you.
Mind you, I won't ask questions.
But lucky you, being able
to step out of the action.
It?s a luxury, don?t you think?
Self-indulgence.
Maybe.
And you have no problem with it?
At peace with your conscience.
It comes and knocks at my door
so it must be reasonably fit.
Bye, see you soon.
Bye.
Watch out!
You scared me. It?s your fault.
- Look at this mess.
- I?m really sorry.
- Simone!
- What?s happening?
I?m doing my practice.
One thing at a time.
This was two hours ago.
And this, an hour and a half ago.
There must be a change every half hour.
It?s crazy.
I wasn?t even born then.
There are optical illusions
in time as well as in space.
Clearly.
I?ll ring you back on Saturday. Bye.
I was in the neighbourhood.
How?s business?
It?s fairly quiet.
People are on holiday.
Did you hear that?
In New York and London
all they talk about is urogenitals,
self-destruction and hallucinogens.
I know.
Polarised light, spinning rooms,
multiple screening...
A formidable circus.
I don?t show them a tenth
of what I see in here.
But whatever, it sells
and it's very stimulating.
Art galleries have become laboratories,
discotheques, space rockets.
But in their attempt
to conquer outer space
they?ve lost track of their inner space.
I may be on the sidelines
but I?m holding on.
Have you tried LSD?
I have my own trick.
Take-away consumables
and stencilling, that?s not for me.
- Bye, Mrs Petersen.
- Bye, son.
Bye.
Hi.
It?s a crime to stay indoors
in weather like this.
I wanted to force you to go out.
- Actually, I was out all day.
- No!
- I was.
- That?s good.
Not so fast, we have the time.
You?re Road Runner,
trying to beat your own record.
And you?re Bugs Bunny.
Nothing beats your burrow.
That house used to be fresh and clean.
Full of laughter.
Some memory of that time
is waiting to come to life again.
It?s wonderful.
What's wonderful?
Paris doesn't exist.
What do you mean?
I mean...
We exist, we're uninterrupted,
but Paris is a changeable landscape.
It never stops transforming.
But we're eternal.
It?s true.
The universe expands around us.
We stay still.
We stick to what we are.
I don?t agree with you.
You're changing.
In an odd way.
I don?t recognise you anymore.
You?re another man.
You may be right.
What do you expect?
People waste their memories.
They forget everything.
It took 10 years for the Algerian war
to sink into oblivion.
For a riot, it takes just three months.
Even us.
It feels like we?ve known each other
for 100 years.
If only we could
keep our memories intact
and control time.
We?d remain faithful to ourselves.
We?d never change.
Morally, I mean.
We?d never betray ourselves.
I?d like to see that more close-up.
Let?s sit down.
Sir...
Sir, are you from this neighbourhood?
Yes, sir.
I?m what you would call a pillar.
I?ve always lived here.
You weren?t even born.
Wasn?t there a coal
and firewood shop over there?
Absolutely.
Did you hear about it?
That was before your time.
I can clearly remember it.
For example...
there was a chemist over there.
And further down, a wine shop. Yes.
Wasn?t that wall
supported by some thick beams?
You?re teasing me.
You're too young...
to have seen it... yourself, young man...
You?re really scaring me.
You talk like an old man
about things long dead.
You?re absolutely wrong.
None of it is dead.
It?s a reality
juxtaposed with ours.
They co-exist.
That explains nothing.
It?s better for you
that I do the trip alone.
- Be careful!
- I?m not blind.
Sometimes it seems like you are.
Listen...
I live according to certain ideas.
That doesn?t mean I?m crazy.
There?s no... tell me...
figure it out... tell me...
No need to tell me...
figure it out... big enough...
There?s no need to tell me.
I?m big enough to figure it out.
It?s a dangerous state.
He?s out of control.
One day he?ll crack his skull
on an old rock that doesn?t exist.
He becomes oblivious.
What do you mean ?oblivious??
To you too?
Me?
I exist no more than a memory does.
A vague memory.
Less than those dozens of pictures
of old Paris he buys in antique shops.
He spends hours studying them.
- Has he said anything to you?
- We two only discuss the theoretical.
He tests hypotheses and I catch them.
You know me...
Someone starts me talking and I can?t stop.
I hardly pay attention.
He seemed to have an idea in his mind
but he didn?t share it with me.
But he spoke of premonitions.
Let?s not leave him alone.
He?s out of inspiration,
in the middle of an emotional crisis.
Give him a chain of coincidences
and he'll extrapolate.
There he is.
- Can?t you be careful?
- I?m sorry.
Simon!
Are you crazy?
Do you think you're Superman,
stopping a 12-ton truck?
I try everything at least once.
Do you want to get killed?
What am I going to do with you?
Mr Simon, what?s happening to you?
For the last few days
I?ve tended to lose control.
In the street, for instance...
Instead of just brief flashes,
I dwell on long scenes.
- It?s not without risk.
- Why do you have to create emotions?
Look at me when I?m talking to you!
Suppose that...
Suppose you?ve developed an abnormal,
morbid sensitivity to past events...
And the future.
Then what?
Will you prepare a thesis on
Paris streets in 1932? It?s absurd.
Not really.
If we could develop skills like that,
we could revisit history,
at least our recent history,
examining small daily facts.
For example...
to revisit the Commune
by following a small piece of bread
or standing near a fence.
I?ve been thinking...
doing some fine cross-checking,
resolving small mysteries,
reviving an entire era.
You don?t live in the past.
This is ?68.
Precisely.
The world runs on, events rush ahead,
there?s not enough time.
In the midst of the action
we make mistakes
and no one ever analyses the causes.
Whereas for me...
For me, everything can be still.
I can relive some fateful minutes
and analyse them.
You?re regressing, avoiding reality,
dismissing what?s happening now.
It?s a conservative attitude.
I?m not looking for anything specific.
And it?s all very limited.
I can?t see into the distance
and can?t go back more than 30 or 40 years.
Of course I could force myself.
But the recent past
gives me a lot of trouble.
I keep going back
to the same minute, the same second.
And I don?t want to run around
during the Empire or the Restoration.
So I make do with simple things.
- Or else I?d go completely mad.
- Don?t I know it!
You don?t understand.
In this room...
in the middle of this furniture,
these rugs,
I?ve learned more than I could
from 30 volumes of chronicles.
There, at this very moment...
No way!
Let us know if we?re bothering you.
Talk to us!
The visions are getting briefer.
They dissipate.
I wonder if I?m losing everything.
It might be a good thing.
Maybe time is short.
You?re running out of steam.
I?ve wasted some precious weeks.
I still need to explore the essential.
Angela, I have to go back in time.
Before it becomes too late.
One last time, for us.
It?s over, it?s crumbling.
I can hardly see anything.
Are you sure?
Yes.
I?ll never know what happened.
Anyway it was unbearable,
don?t you think?
I don?t know.
For you it?s the end of an illness.
- Give it any name you want.
- Let?s say it was a phase.
For me,
it?s the demise of a few friends.
Goodbye, small naive painting...
old stove.
Goodbye, ugly armchair,
anonymous tenant whom I liked.
This clock will resume
with its chronological rhythm,
the only one we acknowledge.
A largely unknown English poet
said something I like...
It went like this...
?Time passes, you say?
Ah, no! Alas, time stays, we pass on.?
Time is too precious to be wasted.
I know that.
Time lives.
Won or lost, it mystifies us.
Speculating on chance,
we must seduce.
I should be happy to have you back
but I have the feeling
it?s not all over yet.
You?re holding something back.
I?ve always thought
the best way to disrupt the notion of time
was to dedicate one's life to a woman.
Everything stops but at the same time
everything rushes.
But you?ve been led astray.
What are you thinking about?
That I?ll never know.
I?ll never know if I imagined
what I saw, if I dreamt it,
if I was completely crazy
or if I really saw it.
It?s ironic.
I haven?t had enough time
to explore time.
A real paradox, isn?t it?
The fortress is resisting.
What time is it?
4 hours, 27 minutes
and 30 seconds.
Children still play hula hoops?
Hey, do you know what day it is today?
If you can tell me,
I?ll give you one franc.
It's today, of course.
Excuse me, some mail for you.
You?ll spare me the stairs.
Thank you, Mrs Lopez.
Oh, yes, those old photos I ordered.
Don?t you look at them?
Time is the substance
from which I am made.
Time is a river which sweeps me along,
but I am the river;
it is a tiger which destroys me,
but I am the tiger;
it is a fire which consumes me,
but I am the fire.
Damn it.
There?s a flight every two hours.
- For instance, flight 420...
- Yes?
You leave at midday and arrive
the same day at 11.30 a.m.
How come?
Different time zones.
Organise your skiing holidays...
In summer, buy firewood for winter.
- It?s always five minutes late.
- Is it?
We?ll take a look at it, sir.
You say a Jaeger
but I can?t see your name anywhere.
- When did you bring it here?
- In July ?47.
The 8th or the 9th, I believe.
Roughly.
Right. Goodbye.
Yes? No, I didn?t receive your column.
You said you?d send it.
This isn?t right.
When do I want it for? Last night.
Hello? Customer services?
The speaking clock?s out of order.
Where am I?
You know, at Laurent?s.
Everyone?s having fun. Are you coming?
What do you mean, since yesterday?
Maybe. I don?t know.
We?ve drawn the curtains
and stopped the clocks.
We don?t know if it?s day or night.
Like in Las Vegas.
Fabulous. Like everything Laurent does.
- Come, I?m waiting.
- I?m picking you up.
- She?s escaping me.
- She adores you, you know it.
She adores me...
And I disappoint her.
I don?t believe a word you?re saying.
No...
It?s to be expected.
I haven?t painted for weeks.
I?m totally empty. It?s unbearable.
She?s right.
So what?s up?
It?s rather difficult to explain.
Modern art is against me.
These days, people paint anything.
Really anything.
It?s about shocking the public
for three hours straight.
I don?t know how to do that.
Right.
Your problem
is that you?re a painter who thinks.
How silly.
- Even worse, you?re a painter...
- Who paints.
A kind of... dinosaur.
He takes all kinds of rare objects.
A complete series of the Minotaur,
a manuscript by Zola...
- A canvas by El Greco...
- A negative by Louis Lumi?re...
Yes. A dress that belonged
to the Pompadour.
- He burns all that in front of a solicitor...
- Using petrol.
Until it's completely incinerated.
He puts the ashes in a small container.
- He adds a list...
- Authenticated and certified.
He gives it a title,
?Annihilated Spatial Absolute?...
Number 24.
... and it becomes priceless.
With him it?s even easier. He takes
some large tin or copper plates.
He puts them against a wall
in the street.
He crashes into them at full speed
with a bulldozer.
And he gives the result a title...
- A resurgence.
- Resurgences.
In short, if you don?t cut,
you paste or you nail down.
If you don?t electrify, you spray,
you pull apart, you crush...
I?m more into...
You see...
I go home, I stare at a blank canvas.
That should be enough
for a gateway to...
I may be old-fashioned
but I still believe in something like vision.
Do you find that stupid?
Not at all.
But you live in a time
where a painter looks more like...
I don?t know... a pop star, a car racer.
- A stuntman.
- A skyscraper demolition expert.
Nowadays everyone?s an artist.
Tomorrow it'll be my taxman, my milkman.
You have a part to play.
Modern art is choking.
Dying of old age.
Rotting.
Tomorrow, people will buy...
what's raw, primitive, alienated.
It will be the non-artist?s turn.
- In order to be modern, writers don?t have to...
- Write manuscripts?
They?ll produce permutable work,
collect metro tickets, newspaper clippings.
- Table tennis balls.
- Kept in sandpaper boxes.
For me, they remain
gentlemen who hold pens
and write on sheets of paper
?A dream is a second life?.
Or ?Osiris is a black god.?
?And a chaser.?
We agree.
Painting and revolution
are two different things.
You want the painter in his ivory tower.
No, but I reject circumstantial painting.
Socialist realism
isn?t better than sacred art.
To call an abstract piece
?Homage to Guevara? is hypocritical.
I can imagine a political painter,
but what is political art?
War illustrations, posters perhaps.
Will they ever change subject?
All they can talk about is art
and that's all they think about too.
There's surely
a bit of space left for Angela.
Him, think about me?
He just broods
over his painting problems.
We all brood over problems
that are in the head.
They're not in the...
How intelligent!
- I?m going home.
- It?s no big deal.
Angela... come back.
Bye.
A bit early for being mesmerised.
Not a masterpiece, of course.
It?s only nine o?clock.
A bit early for a scene.
I wasn't after an easy life
but you don?t help much.
You don?t move much.
All your friends go full speed.
Only on the surface.
They forget
the profound meaning of things,
which is all I?m interested in.
The profound and the superficial...
and the latent and the visible.
Five years ago
you had more self-confidence.
Aren?t you throwing out those flowers?
They?re fresh.
I could have sworn...
Before, you wanted to blow up everything.
Look where we've ended up!
In snapshot land.
But a snapshot isn't about watching.
You?ve changed. You?ve become boorish.
Transformation of the artist?
Everybody changes.
It?s inevitable.
Don?t you think
the world itself is changing?
The essential must stay the same.
You?re definitely
a little girl from the past.
You?d like things to be immutable.
To stay in the same place, in a cocoon.
You?d like me to constantly
reassure you, as if I was...
Everything should be done now
before it?s too late, no?
Shouldn?t we be everywhere
at the same time?
You know we have different rhythms.
You run and I...
I hover and ruminate about genius.
I always forget.
It?s normal. It?s a body part.
Angela, your Romeo?s waiting.
- Philibert?
- Yes, your photograph.
You, concentrate on what?s latent.
You?re at least 15 minutes late.
Are you making a scene?
Why not?
At work they all think
we sleep together.
And of course you don?t deny it.
Why should I?
It?s good for my prestige.
Because you need that kind of publicity?
Congratulations.
Does it annoy you?
No. It?s unimportant.
Insignificant.
You?re entirely right. I?m being stupid.
Let?s go out.
I?ve had enough for one day.
Tell me, Mr Lautrec.
I?ve always wanted to ask you...
Why do you paint?
Dear... it?s rather simple, ma?am.
As you may have noticed
I?m a total lunatic,
terribly perverse
in spite of my noble origins.
I therefore decided to paint
what's on the surface of things
to prevent us
from noticing the sordid reality.
My dear Toulouse...
What is better?
The Alexander Bridge
or what it conceals from us?
Wake up.
Don?t worry, you?re just
in a memory delirium.
These kind of hallucinations exist.
They?re easily provoked under hypnosis.
Some people remember everything.
The light on a particular spring afternoon
twelve years ago.
The shine on a particular object...
at a very precise moment one evening...
in Reykjavik.
Some people even have
intrauterine memories
or they think they do,
which has the same effect.
Do you mean even precise memories
are partly invented?
I think memories, like dreams,
are partly fabricated.
So there may be something else
beyond the fabrication.
For instance?
Snippets of reality.
Neat and nicely shaped,
like tiny islands.
But I can?t figure out if they belong
to the past or the future.
Premonitions?
That?s a lot more interesting.
But you have to be sure of it.
You see...
we don?t know what separates
the past and the future.
- They could be one and the same.
- You reckon?
For instance...
I begin a sentence.
I begin a sentence...
The beginning
already belongs to the past
and while I?m talking
the conclusion belongs to the future,
and it does until I finish my sentence.
Once completed, the sentence
belongs entirely to the past, right?
If I don?t answer you, my response
will be a thing of the future forever
but my thought is in the past
because I?ve already thought of it.
You?re mixing everything up,
confusing two totally different ideas.
Let?s see.
The painting... No, too easy.
The vase.
A month ago.
- You?re working hard!
- Believe it or not, I am.
I shouldn?t disturb you, then.
I?m only passing by.
Women like it
when men bring food to the table.
Fireplace.
Clock.
Mask.
The bed.
And the table.
Right.
I shouldn?t disturb you, then.
I?m only passing by.
What?
Wake up.
You?re about to get a phone call.
Oh, you and your strange ideas.
Leave me alone.
Hello? Is that you, Angela?
- Hello?
- Angela?
- Did I wake you up?
- Yes.
You have to come right away.
- I thought I was coming this afternoon.
- No.
You have to replace me.
- So suddenly?
- I have to go away.
- Immediately?
- I?m not sure yet.
Okay. See you soon.
Do you know
where I put my black bracelet?
- On the big easel.
- Right.
Mr Heraclitus, I can bathe twice
in the same water.
You always
make the most of your inspiration.
Shape up, my dear.
You?re fading away.
You look like the Lady of the Camellias.
I can?t get my thoughts straight.
Do you remember
where I parked the car last night?
In front of the caf?,
Avenue Mozart.
Thank you.
July 9th... July 10th...
Simon, it?s been ages.
- You?re out of your sick bed?
- Are you ill?
No. You know her sense of humour.
- Are we interrupting?
- Of course. He?s working.
No, I was having a break.
You see, he needs to reflect a lot.
It?s hard for him.
- Are you in a new period?
- No, between two periods.
A calm period.
She?s teasing you
but you're all she talks about.
- It?s not true.
- Listen to that!
Oh, yes. Simon here, Simon there...
- That?s how we became art lovers.
- And we go to all the exhibitions.
You're perfect, all four of you.
The models. And the artist.
It?s also very touching.
The roaring years of fashion.
With a hint of Dadaism
in the background.
Maybe even Pre-Raphaelite.
Have you heard of that?
You haven?t.
I think it?s time
you offered them a drink.
Yes.
A little drop.
- And for you. Enough?
- Thank you.
Oh, it?s fantastic. Beautiful.
Come with me, woman. Your poor family.
- I know how hard it is to make ends meet.
- Oh, thank you, my good man.
Life is getting
harder and harder, isn?t it?
Look at the price of matches.
They keep on going up.
What?s that?
That?s it.
I?m fumbling
not knowing how far I can go.
Are you enjoying it?
Relatively speaking.
It feels like a hangover.
Something you can?t confess,
a bit shameful.
It makes me even more lonely.
- Tell me. They?re artificial.
- Yes.
Coming from you that surprises me.
You like this kind of ersatz?
There's something provocative
about junk, which I like.
An artificial flower is definitive.
It doesn?t change.
It?s eternal.
Yes, but it?s worthless.
You disappoint me.
And you, you amaze me.
Why? Do you think
I?m incapable of tricking you?
You can be predictable too.
You even told me. Past, future...
Yes, you know...
Some pretend the mind is a theatre
where our perceptions go about and mix
in an infinite number of combinations.
Perhaps time is a spiral,
an infinite succession of series
that we mix as we please.
In our dreams for example.
- You see, in a spiral...
- Yes, yes.
Well, I?ll sacrifice myself.
It?s strange.
It's hard to identify, but exotic food
doesn?t have to be outspoken.
- Unlike French food.
- Indeed.
Simple in its presentation
but saved by the senses.
It?s delicious.
Excuse me, you were saying...
Was I saying something?
What are you doing?
You look like a zombie.
It?s frightening.
- Forgive me. I was elsewhere.
- Where, I wonder?
I live with a shadow.
Very nice...
I don?t know how to say it
but the last few days...
I noticed.
Your famous inspiration crisis?
No... Yes, but that comes next.
Your painting? Next?
- Are you becoming half-human?
- Listen, I?m not joking.
I see things.
I don?t know what I did to myself
but I see things
that happened here in this flat.
As if I was wide awake dreaming.
Sometimes I also see things
that haven?t happened yet.
For example...
- The blue vase.
- What about the blue vase?
I knew you were going to knock it over.
What do you mean? Couldn?t you warn me?
It wouldn?t have helped.
It was already written somewhere,
I don?t know where.
In time.
You can be so abstract when you talk.
Look.
Here you see a lamp,
a fireplace, a dresser.
I see a stove, a shelf,
a country scene
by a little master from the 1910s.
There, a bead curtain
with a pink bed
and pale blue cushions.
The eiderdown is lilac.
Over there...
What is that?
What?
There, a very old-fashioned boudoir.
About thirty years old.
Go on.
There...
And now, what do you see?
A ghost, my angel.
An old decrepit ghost.
That of an old lady.
An old lady who lived here
30 or 40 years ago.
What an imagination!
And you complain about lacking inspiration.
- Good morning, Mrs Lopez.
- Good morning.
- I?d like to ask you something.
- Yes?
- Have you been here long?
- At least 30 years.
Has this flat ever been transformed?
This large room, for instance?
It hasn?t always been one room.
About 10, 15 years ago
a wall was pulled down.
There were two smaller rooms,
but it was very pretty.
I thought so.
What are you looking at?
I?m starting to believe
that you really see things.
That's normal
for a visionary painter, isn?t it?
You?re avoiding talking about it.
Tell me.
I?ve told you.
I reconstruct this room
the way it must have been...
a long time ago.
But what do you see?
Objects, curtains...
furniture.
What else?
Nothing at all.
It?s pure mental masturbation.
It?s going to depress you again.
Yes.
Aren?t you feeling well?
I have a headache.
And a sore throat.
Hold on.
You know what you should do?
No.
Draw a plan of the flat as you see it.
Note down the points
in common with ours.
It?s unnecessary.
Why?
Because I can see it.
Always very clearly.
I don?t need a plan.
No.
Yes.
- Are you going out?
- Yes.
Hello.
Hi.
Shall we go upstairs?
- No, I have an appointment.
- Let?s go for a drink.
Five minutes, then. I?m in a rush.
Have dinner with us.
- I can?t, I?m busy.
- Tell us if we bore you.
Me busy, is that so unthinkable?
You?ve also been able to
dedicate an evening to us.
You pop up after one year...
And we arrive at an awkward moment?
Don?t be silly.
Forget it.
- Any exhibition at the moment?
- Didn?t you get an invitation?
Nothing at all.
You were definitely on my list.
Still dedicated to lyricism
and critical calligraphy?
Inspired wanking?
Yes, I persist.
Don?t your political friends
matter anymore?
Of course they do.
On the right day
I?ll go down in the streets too.
- But building new structures...
- Too abstract for you?
Not your problem anymore?
Yes, but...
That requires clear thoughts.
Right now I?m a bit confused.
I?m not... available.
You see...
I think I have to take some bearings.
I?m in the middle of discovering
something that occupies me entirely.
I hope it?s worth it for you.
Mind you, I won't ask questions.
But lucky you, being able
to step out of the action.
It?s a luxury, don?t you think?
Self-indulgence.
Maybe.
And you have no problem with it?
At peace with your conscience.
It comes and knocks at my door
so it must be reasonably fit.
Bye, see you soon.
Bye.
Watch out!
You scared me. It?s your fault.
- Look at this mess.
- I?m really sorry.
- Simone!
- What?s happening?
I?m doing my practice.
One thing at a time.
This was two hours ago.
And this, an hour and a half ago.
There must be a change every half hour.
It?s crazy.
I wasn?t even born then.
There are optical illusions
in time as well as in space.
Clearly.
I?ll ring you back on Saturday. Bye.
I was in the neighbourhood.
How?s business?
It?s fairly quiet.
People are on holiday.
Did you hear that?
In New York and London
all they talk about is urogenitals,
self-destruction and hallucinogens.
I know.
Polarised light, spinning rooms,
multiple screening...
A formidable circus.
I don?t show them a tenth
of what I see in here.
But whatever, it sells
and it's very stimulating.
Art galleries have become laboratories,
discotheques, space rockets.
But in their attempt
to conquer outer space
they?ve lost track of their inner space.
I may be on the sidelines
but I?m holding on.
Have you tried LSD?
I have my own trick.
Take-away consumables
and stencilling, that?s not for me.
- Bye, Mrs Petersen.
- Bye, son.
Bye.
Hi.
It?s a crime to stay indoors
in weather like this.
I wanted to force you to go out.
- Actually, I was out all day.
- No!
- I was.
- That?s good.
Not so fast, we have the time.
You?re Road Runner,
trying to beat your own record.
And you?re Bugs Bunny.
Nothing beats your burrow.
That house used to be fresh and clean.
Full of laughter.
Some memory of that time
is waiting to come to life again.
It?s wonderful.
What's wonderful?
Paris doesn't exist.
What do you mean?
I mean...
We exist, we're uninterrupted,
but Paris is a changeable landscape.
It never stops transforming.
But we're eternal.
It?s true.
The universe expands around us.
We stay still.
We stick to what we are.
I don?t agree with you.
You're changing.
In an odd way.
I don?t recognise you anymore.
You?re another man.
You may be right.
What do you expect?
People waste their memories.
They forget everything.
It took 10 years for the Algerian war
to sink into oblivion.
For a riot, it takes just three months.
Even us.
It feels like we?ve known each other
for 100 years.
If only we could
keep our memories intact
and control time.
We?d remain faithful to ourselves.
We?d never change.
Morally, I mean.
We?d never betray ourselves.
I?d like to see that more close-up.
Let?s sit down.
Sir...
Sir, are you from this neighbourhood?
Yes, sir.
I?m what you would call a pillar.
I?ve always lived here.
You weren?t even born.
Wasn?t there a coal
and firewood shop over there?
Absolutely.
Did you hear about it?
That was before your time.
I can clearly remember it.
For example...
there was a chemist over there.
And further down, a wine shop. Yes.
Wasn?t that wall
supported by some thick beams?
You?re teasing me.
You're too young...
to have seen it... yourself, young man...
You?re really scaring me.
You talk like an old man
about things long dead.
You?re absolutely wrong.
None of it is dead.
It?s a reality
juxtaposed with ours.
They co-exist.
That explains nothing.
It?s better for you
that I do the trip alone.
- Be careful!
- I?m not blind.
Sometimes it seems like you are.
Listen...
I live according to certain ideas.
That doesn?t mean I?m crazy.
There?s no... tell me...
figure it out... tell me...
No need to tell me...
figure it out... big enough...
There?s no need to tell me.
I?m big enough to figure it out.
It?s a dangerous state.
He?s out of control.
One day he?ll crack his skull
on an old rock that doesn?t exist.
He becomes oblivious.
What do you mean ?oblivious??
To you too?
Me?
I exist no more than a memory does.
A vague memory.
Less than those dozens of pictures
of old Paris he buys in antique shops.
He spends hours studying them.
- Has he said anything to you?
- We two only discuss the theoretical.
He tests hypotheses and I catch them.
You know me...
Someone starts me talking and I can?t stop.
I hardly pay attention.
He seemed to have an idea in his mind
but he didn?t share it with me.
But he spoke of premonitions.
Let?s not leave him alone.
He?s out of inspiration,
in the middle of an emotional crisis.
Give him a chain of coincidences
and he'll extrapolate.
There he is.
- Can?t you be careful?
- I?m sorry.
Simon!
Are you crazy?
Do you think you're Superman,
stopping a 12-ton truck?
I try everything at least once.
Do you want to get killed?
What am I going to do with you?
Mr Simon, what?s happening to you?
For the last few days
I?ve tended to lose control.
In the street, for instance...
Instead of just brief flashes,
I dwell on long scenes.
- It?s not without risk.
- Why do you have to create emotions?
Look at me when I?m talking to you!
Suppose that...
Suppose you?ve developed an abnormal,
morbid sensitivity to past events...
And the future.
Then what?
Will you prepare a thesis on
Paris streets in 1932? It?s absurd.
Not really.
If we could develop skills like that,
we could revisit history,
at least our recent history,
examining small daily facts.
For example...
to revisit the Commune
by following a small piece of bread
or standing near a fence.
I?ve been thinking...
doing some fine cross-checking,
resolving small mysteries,
reviving an entire era.
You don?t live in the past.
This is ?68.
Precisely.
The world runs on, events rush ahead,
there?s not enough time.
In the midst of the action
we make mistakes
and no one ever analyses the causes.
Whereas for me...
For me, everything can be still.
I can relive some fateful minutes
and analyse them.
You?re regressing, avoiding reality,
dismissing what?s happening now.
It?s a conservative attitude.
I?m not looking for anything specific.
And it?s all very limited.
I can?t see into the distance
and can?t go back more than 30 or 40 years.
Of course I could force myself.
But the recent past
gives me a lot of trouble.
I keep going back
to the same minute, the same second.
And I don?t want to run around
during the Empire or the Restoration.
So I make do with simple things.
- Or else I?d go completely mad.
- Don?t I know it!
You don?t understand.
In this room...
in the middle of this furniture,
these rugs,
I?ve learned more than I could
from 30 volumes of chronicles.
There, at this very moment...
No way!
Let us know if we?re bothering you.
Talk to us!
The visions are getting briefer.
They dissipate.
I wonder if I?m losing everything.
It might be a good thing.
Maybe time is short.
You?re running out of steam.
I?ve wasted some precious weeks.
I still need to explore the essential.
Angela, I have to go back in time.
Before it becomes too late.
One last time, for us.
It?s over, it?s crumbling.
I can hardly see anything.
Are you sure?
Yes.
I?ll never know what happened.
Anyway it was unbearable,
don?t you think?
I don?t know.
For you it?s the end of an illness.
- Give it any name you want.
- Let?s say it was a phase.
For me,
it?s the demise of a few friends.
Goodbye, small naive painting...
old stove.
Goodbye, ugly armchair,
anonymous tenant whom I liked.
This clock will resume
with its chronological rhythm,
the only one we acknowledge.
A largely unknown English poet
said something I like...
It went like this...
?Time passes, you say?
Ah, no! Alas, time stays, we pass on.?
Time is too precious to be wasted.
I know that.
Time lives.
Won or lost, it mystifies us.
Speculating on chance,
we must seduce.
I should be happy to have you back
but I have the feeling
it?s not all over yet.
You?re holding something back.
I?ve always thought
the best way to disrupt the notion of time
was to dedicate one's life to a woman.
Everything stops but at the same time
everything rushes.
But you?ve been led astray.
What are you thinking about?
That I?ll never know.
I?ll never know if I imagined
what I saw, if I dreamt it,
if I was completely crazy
or if I really saw it.
It?s ironic.
I haven?t had enough time
to explore time.
A real paradox, isn?t it?
The fortress is resisting.
What time is it?
4 hours, 27 minutes
and 30 seconds.
Children still play hula hoops?
Hey, do you know what day it is today?
If you can tell me,
I?ll give you one franc.
It's today, of course.
Excuse me, some mail for you.
You?ll spare me the stairs.
Thank you, Mrs Lopez.
Oh, yes, those old photos I ordered.
Don?t you look at them?
Time is the substance
from which I am made.
Time is a river which sweeps me along,
but I am the river;
it is a tiger which destroys me,
but I am the tiger;
it is a fire which consumes me,
but I am the fire.