Total Eclipse (1995) Movie Script

Sometimes he speaks

in a kind of tender dialect...

of the death

which causes repentance...

of the unhappy men

who certainly exist...

of painful tasks

and heartrending departures.

In the hovels

where we got drunk...

he wept looking at those

who surrounded us...

a cattle of poverty.

He lifted up drunks

in the black streets.

He had the pity a bad mother

has for small children.

He moved with the grace

of a little girl at catechism.

He pretended to know

about everything...

business, art, medicine.

I followed him.

I had to.

Someone for you, sir.

Over there.

Do I know her?

She gave me her card.

Please...

Please sit down.

Has Andre

been looking after you?

Can I get you

something to drink?

No, thank you.

Please.

It's really

a business matter...

I want to discuss

with you, Mr. Verlaine.

This was published

a few months ago...

an unauthorized selection

of my brother's poems.

My mother and I

are anxious to prevent...

anything like this

from happening again.

We thought you might

be able to help us.

I? How?

I understand you have

a large number...

of my brother's manuscripts.

I have some, yes.

My mother and I

would be very grateful...

if you would return them.

I've always tried to use

the utmost discretion...

in everything

concerning your brother.

I think I can say I've always

defended his interests.

Sometimes I wonder why,

since in many ways...

they're diametrically

opposed to my own.

I don't see how.

It took many years for his work

to be understood...

but once his name

began to be known...

it soon became clear

that our ways were numbered.

The music of old-fashioned verse

was no longer enough.

He swept us away.

Not that I mind, you understand.

I know I was once a good writer.

I didn't know his name

was so well-known.

Yes.

The young understand him now.

He's the voice of the future.

What matters to me most...

is that we did

our best work together.

Both of us.

Morning!

I'm looking for Paul Verlaine.

Are you Monsieur Rimbaud?

Yes.

Monsieur Verlaine

is not with you, then?

No.

He went to the station

to meet you.

He doesn't know what

I look like, does he?

I am

Mrs. Maute de Fleurville...

Monsieur Verlaine's

mother-in-law,

and this is my daughter...

Mrs. Verlaine.

How did you get

from the station?

Walked.

Perhaps you'd like a wash.

No.

You're even younger

than we imagined.

How old are you?

Darling, it's not polite

to ask people their ages.

I need a piss.

How old are you,

if you don't mind?

He does.

Sixteen.

You did say in your letter

you were twenty-one.

I noticed you at the station...

but I didn't think

it could be you.

Likewise.

Those poems you sent me...

were remarkable

for someone of twenty-one.

For someone of sixteen,

they're unprecedented.

That's why I told you

I was twenty-one.

I didn't want you

to feel patronizing...

before you'd read them.

Of course. I hope your mother

isn't too angry with me.

Once she'd found out

you'd sent the fare...

she seemed quite happy.

You come from the Ardennes,

don't you, Monsieur Rimbaud?

Yes.

Pleasant town,

Charleville, isn't it?

Last place on God's earth.

What does your father do?

Drinks mostly, I believe.

We haven't seen him

for ten years.

I'm sorry.

No need.

He's very well out of it.

Perhaps you'd like to read

something to us after dinner.

No. I don't think so.

- Why not?

- Don't want to.

I never read out my poetry.

All the other poets do.

I'm not interested

in what they do.

We have soirees.

And you think poets

can learn from one another?

Only if they're bad poets.

You know about this?

I know what it is.

It's the poet's third eye.

Melts glasses.

What do you think of my wife?

I don't know.

What do you think of her?

She's still only a child,

of course.

So am I.

Absinthe, two.

You should do something

about getting it published.

Why?

Because that's what writers do.

I couldn't care less

about being published.

The only thing that matters

is the writing itself.

Everything else is literature.

Your last book

wasn't good enough.

You don't think so?

Premarital garbage.

No. Love poems.

A lot of people

found them very beautiful.

But they're all lies.

They're not lies. I love her.

- Love?

- Yes.

- No such thing.

- What do you mean?

Whatever binds families

and married couples together...

that's not love.

That's stupidity

or selfishness or fear.

Love doesn't exist.

You're wrong.

Self-interest exists.

Attachment based on

personal gain exists.

Complacency exists.

But not love.

Love has to be reinvented.

Why did he want so much

to escape from reality?

There never was a man

with such an aim.

Did he perhaps know secrets

to change life?

"Sometimes I've seen...

"what people

think they've seen."

He's not how I imagined him.

"I've wept too many tears...

"heartbreaking dawns."

I prefer your poems.

I don't really understand

that kind of thing.

No.

No. This is something new.

"I've wept too many tears...

"heartbreaking dawns."

What is it?

He's kicking.

You see?

There.

Don't you think

it would be more sensible...

to get one of

your friends to put him up?

People don't understand him.

I'm the only one

who understands him.

Well, Daddy certainly

won't understand him.

We had a revolution this year

which I supported.

I could have been shot.

If I hadn't been

thrown out of my job...

you think I would have accepted

your father's damn charity?

For God's sake, all I'm doing

is helping a friend!

Why must we go through all this?

I'm your husband!

I'm sorry, Paul.

Are you trying to annoy me?

No.

Well, don't.

Evening!

Everyone's in bed, I'm afraid...

unless you've come

to see the old boy.

The old boy?

Maute de Fleurville.

A friend of his?

No.

You wouldn't like to buy

a crucifix, would you?

I can let you have this one

on extremely reasonable terms.

It's made with real pearls,

I think.

Who the hell are you?

I might ask you

the same question...

except I'd be more polite.

I am Maute de Fleurville.

Then this is your dog

I just broke.

What?

Why?

Dogs are all liberals.

Since when

have you had the right...

to invite people into this house

without my permission?

If I can't put up a guest

in my own home...

I might as well

live somewhere else.

If you weren't so idle,

you could afford to.

- You know very well...

- Any excuse.

I don't notice you working

your fingers to the bone.

When you next see

that hooligan...

kindly ask him to return

the objects he's pilfered.

- What are you talking about?

- He'll know.

Ask him yourself.

I'm happy to say,

he's left the house.

What?

Thank God.

I thought I would

never find you.

I don't know what that bastard

thought he was doing.

It's his house.

Yes. Come on.

We'll find you somewhere.

It's not much, I'm afraid.

Just for a few days.

It's fine.

So do you love her?

Of course. She's ideal.

Eighteen, beautiful,

plenty of money...

all the wifely virtues,

and she's giving me a baby.

- Do you have anything in common?

- No.

- Is she intelligent?

- No.

Does she understand you?

No.

Then the only thing

she can give you is sex.

Hi!

Hey!

Did you find him?

I did.

And did he give you back

Daddy's crucifix?

If your father's capable

of throwing that boy out...

he's got no right having Christ

hanging all over his walls.

You people don't understand

what poverty is.

In Charleville,

if he wanted a book...

he had to steal it.

That proves

what kind of person he is.

I'm sorry.

You shouldn't have said that.

I'm sorry.

- What's going on?

- Nothing.

Are you all right, my dear?

Yes, I'm all right.

It was last summer

during the war...

one of the many times

I ran away from home.

I came down to the river

to fill my water bottle...

and there was a Prussian soldier

not much older than me...

asleep in the clearing.

I watched him for a long time

before I realized...

he wasn't asleep.

He was dead.

And somehow that

clarified things for me.

I understood

that what I needed...

to become the first poet

of this century...

was to experience

everything in my body.

It was no longer enough

for me to be one person.

I decided to be everyone.

I decided to be a genius.

I decided

to originate the future.

Thank you.

The principle

is very like photography...

only instead of

photographing a man's face...

you photograph his voice.

Then twenty years later...

just as you'd open

a photograph album...

you put the relevant cylinder

into the paleophone...

and you listen to

a poet reading his poems...

or singing his songs.

And you think

you could invent...

a machine like that

which worked?

For Christ's sake,

let's get the fuck out of here.

- We can't.

- Why not?

- He's about to read.

- Which one?

Aicard. Over there.

I don't think

I'll like him very much.

Verlaine showed me

some of your poems.

Yes?

Remarkable. Very promising.

Only, it seems all

that ingenuity is marred by...

Well, not exactly

a juvenile urge to shock...

but something of the sort.

- And were you shocked?

- No, I wasn't.

Then why would you suppose

I intended you to be?

That's not really the point.

Seems fair enough to me.

I could object

to your technical approach.

I could object to your tie.

He doesn't like

discussing his poetry.

I see.

A surprise for our friend.

Thank you.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Sulfuric acid.

I would ask you

to bear this in mind...

although, as with all

worthwhile work for children...

it's hoped what is said

is of relevance to adults.

The poem is called

"Green Absinthe."

Green absinthe is the potion

of the damned...

a deadly poison

silting up the veins...

while wife and child

sit weeping in their slum...

I don't believe it.

...pours absinthe

into his brains.

Shit.

O drunkard,

most contemptible of men...

- Shit!

- Be quiet.

It's authentic shit!

Please!

...degraded, fallen,

sinful, and obtuse...

I like it!

...to beat

your wife and child...

For trying to deprive you

of the juice!

- Get out!

- Me?

Yes, you offensive

little bastard. Get out.

I think I may be permitted

to raise some objection...

against the butchering

of French poetry.

No, you may not.

Apologize and get out!

Don't come near.

Be careful!

You think you can frighten me

with that thing.

Careful! Careful, I say!

Get out!

Come on.

Now you, you fucking...

Come here!

In the days of Francois I...

wise and benevolent giants

roamed the countryside...

and one of

their primary functions...

was to rid the world

of pedants...

fools... and writers

of no talent...

by pissing on them

from a great height.

How to make your way

in the literary world.

The depressing thing

about this city...

is that the artists

are even more bourgeois...

than the fucking bourgeoisie.

We should make a bargain.

You help me, and I'll help you.

If we go away together...

I'm sure you'll be able

to do good work again.

And when we've taken as much

as we can from each other...

we simply split up and move on.

And how would we live?

You have some money,

don't you?

I understand.

I help you by supporting you...

and you help me by renewing

my rusty old inspiration.

Is that it?

Not altogether.

Where have you been?

I thought I'd probably

just get in the way.

Don't shout.

You'll wake the baby.

Is it a boy?

Yes.

Funny-looking little bugger.

Don't.

All right.

Thank you.

Please.

Why not?

The baby was born.

- Isabelle!

- I didn't know you were coming.

Where is the mouth of darkness?

Mother? She's in

the fields with Vitalie.

- Do you want to see her?

- No.

Thanks.

Are you back for good?

For good I don't know.

For better or worse.

There's work to be done

in the fields.

There's work to be done here.

I thought you were

getting on well in Paris.

Verlaine's wife

started to make trouble.

What kind of trouble?

Threatening a divorce.

She thought we were spending

too much time together.

Spoiled rich girl, I suppose.

That's right.

This work you're doing...

is it the kind of thing

that will lead to anything?

I don't know.

Nevertheless,

it's the kind of work I do.

I don't suppose Paris

ever gets as exciting as this.

You look like a fucking saint.

Except you haven't

got your halo.

I'll give you your halo.

He's back, isn't he?

I can't leave

Mathilde at the moment.

She's not very well.

I'm not surprised if you keep

setting fire to her.

I haven't set fire

to her since Thursday.

No, it's not very funny.

It's pathetic.

Your acts of violence

are always curiously disgusting.

What do you mean?

They're not clean.

You're always in

some sort of a drunken stupor.

Then you start

apologizing and groveling.

I don't like hurting people.

Then don't.

But if you do, do it coolly.

Don't insult your victims

by feeling sorry afterwards.

I love her, you see.

You can't possibly.

I love her body.

There are other bodies.

I love Mathilde's body.

But not her soul?

I think it's less important

to love the soul.

After all,

the soul may be immortal.

We have plenty

of time for the soul...

but flesh rots.

It's my love of flesh

which keeps me faithful.

Faithful.

What do you mean?

I'm faithful to all my lovers...

because once I love them...

I will always love them...

and when I'm alone

in the evening...

or in the early morning...

I close my eyes...

and I celebrate them all.

That's not faithfulness.

That's nostalgia.

If you don't want

to leave Mathilde...

it's not

because you're faithful.

It's because you're weak.

If strength involves brutality,

I prefer to be weak.

With you, weakness involves

brutality as well.

Don't expect me

to be faithful to you.

Why are you so harsh with me?

Because you need it.

Isn't it enough

for you to know...

that I love you more

than I've ever loved anyone...

and that I will always love you?

Shut up, you sniveling drunk.

- Tell me that you love me.

- For God's sake!

Please.

It's important.

Just say it.

You know I'm very fond of you.

- Do you love me?

- What?

- Do you love me?

- Yes.

Then put your hands

on the table.

What?

Put your hand on the table.

Palm upwards.

The only unbearable thing

is that nothing is unbearable.

On...

We have to leave.

I don't know.

Yes. It's time.

The happiest days

of my life was last year...

when I ran away from home.

Didn't know where I was going.

I just carried on.

I've never seen

such long and colored days...

and I could never

get far enough.

I've never seen the sea.

I wanted to walk to Africa...

and cross the desert.

I wanted the sun.

I want the sun.

Do you understand me?

I want the sun!

Where do you want to go?

I don't know.

I don't care. Just away.

I can't leave Mathilde

right now.

She's not very well.

Then don't.

What?

Don't leave her.

Wait!

To life.

Come on!

Do you remember happier times?

Why did you leave us?

I had a tip-off I was going

to arrested for my work...

in the propaganda press

during the Commune.

But that was over a year ago.

Well...

the police may be slow...

but they're methodical.

I couldn't bear to go to jail.

I think it's best to stay out

of the country for a few months.

With Rimbaud?

Well...

I suppose he's wanted

by the police as well.

No.

Why do you prefer him to me?

I don't.

Don't have to get dressed

right away, do you?

I told Mummy

I'd meet her for breakfast.

- What's she doing here?

- She came with me.

That's another thing.

I certainly can't stand living

with your parents anymore.

It's not safe anywhere else.

What do you mean?

You know what I mean.

Listen...

I had this idea.

I thought of this idea.

I thought we might emigrate.

Emigrate? Where to?

New Caledonia.

A lot of your friends

from the Commune are there.

You'd be able to write.

It would be like it was when

we were first married and...

What?

Nothing.

No. Go on.

I was only going to say

that you could stop...

If you wanted...

It would be easier for you

if you wanted to stop drinking.

You're frightened of me,

aren't you?

Don't think

that I like getting drunk.

I mean,

I do like getting drunk.

I don't like being drunk.

Anyway...

when I hit you...

I feel so terrible

all I can think of...

is to get drunk again

and forget about it.

Can you see us

living in a grass hut?

Why not?

Let's go, for Christ's sake.

Let's go before it's too late.

We can go whenever you like.

Not now!

Why not?

Help me with this.

No.

Help me with this.

Stop!

Why are you doing this to us?

Don't worry.

You can have him

back quite soon...

and only slightly damaged.

He's coming back now.

What are you doing here?

What's this?

"My poor Mathilde...

"Don't be upset. Don't cry.

"This is a bad dream.

"One day, I'll wake up.

Love, Paul."

Nice, was it?

Scene of conjugal bliss?

I'm going back

to Paris with her.

Right.

- Wait! Let me explain.

- Why should I?

It's not what you think.

It's something else.

She suggested we emigrate

to New Caledonia.

It would be a change.

A quiet life.

I could stop drinking.

It's a good idea.

No.

Don't you care about

my happiness?

No, and neither should you.

You don't understand

how much I love her.

This morning,

she was lying there naked.

She looked so beautiful,

so young and so...

What's so funny?

Was she really

lying there naked?

Yes.

My estimation for her

goes up a long way.

Why?

For realizing what was needed

and providing it.

What does it matter?

You love her, right?

Go back to her.

All change!

Border patrol!

Please have your passports

ready for inspection.

Border patrol!

Please have your passports

ready for inspection.

Thank you.

I'm just going

to find a newspaper.

Don't be long.

Look there.

See white?

See?

It's England.

"I became a fabulous opera.

"I saw that all creatures

are condemned to happiness."

What's this?

Are you going back to rhyme?

"I have researched

the magic shapes...

"of the happiness

no one escapes."

That's wonderful.

I've often wondered

why you chose to write to me.

You're so far up ahead...

I can never understand

the signs you're making.

You make me feel

I'm from another century.

"I've researched

magic shapes...

of the happiness

no one escapes."

It's wonderful.

I chose you

for a very good reason.

You see...

I've always known what to say...

but you... you know how to say.

I thought

I could learn from you...

and I have.

What's your greatest fear?

I wouldn't like

to mislay my balls.

What's your greatest fear?

That other people

will see me as I see them.

Getting quite short

of money, you know.

So you keep saying.

Perhaps it's time we took a job.

I have no intention

of taking a job.

My work is going far too well.

I can't afford to waste time

earning money.

I... I had a letter

this morning...

from Mathilde's lawyer.

And?

She's applied for

legal separation on grounds...

that you and I are indulging

in immoral relations.

And?

- Like a hat, sir?

- Possibly.

There you are. Take a look.

He wants to know

if we're prepared...

to submit

to a medical examination.

What?

How can they make such

outrageous accusations?

I'm going to write and say

as far as I'm concerned...

all of them

can look up our asses.

What are you, insane?

They can give her a divorce

on desertion alone.

If it's desertion and sodomy,

they can throw us both in jail.

I'm not going to jail.

I don't know.

Would it be so bad?

Latavia...

I can hear the wind

rustling in the palm trees.

What's the matter?

It's so difficult.

Who would have imagined

it would be so difficult?

I wrote to the lawyer today.

I explained it's her father

who's in the wrong.

How many times have I asked

for my things from that house...

and he takes no notice

whatsoever?

You're in the wrong.

All right.

All right. I'm in the wrong.

I'm in the wrong, if you say so.

That's established, isn't it?

So...

I don't know.

What... What is it?

You seem different.

Yes.

It's the writing.

The writing has changed me.

On.

I suppose you think

I've been just lying here...

all these weeks

in a state of paralyzed sloth.

Well, not necessarily.

Well, I have.

But bubbling

beneath the surface...

and rising slowly through

the layers of indifference...

has come a new system...

harden up, reject romanticism...

abandon rhetoric...

Get it right.

And finally

I've seen where my attempt...

to conquer the world has led me.

Where has it led you?

Here.

My search for universal

experience has led me here...

to live an idle,

pointless life of poverty...

as the minion

of a bald, ugly...

aging, drunken lyric poet...

who clings to me because

his wife won't take him back.

How can you bring yourself

to say a thing like that?

It's easy. It's the truth.

You're here living like this

because you have to...

drink and sex and a kind

of complacent melancholy...

and enough money to soak

yourself oblivious every night.

But me... l'm here

because I choose to be.

Yes?

Yes.

And why exactly?

Why did you choose

to come to London with me?

No doubt you regarded it as

another stage in your odyssey...

only by plunging ever deeper,

if I may mix my myths...

will you gain the right to graze

on the slopes of Parnassus.

Of course there are

less subtle reasons...

for putting up with me.

Such as?

Such as the fact

that I support you.

Your mind is almost

as ugly as your body.

Where are you going?

- Are they fresh?

- Yes.

This one.

God, you look such a cunt.

Where are you going?

Wait!

Paul, wait!

Move!

Don't go!

Come back!

Don't leave me!

Come back!

I'm sorry!

How am I supposed to live?

Come back.

Please come back.

You're my only friend.

I promise you

I'll behave myself.

It was only a stupid joke.

Sir?

I can't tell you how sorry I am.

When I called you,

why didn't you get off the boat?

We lived together for

two years to finish like this?

Think back to what you were

before you met me.

Listen to your heart.

Yours for always.

I'll go back to Paris tomorrow.

Look...

it won't happen again.

I'll never walk out

on you again, I promise.

No, you won't.

I'm not going

to give you the chance.

What was I supposed to do

in London with no money?

I'm sorry. I was very hot.

For God's sakes, why?

I've said far worse things

to you than that.

You really did look like a cunt.

Where have you been?

Out.

I went to

the Spanish embassy again...

to see if they'd change

their minds, but they wouldn't.

It's fucking ridiculous.

"I'm willing to fight

and die for your cause.

"You can't afford to turn

away volunteers."

They said they weren't

taking on any foreigners.

Then I said, "You deserve

to lose the fucking war...

"and I hope you do."

You were at

the Spanish embassy all morning?

No.

You're drunk.

I have, yes, had a few drinks.

What are you doing?

Packing.

Where are you going?

I'm going back home to Roche.

I'm going to finish my book

and have it published.

Oh, publish.

I thought you were

far too important for that.

Anyway, I've decided.

We're going back to London.

We're not going back to London.

It's by far the best idea.

Then why did you go

to the Spanish embassy?

I didn't.

Don't go. Think it over.

I've thought it over.

Do you know what day

it is tomorrow?

Friday.

It's my wedding anniversary...

and I haven't seen her,

my wife...

since we made love here

in Brussels nearly a year ago.

She won't answer my letters.

I wrote her if she didn't come

to Brussels within 3 days...

I'd commit suicide,

and she didn't even reply.

But then you didn't

commit suicide.

I suppose

you think that's funny.

No, it's pitiful.

How many people did you tell

you were committing suicide?

I'm surprised you didn't

send out invitations.

How can you be so callous?

Callous?

You abandon me in London...

then summon me to Brussels

and expect me to hang around...

while you decide whether

to leave your wife...

join the army,

or shoot yourself?

Then when you fail

to achieve any of these aims...

as you undoubtedly will...

you want me to go

back to London with you!

It's not gonna happen!

I'm leaving you!

You can't.

You can't!

Look, look.

Look, this summer...

Remember last summer

when we set out...

how wonderful it was?

Remember?

Why don't we go south?

Late summer

on the Mediterranean...

we could dedicate

ourselves to warmth.

Or Africa.

You've always wanted

to go to Africa.

Just for a month,

then make up your mind.

Look at the sun.

No.

Why not?

I can't.

It's no good.

It's too late.

It's not!

I promise you, it's not.

You know if you leave me,

you'll kill me.

I can't bear to be alone.

I don't exist

without someone else.

I don't care if you stay with me

out of pity, just stay!

- I can't.

- Why not?

You don't care.

You have no idea

what this means.

For God's sake, stop whining!

It's very hot.

Take off your coat.

I will.

I did some shopping

this morning.

I bought a gun.

What for?

For you, for me...

for everybody.

I hope you bought

plenty of ammunition.

I'm not going

to let you go, you know.

This is a rather

entertaining number.

We haven't seen this one before.

I'll kill you!

For God's sake,

pull yourself together.

I read your letter.

You begged me to come back.

You said you were crying

as you wrote it.

I could see

your tears on the paper.

That was before I thought

of pawning your clothes.

I didn't mean to.

Look what you've done.

I didn't mean to. I'm sorry.

Look.

Oh, my God. Kill me.

Shoot me.

Shoot me!

How can I, you stupid fuck?

You've just blown

a hole in my hand.

Oh, God. What have I done?

You missed.

Open up!

Open up in there!

What exactly

are you doing in Brussels?

I was hoping my wife

might come and join me here...

as she had done on one occasion

since our separation.

I fail to see how

the departure of a friend...

could have cast you

into such despair.

Did there perhaps exist

between you and Rimbaud...

other relations

besides those of friendship?

No.

This is a suggestion

slanderously invented...

by my wife and her family.

Take off your trousers

and lie down on this, face down.

Both doctors have testified...

that on the basis

of their examination...

they are satisfied

you have recently indulged...

in both

active and passive sodomy.

Have they?

Do you deny you're

a practicing sodomist?

The word is sodomite.

Whatever the word may be,

the activity it describes...

is not one which is

encouraged in Brussels.

Paul Verlaine,

the court finds you guilty...

under Article 399

of the penal code...

of grievous bodily harm

and sentences you...

to a fine of two hundred francs

and two years imprisonment.

Now what's the matter?

Eat.

God.

What does it mean?

I don't understand

what it's supposed to mean.

It means exactly what it says.

Word for word.

No more, no less.

How are you?

Where's your rosary?

I thought you'd have a rosary.

Is it true in prison

they called you Jesus Christ?

It happened quite suddenly.

When the governor said Mathilde

had been granted her divorce...

I lay down

and looked at my life...

and saw there was nothing.

The only thing I could do

was submit myself to God...

ask him to forgive me...

and help me face

my situation and He did.

I promise you He did.

Now you want us to love

each other in Jesus?

I want you to follow my example.

I hope you didn't think

I might be angry with you.

No.

You didn't know

I'd be put away so long.

I certainly forgave you for it.

- I didn't forgive you.

- What for?

For missing.

Tell me. Why did you come here?

I want you to find

some direction in your life.

I want God to help you

achieve your aims.

Aims? I have no aims.

- Your writing.

- I've stopped writing.

I don't understand.

Let me put it another way.

I no longer write.

Why not?

Because I have

nothing more to say.

If I ever had anything

to say in the first place.

Nonsense.

I thought that what I did

would make a difference...

change the world.

I thought nothing

would ever be the same again.

But it's no good.

The world is too old,

and there's nothing new.

It's all been said.

Not in the way you can say it.

You have a gift.

It's no good throwing it away...

because your expectations

were unrealistic.

It's the expectations

you should change.

It's my gift.

I can do what I like with it.

But you can't give up.

You've hardly begun.

Don't worry.

I'll be very good at it.

No one will be able to touch me.

The master of silence.

But if we don't,

who's going to tell the truth?

Three years ago, you said

the truth was this and that.

Then along comes

the angel of the Lord...

and the truth is something

completely different.

But I've changed. Change...

I thought

that was what you wanted.

You've changed, have you?

Yes.

Then here, in the wilderness...

I offer you

an archetypal choice...

a choice between my body...

and my soul.

Choose.

Your body.

Let the ninety-eight wounds

of our Savior burst and bleed.

Don't.

Listen... I sat in my cell...

and thought

how happy we could be.

It should be the easiest

thing in the world.

Why isn't it?

Because it never worked for us.

It will never work

for either of us.

I wanted us to go away together.

Yes.

What am I going to do?

You'll have to find

somebody else.

No.

No, no, I can't, please.

- Let go.

- Please.

Let go! Let go!

"I shall return

with limbs of steel...

"And dark skin and wrathful eye.

"I shall have money.

"I shall be cruel and idle.

"I'll be saved."

What?

Something he wrote.

The point is, Mr. Verlaine,

to speak frankly...

a number of poems

he wrote in extreme youth...

were quite indecent...

and in some cases, even profane.

He wouldn't have wished

to be remembered for them.

My mother and I plan

to destroy those works...

he would have destroyed himself.

I see.

What you may not know...

is that Arthur was converted.

Converted?

I reasoned with him...

and prayed for him

for weeks while he was ill...

and eventually

he asked to be confessed.

God kept him alive

long enough to repent...

so that he could be saved.

What was the matter with him?

He had a tumor on his knee.

That's very strange.

Why?

That's what I have...

a tumor on my knee.

He spent ten years

in Abyssinia.

He explored the whole country...

places no white man

had ever been...

and he ran

a trading post in Harar.

There was no doctor there...

but he wouldn't

leave his work.

He insisted on staying until

the pain became unbearable.

Then he designed

himself a litter...

and hired ten men

to carry him to the coast.

The journey

took more than two weeks.

In Africa...

did he write poetry?

No.

On.

First, as soon as he arrived...

he went into the hospital

in Marseilles...

and they cut off his leg.

What's the matter?

Don't you see the carriages

driving in the sky?

I have to help people, you see.

It's my duty.

I know you do.

I don't want money

unless it's drenched in blood.

Maybe the sea

will wash away the stains.

Maybe.

There's one thing, Isabelle,

you must promise me.

It's very important.

Will you promise?

What?

Never let them amputate.

He would only

stay at home a month.

He kept saying he had to travel

back towards the sun...

that the sun would heal him.

Please, don't get up.

Let me see you to your hotel.

No, no. It was an honor...

to meet such

a distinguished poet.

A pleasure to meet you.

You have my card, don't you?

Will you send the manuscripts

to that address?

- Of course.

- Please don't forget.

We shall make a very careful

selection of what is to survive.

Good-bye.

Absinthe... two.

Tell me if you love me.

You know I'm very fond of you.

Do you love me?

Put your hand on the table.

What?

Put your hand on the table.

Palm upwards.

Since he died,

I see him every night...

my great and radiant sin.

We were always happy... always.

I remember.

I found it.

What?

Eternity.

It's the sun mingled...

with the sea.

Total Eclipse (1995) - full transcript