The Blue Villa (1995) - full transcript

To the pale man...

the day may come...

of his redemption.

To the pale man...

the day may come...

of his redemption.

If he finds...

If he finds a love...

who unto death...

who unto death...

who unto death...



remains true.

remains true.

Pale mariner...

pray heaven...

that soon...

you will find her at last.

find her at last...

find her at last.

find her...

find her at last.

THE BLUE VILLA
(aka THE NOISE THAT DRIVES ONE MAD)

Interior. Night

I sit at my desk, dictating...

Exterior. Day.



Wallis, town and port

Last refuge of the dead.
Gray sea...

Empty streets, as usual...

Life is not very exciting
on our lost little island.

Nothing ever happens here...

nothing ever really has.

A sailor's accidental drowning.

One spring night, a child slips...

while playing on the rocks...

and vanishes down a deep water hole.

We speak about it for months...

for months.

Our humble port waits in vain...

for the coming of improbable ships.

Apart from a few poor fishermen,

who would drop anchor here?

Except me!

Except me!

This is the gambling house...

- shabby, though it is -

where they drink tainted bootleg liquor...

and other poisons.

And the girls!

Clumsy amateurs for land-locked sailors...

with their colonial malaria...

and their miserable longing...

for the Orient.

And the noise!

I still hear the unbearable noise
of the mah-jong players...

scrambling those ivory tiles on their tables
day and night.

That noise drives men to madness...

to madness.

This dive,

this house of ill repute,

is called the Blue Villa.

Nobody knows why.

Perhaps in memory of a famous old bordello

for well-heeled degenerates in Hong Kong...

probably imaginary, that too.

Frank is back.

Exterior. Day.

Eternal stupor.
Waiting for god knows what.

A legend looms over the town,

recycled by superstitious Chinese
during rounds of mah-jong,

told by fishermen on stormy nights,

and by those old women,

dressed in black for their wakes.

The ghost of a sailor...

who vanished long ago at sea
before confessing some crime,

returns on a fixed date to repeat his infamy,

or else to seek pardon or some such idiocy.

Last year a driller calling
himself Frank fit the role.

He killed a young heiress he loved,

because he couldn't marry her,

and quickly fled to escape justice.

Human justice, anyway.

They say Frank's back.

Human justice, anyway,

since punishment came from
the skies that same night.

A sudden storm rose, destroying
his boat and its new white sales,

in which he had hoped to
make off with his heart's desire.

No,

that's not it...

Revision.

Exterior. Day.

The town's empty streets at dawn.

People say the killer still walks
the deck of his broken vessel,

its ghostly sails now stained blood-red.

Fishermen spot him in the light of full moons...

or thunder flashes,

condemned to roam the
open sea without rest...

until his dubious redemption
by a young prostitute...

whose love is pure enough...

to die for him.

Only then...

when he lies entombed...

with his true love...

will his spirit find peace.

Each year, with this vain hope, Frank,

the cursed mariner,

must return to shore at
the anniversary of his crime,

and his trespass.

Now and then, the rumor
spreads that he's back.

Then everyone expects
to see him suddenly appear.

Frank is back.

Frank's come back.

Frank's back.

Only then,

when he lies
entombed with his true love,

will his spirit find peace.

Each year with this vain hope,

the cursed mariner
must return to shore...

on the anniversary of his crime...

and his death.

Thus everyone awaits...

his sudden appearance.

To see him...

suddenly appear.

Come on in, dear inspector.

What good wind brings you here?

You know, of course, that Frank's back.

But no!

What news!

I was sure he was dead.

That makes it a year, to the day.

Dead or not, he's been walking
around town for a good two hours

They even say he paid you a visit.

I thought I might find him here.

May I ask what you
were doing just now?

I was dictating.

"You know, of course, that Frank's back."

"But no!"

"What news!"

"I was sure he was dead."

"That makes it a year, to the day."

Congratulations!
Your act is excellent.

And might we hear what you
were saying before I arrived?

"Life is not very exciting
on our lost little island."

"Nothing ever happens here..."

"... nothing ever really has."

"A sailor's accidental death."

It's the beginning of a story.

Good start.

You're a novelist?

A screenwriter. A sideline...

... under a pen name.

What better way to pass the time.

But I'm afraid I'll have
to borrow that tape.

You never know.

As you like, inspector.

Maybe you'll suggest a
new direction for the story.

I could already propose...

a change for your opening.

In fact, I think
something is happening here.

You don't deny...

You're not saying that
Frank didn't stop here earlier?

On the contrary, Inspector...

I deny it categorically!

A ghost!

I think I would have noticed.

Especially as the living Frank...

happened to be the killer
of my darling daughter.

My only child.

Santa was not your child,

but the child of your late wife,

and by a previous marriage.

You hated her,

the whole town will attest to it.

Besides, you profited from her disappearance,

by inheriting the tidy fortune
left to her by her mother,

who was killed in Indochina by revolutionaries,

according at least to the Consulate's report.

And I suppose, like Jehovah,

I summoned a tempest to strike
down my cumbersome accomplice

There was no storm that night.

We've established that for certain.

It's also known that the body
washed up days later,

with the head crushed
by the riptide.

It was completely unrecognizable.

Yet you've identified it, Inspector.

Under orders! You know that.

I was new to the job.

As for your involvement with
the killer of your stepdaughter,

it's come to be seen in the precinct,

from a rather different angle.

Is that an accusation?

Not at all.

Let's call it a modest addition to your script...

You probably know the rocky shoal...

where young Santa was killed.

At first, Frank attempted...

to pass his crime off...

as the suicide of a lover,

desperate at the loss of a lover
refused by her paternal guardian

She was only sixteen, after all.

That's the version which I imagine,

would serve you best.

A curious choice of locations,

with all those fishing boats
working in the area.

It was night, let's not forget.

The fishermen appear...

to have surrounded the fugitive,

perhaps by mere coincidence.

Frank babbled some story...

about Santa's alleged suicide.

The fishermen grew threatening,

startled by the girl's screams,

which sounded more and more...

like cries for help.

Frank took flight.

The fishermen's testimony can't be reproduced,

since the various accounts concurred.

On the other hand, this matches
the facts presented on the tape...

seized from Eduoard Nordmann,
stepfather of the victim.

Who's been upsetting her again?
You can see how sensitive she is.

For the hundredth time,
don't touch the girls in the salon!

You have rooms for that, upstairs.

But we've done nothing to her

She must've seen the spirit of
death prowling through town.

She's not the only one.

We only told her that Frank
was coming for a fiancée,

to save him from hell,
and maybe it was her.

Stop torturing her with that story.

Now, help me get her up.

Thank you, Inspector.

Santa was her best friend.

She was disturbed by her death.

What are you going to do?
You can't stop a ghost!

If he's here,

then he's not dead.

But you identified the corpse
last year, Inspector.

I also recall,

that the corpse in question
was discovered,

incidentally, by your people.

Is that not true?

It always seemed impossible
that this boat,

a slow transport vessel,

could have cleared the rocky shoal,

so quickly in full darkness.

And how could Frank have
maneuvered the boat...

without the aid of a crew,

or at least one accomplice?

The crime occurred near midnight.

But the boat could not
have left before sunrise,

around five a.m.

What did Frank do in the interval?

Of course.

Everyone knows that.

Does Santa know?

Who is Santa?

Don't play the idiot.

The one you call Lotus Blossom.

You know very well who she is,

and why she's locked
upstairs with the girls.

No, no.

I know nothing of the kind.

And I've had enough of your inventions.

Be careful, Sarah-La-Blonde.

You're nothing but a second rate hostess.

I'm the boss here!

Listen!

You'll do exactly as I say.

Interior. Day.

The Blue Villa.

The character of Sarah-La-Blonde,

who's worked her way
into our story,

is one of Mars' creatures.

She sees to the patrons' accounts,

and to the needs of the brothel,

or house of pleasure,

which occupies the
upper floors of the house,

above the games rooms,

and bar.

It's Sarah who gently
and firmly manages the girls;

their emotional problems,
their health

their rivalries and
their conflicts with the clients.

Of course, her role
is probably not limited...

to that of harmless
counseling and mediation.

And her famous bedroom talents
are only part of the picture.

Mars suspects her
of working for the police.

Inspector Thieu,
for his part, thinks that Sarah...

could be involved
in trafficking drugs,

and the importation of
young sex slaves, illegal arms,

and a list of prohibited liquors.

It's clear in any case,
that she draws rich clients here...

from the mainland,

to cheat them at her ease.

Kalimera.

Good day, sir.

You don't mind my asking,

were you on the ship from Asia?

Indochina.

Beautiful country!

I came to meet a
Chinese man from Saigon...

whom I've hired
but I haven't seen him.

There were many Chinese on board.

Yes, of course.

Anyway, it's not important

There's more where he came from...

Are you Eurasian?

Oh, I hardly think so.

I only pretend.

Is that your young wife?

No, no.

I'm afraid not.

She's only my daughter.

Perhaps you have a taste
for young girls... like in Asia?

The Blue Villa...

is probably like
the places you've known:

gracious young girls,

fresh spirits,

mah-jong.

But why tell me this?

What are we talking about?

What Blue Villa?

A house of pleasure and gambling,

on a discreet island not far from here.

But far away from troubles.

Far away from troubles.

Sure...

They were after my money.

They lured me here to fence me.

It was all a trap.

And now they mean to kill me.

Do you recognize me, Lotus Blossom?

And do you remember your real name?

Santa, you're called Santa.

Yes,

naturally I'm Santa.

I wish I could leave this place.

I'm tired of receiving men.

It's no fun anymore.

And they're not nice to me.

Well, you're going to get out soon.

No, no! I don't want to!

I'll be too scared out there.

There are people who want to kill me.

They've already tried once.

If they see me, they'll try again.

Do you remember Eduoard,
the man who lived with your mother?

Yes, I remember.

He doesn't like me.

I don't want him here.

He'll hurt me.

No, don't worry.
He won't come here.

But it's true he doesn't like you.

He's the one who wants to kill you.

That's why you're hiding here.

But we're going to trick him.

This Inspector Thieu
is too curious for my tastes.

And he probably knows
more than I'd like.

That could spell trouble for him.

He was already posted here when
that criminal killed my Santa,

my only child,

who was really just a baby,

and when punishment fell, swift
and sure on the accursed Frank...

that cruel killer, feigning love.

But this despicable Thieu,

he's been too easily misled.

By whom?

And what could he have
discovered in the last year?

In any case, I fear he
hasn't played all his cards.

Here... Frank in the flesh,

or the man, at least,
who bears a striking resemblance,

would have appeared mid-morning in
sector C of the port.

He would have followed approximately...

this route,

more or less.

Witnesses saw and recognized him,

but, apparently, he spoke to no one...

and headed...

for the old convent in ruins.

There it seems, he vanished...

like a ghost.

Have you seen...

the ghost ship...

with her red sails?

The pale man...

on high deck...

without moving...

keeps endless watch.

Oh, how the wind blows!

Oh, how it whistles!

Oh, like an arrow he flies on...

without aim, without end, without rest.

To the pale man...

the day may come...

of his redemption!

If he finds a love...

who unto death...

remains true.

Pale mariner...

pray heaven...

that soon...

you will find her at last.

Our friend Mars must know...

who was buried that
night under this stone.

I myself, am reduced to theories.

You too?

Theories, dear inspector,

are your trade,

not mine.

Oh, how the wind blows!

Oh, how it whistles!

Have you seen the ghost ship...

The pale man...

the day may come...

of his redemption!

We come to place flowers
on the tomb of the tragic lovers.

How touching.

Frank and Santa!

But they're not there,
neither of them.

Your pretty friend has been devoured
to the last bone by crabs.

And the drowned body buried there...

is not that of her cursed fiancé.

Have you seen the ghost ship,

with her red sails?

The pale man on high deck...

keeps endless watch!

Oh, how the wind blows!

Oh, how it whistles!

You haven't been practicing.

And the drowned body buried there...

is not that of her cursed fiancé.

It would be best,

for both of us,

if they never find the body.

Suicide or accident,

the choice is yours.

But this Frank,

even if he's not dead,

he's still my daughter's killer.

You're the killer. You know it!

Could it be that poisonous swill...

of the Blue Villa?

Or have my old fevers returned?

You're the killer,

you stood to gain from it.

And now you want to escape payment.

I've been waiting a whole year.

But... but...

I thought you were dead.

Yes, I am dead,

but my tormented soul
who perished without confession,

his redemption will cost you plenty!

Legitimate defense!

Let's see if we can put a hole...

through a phantom!

If you want to
end your nightmares,

point the gun at yourself.

Or pay for the serenity of those
restless souls without a grave.

The ghost of Frank paid me
a visit this evening.

Malaria can make you see phantoms...

where there is only human flesh,

or ordinary objects,

or even nothing at all.

Well, this nothing looked like Frank.

No mistaking it...

exactly as he was last year.

But Frank is dead...

So it had to be the ghost of Frank.

One could present it another way...

Your visitor looked like Frank,

enough to be his ghost.

Yet if ghosts don't exist,
except as fevered delusions,

it means that Frank is not dead.

Or he has a double...

He's a creditor, they say,

claiming payment for a debt.

Dead or living,

you'd better give him what he asks.

What debt?

What are you all telling me?

It's you who are delirious.

I don't know what's going on here.

You're cheating.

All of you,

the Chinese,

the fishermen,

the girls.

This game is fixed.

You lured me to this island...

just to steal my money.

They also say it's not your money.

And one piece of advice...

try not to drink so much.

Go away!

Go away!

Cruel phantom

A year...

Too long for your
blood to still run

Leave me...

in peace!

I am, after all...

an old man.

Frank's the one you want.

It's Frank... I swear to you.

Frank and only Frank.

You know it.

Me, I'm innocent.

Innocent!

This tainted liquor...

gives us nightmares.

No one dares talk about it,

but its evident in the stubborn palpitations,

the worn out faces,

the anguished stares of most of us.

And already amongst our young,

these nocturnal apparitions...

slowly inhabit the mind,

until it's impossible...

even in full daylight...

to escape them.

Even in full daylight...

to escape them.

The worn out faces...

The anguished stares of most of us,

the anguished stares of a few of us.

Sarah is not to be trusted.

She's capable of anything.

And they give her credit for even more.

The old women whisper,

late at night,

in the shadows of their oil lamps,

that this she-devil can call forth...

at her whim,

the walking corpse of Frank.

You're late.

The schedule changed,
I missed the first boat.

Business is good?

So-so. Count for yourself.

- Your predictions were right.
- Which predictions?

Frank has come back.

Perfect.
Has the stepfather paid?

No, he's playing dumb.

He pretends to believe like a simpleton...

that it's not Frank that's returned,
but his ghost.

And so he owes him nothing.

But debts to the dead are sacred here.

Don't worry, we're taking care of it.

I think he's losing his mind.

Who knows?
This Frank might well be a ghost.

And my daughter, has she been told?

Yes and no.

You know your little Santa...

has a delicate sensibility.

The easiest would be
for Nordmann to disappear.

Santa can't be cloistered
forever in your bordello.

Once he's out of the way,
she can reappear,

and claim her rightful inheritance.

We've thought of something along those lines.

The inspector should do the job himself,
without knowing it.

But if it comes to that,

why invent this story,

and wait all this time?

A precaution.
The situation was premature.

Nordmann wanted to be rid of Santa,
he would've killed her.

Staging her death saved her.

And made her crazy.

No, I don't think so.

Even before she became a young woman,

she was acting strange.

She let out screams when
a man touched her, by mistake.

By mistake.

She let out piercing screams...

when her fiancé even brushed her by mistake.

That night,

Frank took her to the rocky isle.

Odd choice for a romantic outing.

She must've been frightened yet again...

by one of his clumsy moves.

She must've fallen into the water...

trying to get away.

The suicide story couldn't hold up.

An accident...

is more believable.

Fishermen heard her cries for help.

I expect she always screamed
at Frank's slightest touch.

Those fishermen could've been silenced.

This Frank is an imbecile.

I'm happy he can no longer
marry my sweet daughter.

Well, I'd better erase all this.

This crucial passage...

has to be written...

more convincingly.

Then everyone awaits...

his sudden appearance...

On the anniversary...

of his crime and his death.

Then everyone awaits..

It's your Kim again.
She probably saw a rat.

FRANK AND SANTA. PITY THEM.

PEACE TO THEIR UNHAPPY SOULS.

So, you are the ghost...

of the departed Frank...

they speak of.

Then we are both of us...

spirits, you and me.

Why are you telling me all this?

That business doesn't concern me in any way.

I don't see anyone.

I just write my scripts.

We always talk about the events of the day.

It helps to pass the time.

Let time come to a halt.

Murder! Assassin!

I'll pay for his cut myself.

Have you been in a fight?

No, no... the barber slipped.

Our barbers are
usually quite handy.

I'm here, Mr. Nordmann to serve
notice, you're under house arrest.

Meaning?

Stay put.

You're not to leave the island...

without authorization.

And for which reason?

- The interest of the investigation.
- What investigation?

We've re-opened the case
of your daughter's death.

Then there must be
some new developments?

Her real father's entered the scene.

He filed a complaint.

Against me?

Against X.

It's Mars,

the head of the brothel,

who planned the whole affair.

It all fits.

Mars planned the murder
through his friend Frank,

he himself dispatched the killer.

He discovered the body, didn't he?

Now he's flashed out this double,

a twin brother perhaps,

to blackmail me...

No.

That's not working at all...

It's Inspector Thieu...

personally,

who's pulling the strings.

Everybody knows he takes a big cut...

of the activities at the Blue Villa.

Why else would he turn a blind eye
to the kidnappings,

the ransoms,

the forced confessions,

the ritual murders,

and the rest?

It would be wiser,

house arrest or not,

to make a run for it.

As for this dubious intervention...

of the supposed real father,

let Santa haunt him.

No, no.
It's not so simple.

The entire ending of the story
is already written.

And if the so-called screenwriter
should give us the slip?

He won't get too far.

I doubt if any of our sailors
will risk providing him safe passage.

Santa still cares for Frank.

Frank...

the real Frank...

or the ghost of Frank...

or the one passing as Frank...

does it matter?...

He wants to marry my daughter,

and not, it seems...

for the fortune
she legitimately claims.

They have my blessing.

He doesn't think
Santa's really mad...

not more, he says,
than you or me...

just a little more sensitive.

It seems to me,

that Mars is telling the truth.

After staging the phony murder with Frank...

and hiding Santa safely away,

he would've then aided in Frank's escape.

Afterwards, he probably
believed in the shipwreck,

and the death of his friend.

You see, I've come back.

I've missed you,

in my tomb.

Don't you want to come
to your little girl's bed,

to play dolly with her again?

Out of here, bad father!

Dirty old man! Child killer!

You killed me like you
killed mommy in Asia.

Get out! Get out!

Murderer! You belong in hell!

My only choice,

from here on out,

is to run.

Dispossessed...

hunted down...

by specters...

Forced from my home...

my text...

my life...

To the final absolution of the sea!

Let's erase everything.

And so perished Eduoard Nordmann, id est Nord,

without completing his alleged screenplay,

without comprehending the tangle of knots...

which he himself had tied.

Exterior. Day.

Life is not very exciting
on our lost little island.

Nothing ever happens here...

nothing ever really has...

In memory of our dear friend, Christian Maillet