Unlimited Edition (2020) - full transcript
Cinematic meeting between four writers who are also actors, directors, teachers and playwrights. Four stories, four protagonists: two men, two women who reflect, in different ways, on ...
CHAPTER 1
Excuse me.
I noticed you were struggling
with your eyesight.
I've got an hour to spare.
If you don't mind,
I could read a page or two for you.
Please.
I can't see well with my right eye.
I try to read with my left eye,
and it's exhausting.
I have an appointment
with the eye doctor next week.
We'll see what they say.
I'm afraid it might be cataracts
and I'll need surgery.
"Capitalist realism
can be seen as a belief:
that there's no alternative
to capitalism.
Fundamentally,
it's a pathology of the left.
Ultimately,
what capitalist realism amounts to
is the elimination of left-wing politics
and the naturalization of neoliberalism.
It can be seen as an attitude
of resignation and fatalism
in the face of a sense that all we can do
is accommodate ourselves
to the dominance of capitalism,
and limit our hopes
to containing its worst excesses."
"Instead of capitalist realism
ending in 2008 or 2011,
it could be argued
that it was reinforced in 2013.
The austerity measures
that have been implemented
constituted an intensification.
Those measures
couldn't have been introduced
unless there was still a widespread sense
that there is no alternative
to liberal capitalism."
"Capitalist realism
is about a corrosion
of social imagination:
after 30 years of neoliberal domination,
we are only just beginning to be able
to imagine alternatives to capitalism."
Is the author Argentinian?
No, he's English.
Mark Fisher.
He killed himself three years ago.
Well. I wish you luck
in your visit to the eye doctor.
-Thank you.
-You're welcome.
Edgardo,
I'm going to check your eyesight.
I'm going to cover your left eye.
Can you see the letters over there?
No, nothing.
And those over there?
No, I think... no.
I can't see them either.
And now?
Nothing?
-No, no.
-Those ones?
So, doctor?
You have a mature cataract
in your right eye.
An incipient one in your left eye.
I appreciate the fact that you didn't come
with a diagnosis,
but you need surgery.
Can I make an appointment?
Yes, you can have surgery soon,
but don't you prefer to do it in Paris?
In Paris I have the advantage
that Social Security pays for it,
but if I go there,
I need to see the physician
who will then refer me to the eye doctor.
There's a chance the eye doctor
is not a surgeon as you are.
Before I know it, with all the waiting,
appointments, whatnot,
I'll have to spend
two, three months in Paris.
Spending three months in Paris
when you're 30...
When I was 30, yes.
-See you soon.
-See you soon.
Can your father still read
without glasses?
That's right.
Remarkable.
I remember at school breaks,
we were the only ones who would read.
But your father also played soccer,
so he was spared
of the "faggot likes reading."
-Bye.
-Okay, bye.
Can I take off this ridiculous cap?
No, Edgardo, you can't.
It's the protocol, you have to wear it.
Besides, your curls
might fall over your eyes.
I'm going to monitor your heart
with these electrodes.
In the meantime,
tell me what medicines you take.
In the morning,
Losartan 50 for my blood pressure.
Two hours after eating, Zytiga,
which is the medicine
that controls my prostate cancer,
alongside a minimum dose of cortisone:
five milligrams of Prednisone.
In the afternoon, Tardyferon,
which is an iron supplement,
because my red blood cells
are a little low.
At night, not every day,
but if I've been...
agitated or anxious during the day,
I take half a milligram of Xanax.
Just that, but not every day.
What about the fun drugs?
Not anymore.
Take a deep breath.
Very good, now breathe out.
Good morning, Edgardo.
It's time for surgery.
It's time to be reborn.
Great.
Edgardo, surgery is over.
Everything went perfect.
This is an eye protector.
That's great.
It's a little like
A Clockwork Orange, isn't it?
Kind of.
Bye!
SUCCESS
Excuse me for interrupting.
I have a problem with my sight.
I can barely see with my right eye,
so I use my left eye, but I get tired.
I need to finish an article
for this weekend,
and I thought maybe you could read
just one page for me
from the book I'm working with.
A LOVER'S DISCOURSE: FRAGMENTS
Hello?
Hi. Serafín.
Come in.
-Osvaldo.
-Serafín.
Come in, come in.
CHAPTER 2
It's Earl Grey, do you like it?
I don't know, I haven't tried it.
Does it have sugar in it?
It is a sin adding sugar
to this kind of tea.
Lesson one: respect flavors.
I don't like bitter flavors.
You don't need to define flavors
before you've tasted something.
Take a sip and tell me what you think.
It's good.
What has your grandmother
told you about me?
That you're a learned man,
different from everybody else in town,
that you read a lot and wrote very well.
I'd rather you didn't mention the town.
Your grandmother was very kind,
but the rest was awful.
Thank God, I shook that small town
off my system.
She sends her regards.
Thank you, send her mine.
What kind of things do you write?
I write little things...
For little things,
you might as well not write at all.
Literature does not need "little things."
Sorry.
You don't have to apologize to me,
but to centuries of accumulated art.
Can I read something to you?
No, not right now.
You seem very distracted.
You have to be focused to write.
I'm going to read to you
something I wrote today.
I haven't read it to anyone. It's a draft.
"In my wildest dreams, you comfort me.
Trembling with sorrow,
my hurt soul awaits its relief.
A treacherous spear pierced it,
and it bleeds.
Oh, pain, oh, pain,
oh, pain and despair.
Poor me, hurt heart,
come and cure this deep wound
that throbs in the heart of the night.
Am I awake?
Am I asleep?
Your indifference has hurt me deeply,
I can't estimate
the size of your contempt.
It is too late now.
You come for me,
and I ask you to go away.
No, not now, I want to bleed out in peace.
It is too late for a rescue.
Let me fade out slowly,
as beautifully as a simple flower withers.
Don't come near me,
don't, don't look at me.
This pain is mine, whole, complete.
It is my only possession,
don't take it away from me.
Oh, poor me, oh, poor me."
It's nice.
We need to go beyond nice and ugly
in our literary appreciations.
At first I thought it would rhyme.
It's free verse.
Not everything has to rhyme.
I just said it, I don't like rhyme either.
When you learn to rhyme properly,
you can decide whether you like it or not.
Sorry.
No, don't apologize to me...
but to all rhymed poetry
that came before you.
More tea?
No, thank you.
I don't know why I offered.
It must be cold already.
I like lukewarm or cold.
I don't like hot things at all.
Oh.
Come in.
Wait here, please.
I'm not decent.
Today I will take you out to tea
at a proper place.
What are you going to do?
You said you were going to stay.
I told you...
Please!
I bet you had never been
in a place like this.
Honestly, no.
The chairs haven't changed
since I can remember.
I don't usually go out to cafés.
A writer needs to find a café
that suits him.
The café is the perfect creation.
A little bit of get-together...
a little bit of distraction...
observation, concentration.
Coffee helps.
I write in my grandma's kitchen
while she watches TV.
TV... Television
is the plague for writing.
I like TV.
So be it.
Sometimes I write in my room,
but not at night, not before going to bed,
because I keep thinking and I can't sleep.
And sometimes I write in the yard,
with the radio on.
If it's hot, I shower with the hose.
I splash all over the notebooks
and it's all a mess.
Later I copy it on the computer,
and it's all neat.
The only thing I like about cafés
is the windows.
People go by next to us
and they don't even know we're here.
It's a good place to observe daily life.
It's like being invisible.
I'd like not to exist.
Are we going to read
or to talk about literature?
No, this is just distraction.
In order to write, you need to forget.
Dispersion is the hygiene of writing.
I'm always distracted.
Everybody tells me so.
If you notice everybody tells you so,
you're not so distracted.
Maybe.
Or do you pretend to be distracted
to provoke?
Sometimes I don't get you.
I think you don't have a sense of humor.
Maybe. I don't laugh at just anything.
Hey! Don't get so serious.
We're here to have a good time.
We're getting to know each other.
If you're going to take everything I say
so seriously,
you'll feel intimidated.
Maybe, I don't know.
I feel I need some air.
I'll finish my coffee and off we go.
Do you want another one?
No, if I drink more coffee I won't sleep.
I'd rather leave.
Who is it?
I'm talking to you!
I'm sick of you. I'm done.
I don't want this anymore.
Stop it.
I'm going mad, I need clarity.
Make up your mind.
I don't like it this way.
Decide what you're going to do,
I can't stand this anymore.
Wait here. Today we'll go for a walk.
Where to?
A writer is made of walks.
As you say.
Can I read something to you today?
How impatient!
Young people only yearn
for accomplishment and approval.
Your time to read will come.
You will realize when it is timely
to share your writing with me.
Not yet.
I don't know you well enough,
and I might misjudge you.
Writing has to do with waiting.
Sorry, I don't know the rules.
The only rule is patience, my dear.
My grandma says I eat too fast,
almost without breathing.
Young people are always rushing.
You should give yourself more time.
Thank you for the advice.
You don't need to thank me.
You listened to my poem and you liked it.
I should thank you.
I liked it quite a lot.
As a reward, I invite you to a coffee
and we can continue our meeting.
No, I don't like drinking coffee,
it makes me nervous.
Also, I have to go back soon,
I prefer being outside.
As you wish.
This freshness that takes over my limbs...
The kindness of clear water
and its transparent modesty.
Oh, water, everything flowing...
everything becomes sea and tears.
Oh, water, wash away my pain.
Oh, water, offer me a final baptism.
Is it free verse, too?
It's so free I have just created it.
Oh, how embarrassing.
Help me get to the bathroom.
How embarrassing.
Open the shower.
Get out. Get out.
You can read something if you want.
I'll choose randomly, they're all alike.
No preface, please.
"Grandma doesn't fall asleep
until I come back.
Sometimes it's too late
and she fights sleep.
I come, she serves me food,
she asks me how it was,
and while I tell her, sometimes,
she disguises a yawn.
In the kitchen,
she keeps the same tablecloth,
a pale yellow oilcloth.
She keeps it spotless.
If I let a crumble fall,
she picks it up instantly.
The oilcloth smells of lemon,
that smell mixes with the smell of food.
I tell her and she smiles.
I told her I liked a dark-haired boy,
who has a band but sings awful
and is pretty funny.
I like him so much it hurts,
and I don't think he notices me.
She says you never know the ways of love,
and she keeps talking
while she brings me fruit
on a little saucer
with a knife and a fork."
CHAPTER 3
All the action...
Sure.
-Did you talk to them?
-With Disney?
Does that happen in your supplement?
No...
We'll avoid it at all costs.
I never did that at least.
-I'm in management.
-Like you have people in charge?
Sort of.
You're a woman in her thirties
recently separated.
You have a five-year-old daughter
who is spending the night
with her father and his new partner.
Until recently, when you were asked,
"What are you?"
you didn't know what to answer.
Wife. Mother.
Eternal student.
Employee.
Guys.
These are veal.
You published a book.
A novel about a separated woman
with a young daughter.
So now when you're asked,
you can say, "Writer. I'm a writer."
What things do you care about?
What do you know
about books, movies, poetry,
politics, philosophy,
current events, literature?
I don't know. Ask Juan.
-I'll take these, but--
-How delicious.
If you could ask for a wish right now,
you would ask for money and time
to write and read.
But the problem
isn't the lack of time or money.
Before you can devote yourself
exclusively to reading and writing,
you need to know it makes sense.
Certainty needs to be built
around some kind of faith.
The secret is to worship
not the important or the transcendent,
the magnificent, the sublime,
but the trivial, the insignificant;
the everyday stuff, the little things.
Otherwise, writing becomes
an impossible task destined for failure.
Now you belong to a world
you've always wanted to be a part of.
But from the inside,
that world is just like any other world.
At the same time,
the camera is behind the boy.
You see the scene through...
Where have you been, Juliette?
I've been here all the time. You?
I ran into Esteban and Marcos,
and Luciana and Agustina.
Have you met Agustina?
-Cohen?
-No, Chávez.
Pili's friend.
She opened a sort of gallery in Almagro.
She publishes fanzines with Cecilia,
where Carlos once published some poems.
We met her at the reading in Panal.
I know who she is,
but she doesn't know me.
Well, I don't know. What's up with...?
Nothing.
Hey! What's up?
Caro, darling!
What's up with you, girl?
-Everything cool?
-Cool.
This is Julieta, we studied
Literary Theory and Analysis together.
How are you?
I'll go get a beer in the kitchen.
Sure.
What's he doing here?
Did he come here with his wife?
His wife just gave birth.
-What's he doing here?
-Who knows?
I'll be right back.
What are you doing here?
Who are these people?
You know their names, their faces.
Everybody is here.
The one who published his first book,
which was a hit,
the artist who shows his work
in a storehouse,
the radio show hostess,
the publisher of your novel,
the girl who sings,
the poet who teaches workshops,
the bookstore owner, the art curator,
the guy who wrote over 15 novels,
the girl who won a prize
and became best-seller,
the girl who's dying to be published,
but isn't,
the filmmaker, the literary critic...
It's got like a slime,
that looks like detergent.
It could also look like something else.
Like what?
That's when I think it becomes sexual,
and you can't cut it...
You've always been sure of one thing:
you're nobody.
You have a master in wasting time.
This is not your voice.
It's the copy of the voice
of an American writer
you discovered recently.
You don't really have a voice.
You're searching for it.
You're choosing the words.
Selecting images.
You have the feeling
that this unique instant is lost
in the exact moment you're living it.
That's why you write:
you can't deal with loss.
Your head is like a jar
where you leave all those little things
you don't want to throw away just in case:
a screw, a nail, a take-away card...
a dry marker without cap, a safety pin,
buttons...
Yeah? More than Kyoto?
-Lau, would you pour me some rosé?
-Sure.
- It's chilled?
-It's great, yes.
-Here.
-Thank you.
How are you?
Do you have a light?
Sorry.
So how are you?
Terrible, and you?
I'm doing pretty well.
Why "terrible"?
I almost called you on Saturday,
but I remembered
you had your daughter's birthday.
What do they call it, slumber party?
You should've called.
I was at home and started to feel
a pain in my chest.
I thought I'd go by ER, get an ECG,
they'd say I'm okay,
and I'd be released in half an hour.
About 8:30, I went to Pirovano Hospital.
You know what time I left?
At 7 AM the following morning.
-What was wrong?
-Nothing, I didn't have anything.
You're on the edge,
on the coast of an uncharted island.
You're like a castaway
dragged by the current
with a bunch of objects
you're going to recycle to survive.
Blood pressure...
I thought your plan was cooler
than inviting me to the ER with you...
Any plan would have been better
than being at home
with ten hysterical kids.
-By myself.
-Ten?
The doctor saw me
and made me go to a room...
"Things that give a pathetic impression".
A man talking without being heard.
A woman who just wants to please a man
who barely notices her.
-Thank you.
-You're welcome.
So what did they say?
Do you get it? They gave me oxygen.
But what was it? A panic attack?
It was nothing.
I mean, the exams were perfect.
Muscular pain, or not even that.
A mystery.
And Patricia?
Patricia... is in Planet Baby.
She doesn't see anything.
Call me next time, we'll go out.
I was saying.
We can go out for a drink,
eat something. Yeah?
Well, I think I will call it a night.
Are you leaving?
I shouldn't even be here.
Your mind works out of sync.
You get your hopes up, you dream.
It's your childish spirit.
You've got a doll's house in your head.
Juli, Juli!
-Hey!
-Hey!
-How are you?
-Long time no see!
I didn't know you knew Java.
From elementary school.
I hadn't seen her in a long time.
Yes. I was kind of bored,
and I wanted to go get some wine.
Do you want anything?
Whisky.
No, I can't drink that.
I'm kidding.
-But red wine, white, something.
-Yes, whatever.
Wait here.
Big? Small?
I wrote a review.
-About what?
-Your novel.
I read it and wrote a review.
-Really?
-Yes, it really got me thinking...
-Thinking about...?
-Many things.
You're trying to be honest.
You're trying to tell the truth with lies.
You are where you always wanted to be,
but you want to run away.
They split up,
and she got back with a guy...
-Caro, we're leaving.
-Oh, no, stay.
I've got to work tomorrow.
Wait, I'll bring the cake.
Hold on, please.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Words melt like fake snowflakes
in a glass replica.
You need to shake the miniature winter
to create the illusion of a landscape.
-Three wishes.
-Yes.
You can't say what it is.
Where now? When now?
Go on.
Who now?
Thank you, honey!
-Do you want the strawberry?
-No.
I love a stranger
Since today, since yesterday
From the sky to the subways
I love the strange, no reason why
I won't do good, I'll do no harm
I don't want to ruin it, do it again
I don't want to see you again
From many years ago
From a train to another
From a king to a worker
In strangers I can find, I can see
The glow of imaginary
No, don't look for me,
I won't be there
I don't want to see you again
Leave me, understand me
There's nothing planned I want to do
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
Without face, without religion
I don't want to know you
Don't tell me your name
I won't be there
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
No, don't look for me
I won't be there
I don't want to see you again
Leave me, understand me
There's nothing planned I want to do
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
Without a face, without religion
I don't want to know you
Don't tell me your name
I won't be there
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
CHAPTER 4
-Would you read Actress?
-Yes.
Would you read Santos?
And you're Director.
And María Luisa...
Would you read it, Cynthia?
Of course, my pleasure.
Very well. Do you need
anything else to begin?
Yes. I'll read this.
Is this part of the play?
No. Well, I don't know, I don't think so.
It's like those quotes before the book
begins, like inspirational quotes.
-The epigraph.
-Yeah, they would be epigraphs.
But they could not be there.
Okay, let's begin. Are we ready?
Go on, read.
"The camera is an instrument that teaches
people to see when there is no camera."
Dorothea Lange.
"Yes, girls in the afternoon,
children in the gardens,
landscapes that sound
like perfect melodies,
verses from Rilke or Brooke,
generous enthusiasm of the young souls
that can change the world,
the beauty of sacrifice and idealism,
and love, and son, and friendship,
but what about the black void,
the flashing shiver of the abyss?"
Juan L. Ortiz, Water goes up.
Four. "Fauna." First rehearsal.
Santos and Julia are doing the scene
of the reunion with amnesia.
María Luisa and José Luis look at them.
You are José Luis, the director.
And the actress is called Julia.
I'll start.
I don't want to be rude,
but I honestly tell you I don't know
what you're talking about.
Fauna, it's me.
You look like a good man,
but, please, don't insist.
I don't know Fauna.
My name is Martina Céspedes,
and I haven't seen you, sir,
in all my life.
I don't understand why you torture me
like that, Fauna. I've already apologized.
Sir, if you don't leave, I'll have to ask
the concierge to make you leave by force.
Fauna, please, forgive me.
Do it for the love you once felt for me.
Please, don't be ridiculous.
What love are you talking about?
I wish, love, how pompous!
Fauna, it's me. What happened to you?
What have they done to you?
Sir, please, I'm asking you.
Cut, cut.
Very well, Santos,
it's going well, thank you.
Julia, listen, you have to accumulate,
or it's like a neverending story
that doesn't accumulate, understand?
The guy is desperate, because he
doesn't understand if she's lying or not.
In fact, it's something
that was never proved.
Exactly.
So you have to act that, that ambiguity,
do you understand?
You have to make us and him doubt
if you really have amnesia
or if you're just trying to get revenge.
I'm not saying it's easy.
I imagine something like...
José Luis sets to act a part of the scene
with Santos, who gets uncomfortable.
What does he say? Give me a cue.
Santos doesn't react.
Say some line.
Which?
Maybe from "Do it for the love
you once felt for me."
Yes, let's take it from there.
Say that line.
Fauna, please, forgive me.
Do it for the love you once felt for me.
Please, don't be ridiculous.
What love are you talking about?
I wish, love, how pompous!
Fauna, it's me. What happened to you?
What have they done to you?
Sir, please, I'm asking you.
If you insist on denying me,
I'll have to kidnap you.
I say there's a click there.
We should see she understands
or remembers something,
even if it's a subtle glow.
But we hadn't got to that part yet,
you cut me before.
Yeah? Anyway, it needed
more accumulation. Let's go again.
The director does it well, huh?
Why don't you read it once so Santos
can watch it and learn?
Sorry, can I say something?
I like the scene,
I think it's powerful by itself,
but thinking about the movie,
I don't understand
why we chose to tell such a weird moment
in the life of Fauna,
a moment that's clearly sad and traumatic,
that shows her weak and confused.
José, I don't mean to discredit you,
but wouldn't it be better to tell
when she starts dressing as a man
and she gets in the circles of poets
and becomes Fauno?
That could be good, too.
Because I think this story is beautiful
and full of sadness,
and I thank Luisa
for having told it to us,
and I think it's very useful
for all of us to know it,
but I wouldn't use it to build
the character of Fauno.
I think it doesn't do it justice.
Excuse me, in any case, it shows
her vulnerable, which she was, not weak.
That's what I like about this episode.
But she was 15 years old, José Luis.
Exactly, a foundational story.
One that she never wanted to tell again,
isn't that so, María Luisa?
We should respect that.
As if there weren't stories to choose
from Fauno's life.
We could make
a six-hour long movie if we wanted.
It's a story her mom wrote.
What?
The amnesia episode, it's a story,
she told it to me as a story.
That's in her notebooks of recovery.
Have you read those notebooks?
No, but they exist.
Who says so?
Mamina.
It's a story, I tell you, it's a lie.
Anyhow, it's fine.
Sorry to interrupt,
but it's not that important if it was
true or not for what we want to do.
What do you mean?
To me, it's essential.
Since when?
Since when? Since always.
What are you talking about, Julia?
To me, it's not the same if it's something
that happened to me or something I wrote.
Maybe it's something that happened to me,
but as it was an episode of amnesia,
I don't remember it,
and somebody told it to me,
and since I am ashamed,
I can only get close to that pain
through fiction,
through fictional creation.
Something mysterious is going on.
Santos and María Luisa stare at her
as if Fauna had become present,
and José Luis is a little frightened.
I think it's best if we call it a day
and let's resume at some other time.
I'm exhausted. I buried two horses today.
One. I buried Laica.
The horses thing
is about a previous scene.
Both men buried some horses
that belonged to Santos
that died because they were stung by bees.
Very well.
Let's move forward with the next one.
Shall we read?
Yes.
I still don't know
where this one will go.
There must be something
between the previous one and this one,
but I'm not sure.
Okay. Let's read.
Six. Confused people are dangerous.
The four rehearse the scene of Fauna's
confession in the circle of poets.
And why do you want to be my mother?
I don't want to be your mother,
I want to tell the story of your mother.
What story?
What do you mean?
The story of her life.
Her life, not a story, then.
One of her stories.
No, of course, her life.
Yes. Why?
Because I find it fascinating.
And I think many others
might be interested as well,
I want to make this movie
so more people can get to know her.
-Who?
-Your mother.
Mom is dead.
Yes, I know, that's why.
Yes.
Let's do it again.
Yes.
You begin. "Excuse me, good man."
Yes.
Excuse me, good man.
I wouldn't like to bother you,
my dear friend,
but I couldn't help noticing that forces
I can't begin to name combine within you.
I don't know what you mean,
my dearest friend.
Please, don't take offense at my audacity.
Of course not, be confident, talk.
Very well, my blessed friend,
be loyal and excuse my blunder,
but I'm acting for your good.
I don't want to waste your time,
but, believe me, I don't know how to act.
Friend...
Dearest friend, I'm in love with you.
Santos kisses her.
He stops reading, it looks like
he's improvising. Julia is startled.
What do you find so threatening?
What?
Why do you feel so threatened?
Threatened? I don't know, it's nothing.
-Yes.
-Yes what?
You've got something.
Julia hugs him.
Don't worry, my friend, you won't have
nothing to fear by my side.
Be careful, Santos, the girl is confused,
and confused people are dangerous.
Yes?
Luisa, do you feel that running away,
running from others, from other,
is an act of cowardice or of courage?
Are you talking about the girl?
No, I'm talking about us, here.
Running from the encounter?
-Yes.
-I don't know.
It depends on what you expect,
or what you yearn for.
Fauna wouldn't be Fauno
if she had shared her life.
That's clear. But does that make her
brave or the opposite?
How can a woman do what she has
to do and on top of that be a woman?
I don't understand. Is that poetry?
Is that from Fauna?
No! It's mine.
I wonder what makes a woman complete.
Having children,
deciding not to have them,
because she can, I mean, she can
have them, and she decides not to?
Why can't a woman have a child
away from her body, without knowing?
Why does the woman always,
inevitably, have to know?
How can I be an actress
and work with my body
and also be a mother, how?
How do I offer my body to more
than one thing, how do I split myself?
If I already split myself all the time,
but in another being,
in another living being...
How can I not be selfish
being a mother or not being one,
deciding not to ever be one?
I want to be a father
and conceive children away from me,
children that I don't even know exist
or that I do,
but without seeing them all the time!
What says that I am a woman,
what makes me behave like this,
so determined?
Why that obsession of knowing
and understanding, all the time,
what is what, who makes whom?
I can no longer respond
to that construction of weakness.
I also feel weak.
Do you want to make a movie
about the woman?
I wish I could be
the father of my children.
Fauna was a father to us.
Can we try the confession scene
with Fauno as himself?
-Would you do that?
-If you think it would help.
Yes. You begin: "Excuse me, good man."
Yes.
Excuse me, good man.
I wouldn't like to bother you,
my dear friend,
but I couldn't help noticing that forces
I can't begin to name combine within you.
I don't know what you mean,
my dearest friend.
Don't take offense at my audacity.
Of course not, be confident, talk.
Very well, my blessed friend,
be loyal and excuse my blunder,
but I'm acting for your good.
I don't want to waste your time,
but I don't know how to act.
Friend...
Dearest friend, I'm in love with you.
José Luis kisses Santos. He hugs him.
These texts are terrible. Who wrote them?
Me.
His Fauno is more feminine than mine.
Well. Very well. You worked very well.
Is this all you have?
-Plus the scene you read the other day.
-The one with the horses.
-The one with the horses, yes.
-Good.
And then there's another one
that would go in the middle,
and I have an idea of the end,
of what could happen,
but I'm not sure, so I wanted to see first
what you thought about it.
Very well. You worked very hard.
Who goes first?
Who goes first?
Well... Who goes first at one, at two...
Sole, do you want to go first?
Okay, I go.
First I wanted to tell you
that I liked it,
the characters are interesting.
By the way, the readings were brilliant.
Excellent.
You did a very good casting,
you've got your cast.
Sorry, Sole, I interrupted.
Go on.
I was saying I liked the characters.
Last time
we didn't get to see the women,
but now we did, and I love it.
In general, I felt the rhythm was flowing,
dialogues worked,
though sometimes I didn't fully understand
what was going on.
They're rehearsing, right?
Shall I explain it?
No, only this, actually.
For moments, they're rehearsing, right?
Right. They're rehearsing
some texts he wrote.
These older texts,
as if it was a period play.
I understood that, but sometimes
that fiction is interrupted.
I mean, the rehearsal.
That fiction within the play.
Yeah, in fact...
Let's hear the rest.
What did you see?
Sole, are you done?
I wanted to add that I think
the dialogues move smoothly,
and I'm interested in these layers,
the theater within the theater...
What you're writing is a play, isn't it?
It's the idea, yes.
Just that. Honestly I love it,
I think it's going very well.
I'd like to know more
about the characters,
what they're doing there,
what it is they're rehearsing,
to understand it more clearly.
But I like what we have so far,
I'm interested, I want more.
-Thank you.
-Very well.
I just wanted to add,
based on what she said,
that I'm writing a play,
but in the play,
the characters are rehearsing
for a movie they want to shoot.
I'm not sure the idea gets across.
Well, yes, don't explain.
Let's see what the others saw.
I don't know if you were finished,
Sole, sorry.
-Yes.
-Okay, well.
Who's next?
Camilo?
I agree with Sole,
I think the dialogues are fine,
they run smoothly.
I don't visualize where they are,
I don't know if it's
some kind of abstract place,
or do you have a fantasy
of where this takes place?
No, it's at the siblings' house,
Santos' and María Luisa's.
Oh, so they're siblings.
I didn't get that.
It's not explicit in this part.
That's in a different scene.
I don't think I read the previous part.
Santos and María Luisa
are Fauna's children.
-Right?
-Yes.
-Isn't she Fauna?
-No.
No, of course,
her character is Julia, the actress.
I'm lost. Who is Fauna?
-Shall I explain?
-No. Let's hear the rest.
María Luisa and Santos are
Fauna's children who live in the jungle.
-Is that right?
-Yes.
Yes, in the Littoral.
Well, it's the jungle, too. It's the same.
And these two people from the city
come to make a movie
about their mom. Am I right?
That's right.
We need to read the previous scenes.
What were you saying, Camilo?
Reading these scenes,
I don't get that about the Littoral.
I don't know if it's important,
I'm just saying what I felt.
Anyway, I don't think it's a problem
if it's suspended in a no-place,
or an abstract place.
I don't know how attached you are
to this Littoral image,
but I think it could work
in another space, too.
Yes, pretty attached.
And I agree with Sole.
I'd like to know more
about these characters.
Who are they?
Who is this actress, this director?
What kind of people are they?
-Very well. Anything else?
-Just one thing.
Is it possible there's some tension
between them?
It's not explicit, but they're always
competing, or mistreating each other.
Yes. The idea is they're lovers.
They just broke up.
So there's this tension all the time.
He used to mistreat her,
she got tired of it,
and now she's fascinated
with these siblings she met,
with Fauna's world.
But did Fauna exist?
Yes. Well, in the reality
of the play, she did.
She was their mother.
No, I mean the real reality, this, ours.
Not in this one, no.
She might have existed,
but anyway this is fiction.
Yes, as far as I know.
Very well. Anything else? No?
Then I go.
First, I want to congratulate you
because you worked very well.
I know it sounds schoolish
to congratulate,
but it's important to say it,
because you worked very well,
and you're going to a good place.
The other day,
when we read the other scene,
you told me you wanted to write a play
where a play was being rehearsed...
A movie.
Okay, but here,
when they rehearse for the movie,
they're not in front of a camera,
so it's like a theatrical rehearsal.
Honestly, I thought it was difficult
or I thought it was pretentious.
I couldn't see it.
But as I was reading it,
it's clear, you see it in the scenes.
Dialogues flow,
and somehow it becomes clear,
for instance,
through the character of Santos,
who starts to blur the difference
between reality and fiction,
or the actress, who becomes
more and more raptured
by the presence of Fauna,
and that allows her
to liberate areas within herself
she wouldn't otherwise allow to liberate.
As if characters were grounded
in a sort of unconscious territory,
and that's a territory where they all
converge, as a no linear space,
a space with no time,
I thought, from the material.
That, on the one hand.
On the other hand, I think it's important
to resume what Sole was saying
about the idea of the theater
within the theater,
and in that sense
I think of Calderón, Shakespeare.
I think in Arlt, too, of course.
It's a classic topic.
You know that, don't you?
Since the Renaissance,
baroque in the theater, at least,
is associated to the idea of truth.
I mean, Hamlet, which is
the emblematic play about this.
Hamlet writes a play within a play
to figure out his father's assassination.
In the play he writes,
called "The Mousetrap,"
Hamlet writes that a king
is assassinated by his brother
to marry the queen and get the kingdom.
The same story as Hamlet, but smaller.
A mise en abyme of Hamlet's story.
But when he's preparing the play,
Hamlet says,
"The play's the rope wherein
I'll catch the conscience of the king."
And there he establishes, I think,
a relation of this I'm saying
about truth and fiction.
Or also about dream and wakefulness.
What comes first? What is life?
An illusion, a shadow, a fiction...
Calderón.
It's not the same topic,
but when Hamlet writes the play, he says,
"the play's the rope wherein
I'll catch the conscience of the king."
That phrase gives me the idea
of fiction as an access to truth.
We can find that idea
throughout the history of literature.
And I can think, closer to us,
for instance,
when Piglia recovers Lacan
to think fiction.
I don't know if Piglia recovers him,
but Lacan is severe and he says,
"Truth has the structure of fiction."
That's where I get this notion
of fiction as a way to access truth.
UNLIMITED EDITION
Excuse me.
I noticed you were struggling
with your eyesight.
I've got an hour to spare.
If you don't mind,
I could read a page or two for you.
Please.
I can't see well with my right eye.
I try to read with my left eye,
and it's exhausting.
I have an appointment
with the eye doctor next week.
We'll see what they say.
I'm afraid it might be cataracts
and I'll need surgery.
"Capitalist realism
can be seen as a belief:
that there's no alternative
to capitalism.
Fundamentally,
it's a pathology of the left.
Ultimately,
what capitalist realism amounts to
is the elimination of left-wing politics
and the naturalization of neoliberalism.
It can be seen as an attitude
of resignation and fatalism
in the face of a sense that all we can do
is accommodate ourselves
to the dominance of capitalism,
and limit our hopes
to containing its worst excesses."
"Instead of capitalist realism
ending in 2008 or 2011,
it could be argued
that it was reinforced in 2013.
The austerity measures
that have been implemented
constituted an intensification.
Those measures
couldn't have been introduced
unless there was still a widespread sense
that there is no alternative
to liberal capitalism."
"Capitalist realism
is about a corrosion
of social imagination:
after 30 years of neoliberal domination,
we are only just beginning to be able
to imagine alternatives to capitalism."
Is the author Argentinian?
No, he's English.
Mark Fisher.
He killed himself three years ago.
Well. I wish you luck
in your visit to the eye doctor.
-Thank you.
-You're welcome.
Edgardo,
I'm going to check your eyesight.
I'm going to cover your left eye.
Can you see the letters over there?
No, nothing.
And those over there?
No, I think... no.
I can't see them either.
And now?
Nothing?
-No, no.
-Those ones?
So, doctor?
You have a mature cataract
in your right eye.
An incipient one in your left eye.
I appreciate the fact that you didn't come
with a diagnosis,
but you need surgery.
Can I make an appointment?
Yes, you can have surgery soon,
but don't you prefer to do it in Paris?
In Paris I have the advantage
that Social Security pays for it,
but if I go there,
I need to see the physician
who will then refer me to the eye doctor.
There's a chance the eye doctor
is not a surgeon as you are.
Before I know it, with all the waiting,
appointments, whatnot,
I'll have to spend
two, three months in Paris.
Spending three months in Paris
when you're 30...
When I was 30, yes.
-See you soon.
-See you soon.
Can your father still read
without glasses?
That's right.
Remarkable.
I remember at school breaks,
we were the only ones who would read.
But your father also played soccer,
so he was spared
of the "faggot likes reading."
-Bye.
-Okay, bye.
Can I take off this ridiculous cap?
No, Edgardo, you can't.
It's the protocol, you have to wear it.
Besides, your curls
might fall over your eyes.
I'm going to monitor your heart
with these electrodes.
In the meantime,
tell me what medicines you take.
In the morning,
Losartan 50 for my blood pressure.
Two hours after eating, Zytiga,
which is the medicine
that controls my prostate cancer,
alongside a minimum dose of cortisone:
five milligrams of Prednisone.
In the afternoon, Tardyferon,
which is an iron supplement,
because my red blood cells
are a little low.
At night, not every day,
but if I've been...
agitated or anxious during the day,
I take half a milligram of Xanax.
Just that, but not every day.
What about the fun drugs?
Not anymore.
Take a deep breath.
Very good, now breathe out.
Good morning, Edgardo.
It's time for surgery.
It's time to be reborn.
Great.
Edgardo, surgery is over.
Everything went perfect.
This is an eye protector.
That's great.
It's a little like
A Clockwork Orange, isn't it?
Kind of.
Bye!
SUCCESS
Excuse me for interrupting.
I have a problem with my sight.
I can barely see with my right eye,
so I use my left eye, but I get tired.
I need to finish an article
for this weekend,
and I thought maybe you could read
just one page for me
from the book I'm working with.
A LOVER'S DISCOURSE: FRAGMENTS
Hello?
Hi. Serafín.
Come in.
-Osvaldo.
-Serafín.
Come in, come in.
CHAPTER 2
It's Earl Grey, do you like it?
I don't know, I haven't tried it.
Does it have sugar in it?
It is a sin adding sugar
to this kind of tea.
Lesson one: respect flavors.
I don't like bitter flavors.
You don't need to define flavors
before you've tasted something.
Take a sip and tell me what you think.
It's good.
What has your grandmother
told you about me?
That you're a learned man,
different from everybody else in town,
that you read a lot and wrote very well.
I'd rather you didn't mention the town.
Your grandmother was very kind,
but the rest was awful.
Thank God, I shook that small town
off my system.
She sends her regards.
Thank you, send her mine.
What kind of things do you write?
I write little things...
For little things,
you might as well not write at all.
Literature does not need "little things."
Sorry.
You don't have to apologize to me,
but to centuries of accumulated art.
Can I read something to you?
No, not right now.
You seem very distracted.
You have to be focused to write.
I'm going to read to you
something I wrote today.
I haven't read it to anyone. It's a draft.
"In my wildest dreams, you comfort me.
Trembling with sorrow,
my hurt soul awaits its relief.
A treacherous spear pierced it,
and it bleeds.
Oh, pain, oh, pain,
oh, pain and despair.
Poor me, hurt heart,
come and cure this deep wound
that throbs in the heart of the night.
Am I awake?
Am I asleep?
Your indifference has hurt me deeply,
I can't estimate
the size of your contempt.
It is too late now.
You come for me,
and I ask you to go away.
No, not now, I want to bleed out in peace.
It is too late for a rescue.
Let me fade out slowly,
as beautifully as a simple flower withers.
Don't come near me,
don't, don't look at me.
This pain is mine, whole, complete.
It is my only possession,
don't take it away from me.
Oh, poor me, oh, poor me."
It's nice.
We need to go beyond nice and ugly
in our literary appreciations.
At first I thought it would rhyme.
It's free verse.
Not everything has to rhyme.
I just said it, I don't like rhyme either.
When you learn to rhyme properly,
you can decide whether you like it or not.
Sorry.
No, don't apologize to me...
but to all rhymed poetry
that came before you.
More tea?
No, thank you.
I don't know why I offered.
It must be cold already.
I like lukewarm or cold.
I don't like hot things at all.
Oh.
Come in.
Wait here, please.
I'm not decent.
Today I will take you out to tea
at a proper place.
What are you going to do?
You said you were going to stay.
I told you...
Please!
I bet you had never been
in a place like this.
Honestly, no.
The chairs haven't changed
since I can remember.
I don't usually go out to cafés.
A writer needs to find a café
that suits him.
The café is the perfect creation.
A little bit of get-together...
a little bit of distraction...
observation, concentration.
Coffee helps.
I write in my grandma's kitchen
while she watches TV.
TV... Television
is the plague for writing.
I like TV.
So be it.
Sometimes I write in my room,
but not at night, not before going to bed,
because I keep thinking and I can't sleep.
And sometimes I write in the yard,
with the radio on.
If it's hot, I shower with the hose.
I splash all over the notebooks
and it's all a mess.
Later I copy it on the computer,
and it's all neat.
The only thing I like about cafés
is the windows.
People go by next to us
and they don't even know we're here.
It's a good place to observe daily life.
It's like being invisible.
I'd like not to exist.
Are we going to read
or to talk about literature?
No, this is just distraction.
In order to write, you need to forget.
Dispersion is the hygiene of writing.
I'm always distracted.
Everybody tells me so.
If you notice everybody tells you so,
you're not so distracted.
Maybe.
Or do you pretend to be distracted
to provoke?
Sometimes I don't get you.
I think you don't have a sense of humor.
Maybe. I don't laugh at just anything.
Hey! Don't get so serious.
We're here to have a good time.
We're getting to know each other.
If you're going to take everything I say
so seriously,
you'll feel intimidated.
Maybe, I don't know.
I feel I need some air.
I'll finish my coffee and off we go.
Do you want another one?
No, if I drink more coffee I won't sleep.
I'd rather leave.
Who is it?
I'm talking to you!
I'm sick of you. I'm done.
I don't want this anymore.
Stop it.
I'm going mad, I need clarity.
Make up your mind.
I don't like it this way.
Decide what you're going to do,
I can't stand this anymore.
Wait here. Today we'll go for a walk.
Where to?
A writer is made of walks.
As you say.
Can I read something to you today?
How impatient!
Young people only yearn
for accomplishment and approval.
Your time to read will come.
You will realize when it is timely
to share your writing with me.
Not yet.
I don't know you well enough,
and I might misjudge you.
Writing has to do with waiting.
Sorry, I don't know the rules.
The only rule is patience, my dear.
My grandma says I eat too fast,
almost without breathing.
Young people are always rushing.
You should give yourself more time.
Thank you for the advice.
You don't need to thank me.
You listened to my poem and you liked it.
I should thank you.
I liked it quite a lot.
As a reward, I invite you to a coffee
and we can continue our meeting.
No, I don't like drinking coffee,
it makes me nervous.
Also, I have to go back soon,
I prefer being outside.
As you wish.
This freshness that takes over my limbs...
The kindness of clear water
and its transparent modesty.
Oh, water, everything flowing...
everything becomes sea and tears.
Oh, water, wash away my pain.
Oh, water, offer me a final baptism.
Is it free verse, too?
It's so free I have just created it.
Oh, how embarrassing.
Help me get to the bathroom.
How embarrassing.
Open the shower.
Get out. Get out.
You can read something if you want.
I'll choose randomly, they're all alike.
No preface, please.
"Grandma doesn't fall asleep
until I come back.
Sometimes it's too late
and she fights sleep.
I come, she serves me food,
she asks me how it was,
and while I tell her, sometimes,
she disguises a yawn.
In the kitchen,
she keeps the same tablecloth,
a pale yellow oilcloth.
She keeps it spotless.
If I let a crumble fall,
she picks it up instantly.
The oilcloth smells of lemon,
that smell mixes with the smell of food.
I tell her and she smiles.
I told her I liked a dark-haired boy,
who has a band but sings awful
and is pretty funny.
I like him so much it hurts,
and I don't think he notices me.
She says you never know the ways of love,
and she keeps talking
while she brings me fruit
on a little saucer
with a knife and a fork."
CHAPTER 3
All the action...
Sure.
-Did you talk to them?
-With Disney?
Does that happen in your supplement?
No...
We'll avoid it at all costs.
I never did that at least.
-I'm in management.
-Like you have people in charge?
Sort of.
You're a woman in her thirties
recently separated.
You have a five-year-old daughter
who is spending the night
with her father and his new partner.
Until recently, when you were asked,
"What are you?"
you didn't know what to answer.
Wife. Mother.
Eternal student.
Employee.
Guys.
These are veal.
You published a book.
A novel about a separated woman
with a young daughter.
So now when you're asked,
you can say, "Writer. I'm a writer."
What things do you care about?
What do you know
about books, movies, poetry,
politics, philosophy,
current events, literature?
I don't know. Ask Juan.
-I'll take these, but--
-How delicious.
If you could ask for a wish right now,
you would ask for money and time
to write and read.
But the problem
isn't the lack of time or money.
Before you can devote yourself
exclusively to reading and writing,
you need to know it makes sense.
Certainty needs to be built
around some kind of faith.
The secret is to worship
not the important or the transcendent,
the magnificent, the sublime,
but the trivial, the insignificant;
the everyday stuff, the little things.
Otherwise, writing becomes
an impossible task destined for failure.
Now you belong to a world
you've always wanted to be a part of.
But from the inside,
that world is just like any other world.
At the same time,
the camera is behind the boy.
You see the scene through...
Where have you been, Juliette?
I've been here all the time. You?
I ran into Esteban and Marcos,
and Luciana and Agustina.
Have you met Agustina?
-Cohen?
-No, Chávez.
Pili's friend.
She opened a sort of gallery in Almagro.
She publishes fanzines with Cecilia,
where Carlos once published some poems.
We met her at the reading in Panal.
I know who she is,
but she doesn't know me.
Well, I don't know. What's up with...?
Nothing.
Hey! What's up?
Caro, darling!
What's up with you, girl?
-Everything cool?
-Cool.
This is Julieta, we studied
Literary Theory and Analysis together.
How are you?
I'll go get a beer in the kitchen.
Sure.
What's he doing here?
Did he come here with his wife?
His wife just gave birth.
-What's he doing here?
-Who knows?
I'll be right back.
What are you doing here?
Who are these people?
You know their names, their faces.
Everybody is here.
The one who published his first book,
which was a hit,
the artist who shows his work
in a storehouse,
the radio show hostess,
the publisher of your novel,
the girl who sings,
the poet who teaches workshops,
the bookstore owner, the art curator,
the guy who wrote over 15 novels,
the girl who won a prize
and became best-seller,
the girl who's dying to be published,
but isn't,
the filmmaker, the literary critic...
It's got like a slime,
that looks like detergent.
It could also look like something else.
Like what?
That's when I think it becomes sexual,
and you can't cut it...
You've always been sure of one thing:
you're nobody.
You have a master in wasting time.
This is not your voice.
It's the copy of the voice
of an American writer
you discovered recently.
You don't really have a voice.
You're searching for it.
You're choosing the words.
Selecting images.
You have the feeling
that this unique instant is lost
in the exact moment you're living it.
That's why you write:
you can't deal with loss.
Your head is like a jar
where you leave all those little things
you don't want to throw away just in case:
a screw, a nail, a take-away card...
a dry marker without cap, a safety pin,
buttons...
Yeah? More than Kyoto?
-Lau, would you pour me some rosé?
-Sure.
- It's chilled?
-It's great, yes.
-Here.
-Thank you.
How are you?
Do you have a light?
Sorry.
So how are you?
Terrible, and you?
I'm doing pretty well.
Why "terrible"?
I almost called you on Saturday,
but I remembered
you had your daughter's birthday.
What do they call it, slumber party?
You should've called.
I was at home and started to feel
a pain in my chest.
I thought I'd go by ER, get an ECG,
they'd say I'm okay,
and I'd be released in half an hour.
About 8:30, I went to Pirovano Hospital.
You know what time I left?
At 7 AM the following morning.
-What was wrong?
-Nothing, I didn't have anything.
You're on the edge,
on the coast of an uncharted island.
You're like a castaway
dragged by the current
with a bunch of objects
you're going to recycle to survive.
Blood pressure...
I thought your plan was cooler
than inviting me to the ER with you...
Any plan would have been better
than being at home
with ten hysterical kids.
-By myself.
-Ten?
The doctor saw me
and made me go to a room...
"Things that give a pathetic impression".
A man talking without being heard.
A woman who just wants to please a man
who barely notices her.
-Thank you.
-You're welcome.
So what did they say?
Do you get it? They gave me oxygen.
But what was it? A panic attack?
It was nothing.
I mean, the exams were perfect.
Muscular pain, or not even that.
A mystery.
And Patricia?
Patricia... is in Planet Baby.
She doesn't see anything.
Call me next time, we'll go out.
I was saying.
We can go out for a drink,
eat something. Yeah?
Well, I think I will call it a night.
Are you leaving?
I shouldn't even be here.
Your mind works out of sync.
You get your hopes up, you dream.
It's your childish spirit.
You've got a doll's house in your head.
Juli, Juli!
-Hey!
-Hey!
-How are you?
-Long time no see!
I didn't know you knew Java.
From elementary school.
I hadn't seen her in a long time.
Yes. I was kind of bored,
and I wanted to go get some wine.
Do you want anything?
Whisky.
No, I can't drink that.
I'm kidding.
-But red wine, white, something.
-Yes, whatever.
Wait here.
Big? Small?
I wrote a review.
-About what?
-Your novel.
I read it and wrote a review.
-Really?
-Yes, it really got me thinking...
-Thinking about...?
-Many things.
You're trying to be honest.
You're trying to tell the truth with lies.
You are where you always wanted to be,
but you want to run away.
They split up,
and she got back with a guy...
-Caro, we're leaving.
-Oh, no, stay.
I've got to work tomorrow.
Wait, I'll bring the cake.
Hold on, please.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Words melt like fake snowflakes
in a glass replica.
You need to shake the miniature winter
to create the illusion of a landscape.
-Three wishes.
-Yes.
You can't say what it is.
Where now? When now?
Go on.
Who now?
Thank you, honey!
-Do you want the strawberry?
-No.
I love a stranger
Since today, since yesterday
From the sky to the subways
I love the strange, no reason why
I won't do good, I'll do no harm
I don't want to ruin it, do it again
I don't want to see you again
From many years ago
From a train to another
From a king to a worker
In strangers I can find, I can see
The glow of imaginary
No, don't look for me,
I won't be there
I don't want to see you again
Leave me, understand me
There's nothing planned I want to do
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
Without face, without religion
I don't want to know you
Don't tell me your name
I won't be there
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
No, don't look for me
I won't be there
I don't want to see you again
Leave me, understand me
There's nothing planned I want to do
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
Without a face, without religion
I don't want to know you
Don't tell me your name
I won't be there
I have surrendered to a love
Without you
CHAPTER 4
-Would you read Actress?
-Yes.
Would you read Santos?
And you're Director.
And María Luisa...
Would you read it, Cynthia?
Of course, my pleasure.
Very well. Do you need
anything else to begin?
Yes. I'll read this.
Is this part of the play?
No. Well, I don't know, I don't think so.
It's like those quotes before the book
begins, like inspirational quotes.
-The epigraph.
-Yeah, they would be epigraphs.
But they could not be there.
Okay, let's begin. Are we ready?
Go on, read.
"The camera is an instrument that teaches
people to see when there is no camera."
Dorothea Lange.
"Yes, girls in the afternoon,
children in the gardens,
landscapes that sound
like perfect melodies,
verses from Rilke or Brooke,
generous enthusiasm of the young souls
that can change the world,
the beauty of sacrifice and idealism,
and love, and son, and friendship,
but what about the black void,
the flashing shiver of the abyss?"
Juan L. Ortiz, Water goes up.
Four. "Fauna." First rehearsal.
Santos and Julia are doing the scene
of the reunion with amnesia.
María Luisa and José Luis look at them.
You are José Luis, the director.
And the actress is called Julia.
I'll start.
I don't want to be rude,
but I honestly tell you I don't know
what you're talking about.
Fauna, it's me.
You look like a good man,
but, please, don't insist.
I don't know Fauna.
My name is Martina Céspedes,
and I haven't seen you, sir,
in all my life.
I don't understand why you torture me
like that, Fauna. I've already apologized.
Sir, if you don't leave, I'll have to ask
the concierge to make you leave by force.
Fauna, please, forgive me.
Do it for the love you once felt for me.
Please, don't be ridiculous.
What love are you talking about?
I wish, love, how pompous!
Fauna, it's me. What happened to you?
What have they done to you?
Sir, please, I'm asking you.
Cut, cut.
Very well, Santos,
it's going well, thank you.
Julia, listen, you have to accumulate,
or it's like a neverending story
that doesn't accumulate, understand?
The guy is desperate, because he
doesn't understand if she's lying or not.
In fact, it's something
that was never proved.
Exactly.
So you have to act that, that ambiguity,
do you understand?
You have to make us and him doubt
if you really have amnesia
or if you're just trying to get revenge.
I'm not saying it's easy.
I imagine something like...
José Luis sets to act a part of the scene
with Santos, who gets uncomfortable.
What does he say? Give me a cue.
Santos doesn't react.
Say some line.
Which?
Maybe from "Do it for the love
you once felt for me."
Yes, let's take it from there.
Say that line.
Fauna, please, forgive me.
Do it for the love you once felt for me.
Please, don't be ridiculous.
What love are you talking about?
I wish, love, how pompous!
Fauna, it's me. What happened to you?
What have they done to you?
Sir, please, I'm asking you.
If you insist on denying me,
I'll have to kidnap you.
I say there's a click there.
We should see she understands
or remembers something,
even if it's a subtle glow.
But we hadn't got to that part yet,
you cut me before.
Yeah? Anyway, it needed
more accumulation. Let's go again.
The director does it well, huh?
Why don't you read it once so Santos
can watch it and learn?
Sorry, can I say something?
I like the scene,
I think it's powerful by itself,
but thinking about the movie,
I don't understand
why we chose to tell such a weird moment
in the life of Fauna,
a moment that's clearly sad and traumatic,
that shows her weak and confused.
José, I don't mean to discredit you,
but wouldn't it be better to tell
when she starts dressing as a man
and she gets in the circles of poets
and becomes Fauno?
That could be good, too.
Because I think this story is beautiful
and full of sadness,
and I thank Luisa
for having told it to us,
and I think it's very useful
for all of us to know it,
but I wouldn't use it to build
the character of Fauno.
I think it doesn't do it justice.
Excuse me, in any case, it shows
her vulnerable, which she was, not weak.
That's what I like about this episode.
But she was 15 years old, José Luis.
Exactly, a foundational story.
One that she never wanted to tell again,
isn't that so, María Luisa?
We should respect that.
As if there weren't stories to choose
from Fauno's life.
We could make
a six-hour long movie if we wanted.
It's a story her mom wrote.
What?
The amnesia episode, it's a story,
she told it to me as a story.
That's in her notebooks of recovery.
Have you read those notebooks?
No, but they exist.
Who says so?
Mamina.
It's a story, I tell you, it's a lie.
Anyhow, it's fine.
Sorry to interrupt,
but it's not that important if it was
true or not for what we want to do.
What do you mean?
To me, it's essential.
Since when?
Since when? Since always.
What are you talking about, Julia?
To me, it's not the same if it's something
that happened to me or something I wrote.
Maybe it's something that happened to me,
but as it was an episode of amnesia,
I don't remember it,
and somebody told it to me,
and since I am ashamed,
I can only get close to that pain
through fiction,
through fictional creation.
Something mysterious is going on.
Santos and María Luisa stare at her
as if Fauna had become present,
and José Luis is a little frightened.
I think it's best if we call it a day
and let's resume at some other time.
I'm exhausted. I buried two horses today.
One. I buried Laica.
The horses thing
is about a previous scene.
Both men buried some horses
that belonged to Santos
that died because they were stung by bees.
Very well.
Let's move forward with the next one.
Shall we read?
Yes.
I still don't know
where this one will go.
There must be something
between the previous one and this one,
but I'm not sure.
Okay. Let's read.
Six. Confused people are dangerous.
The four rehearse the scene of Fauna's
confession in the circle of poets.
And why do you want to be my mother?
I don't want to be your mother,
I want to tell the story of your mother.
What story?
What do you mean?
The story of her life.
Her life, not a story, then.
One of her stories.
No, of course, her life.
Yes. Why?
Because I find it fascinating.
And I think many others
might be interested as well,
I want to make this movie
so more people can get to know her.
-Who?
-Your mother.
Mom is dead.
Yes, I know, that's why.
Yes.
Let's do it again.
Yes.
You begin. "Excuse me, good man."
Yes.
Excuse me, good man.
I wouldn't like to bother you,
my dear friend,
but I couldn't help noticing that forces
I can't begin to name combine within you.
I don't know what you mean,
my dearest friend.
Please, don't take offense at my audacity.
Of course not, be confident, talk.
Very well, my blessed friend,
be loyal and excuse my blunder,
but I'm acting for your good.
I don't want to waste your time,
but, believe me, I don't know how to act.
Friend...
Dearest friend, I'm in love with you.
Santos kisses her.
He stops reading, it looks like
he's improvising. Julia is startled.
What do you find so threatening?
What?
Why do you feel so threatened?
Threatened? I don't know, it's nothing.
-Yes.
-Yes what?
You've got something.
Julia hugs him.
Don't worry, my friend, you won't have
nothing to fear by my side.
Be careful, Santos, the girl is confused,
and confused people are dangerous.
Yes?
Luisa, do you feel that running away,
running from others, from other,
is an act of cowardice or of courage?
Are you talking about the girl?
No, I'm talking about us, here.
Running from the encounter?
-Yes.
-I don't know.
It depends on what you expect,
or what you yearn for.
Fauna wouldn't be Fauno
if she had shared her life.
That's clear. But does that make her
brave or the opposite?
How can a woman do what she has
to do and on top of that be a woman?
I don't understand. Is that poetry?
Is that from Fauna?
No! It's mine.
I wonder what makes a woman complete.
Having children,
deciding not to have them,
because she can, I mean, she can
have them, and she decides not to?
Why can't a woman have a child
away from her body, without knowing?
Why does the woman always,
inevitably, have to know?
How can I be an actress
and work with my body
and also be a mother, how?
How do I offer my body to more
than one thing, how do I split myself?
If I already split myself all the time,
but in another being,
in another living being...
How can I not be selfish
being a mother or not being one,
deciding not to ever be one?
I want to be a father
and conceive children away from me,
children that I don't even know exist
or that I do,
but without seeing them all the time!
What says that I am a woman,
what makes me behave like this,
so determined?
Why that obsession of knowing
and understanding, all the time,
what is what, who makes whom?
I can no longer respond
to that construction of weakness.
I also feel weak.
Do you want to make a movie
about the woman?
I wish I could be
the father of my children.
Fauna was a father to us.
Can we try the confession scene
with Fauno as himself?
-Would you do that?
-If you think it would help.
Yes. You begin: "Excuse me, good man."
Yes.
Excuse me, good man.
I wouldn't like to bother you,
my dear friend,
but I couldn't help noticing that forces
I can't begin to name combine within you.
I don't know what you mean,
my dearest friend.
Don't take offense at my audacity.
Of course not, be confident, talk.
Very well, my blessed friend,
be loyal and excuse my blunder,
but I'm acting for your good.
I don't want to waste your time,
but I don't know how to act.
Friend...
Dearest friend, I'm in love with you.
José Luis kisses Santos. He hugs him.
These texts are terrible. Who wrote them?
Me.
His Fauno is more feminine than mine.
Well. Very well. You worked very well.
Is this all you have?
-Plus the scene you read the other day.
-The one with the horses.
-The one with the horses, yes.
-Good.
And then there's another one
that would go in the middle,
and I have an idea of the end,
of what could happen,
but I'm not sure, so I wanted to see first
what you thought about it.
Very well. You worked very hard.
Who goes first?
Who goes first?
Well... Who goes first at one, at two...
Sole, do you want to go first?
Okay, I go.
First I wanted to tell you
that I liked it,
the characters are interesting.
By the way, the readings were brilliant.
Excellent.
You did a very good casting,
you've got your cast.
Sorry, Sole, I interrupted.
Go on.
I was saying I liked the characters.
Last time
we didn't get to see the women,
but now we did, and I love it.
In general, I felt the rhythm was flowing,
dialogues worked,
though sometimes I didn't fully understand
what was going on.
They're rehearsing, right?
Shall I explain it?
No, only this, actually.
For moments, they're rehearsing, right?
Right. They're rehearsing
some texts he wrote.
These older texts,
as if it was a period play.
I understood that, but sometimes
that fiction is interrupted.
I mean, the rehearsal.
That fiction within the play.
Yeah, in fact...
Let's hear the rest.
What did you see?
Sole, are you done?
I wanted to add that I think
the dialogues move smoothly,
and I'm interested in these layers,
the theater within the theater...
What you're writing is a play, isn't it?
It's the idea, yes.
Just that. Honestly I love it,
I think it's going very well.
I'd like to know more
about the characters,
what they're doing there,
what it is they're rehearsing,
to understand it more clearly.
But I like what we have so far,
I'm interested, I want more.
-Thank you.
-Very well.
I just wanted to add,
based on what she said,
that I'm writing a play,
but in the play,
the characters are rehearsing
for a movie they want to shoot.
I'm not sure the idea gets across.
Well, yes, don't explain.
Let's see what the others saw.
I don't know if you were finished,
Sole, sorry.
-Yes.
-Okay, well.
Who's next?
Camilo?
I agree with Sole,
I think the dialogues are fine,
they run smoothly.
I don't visualize where they are,
I don't know if it's
some kind of abstract place,
or do you have a fantasy
of where this takes place?
No, it's at the siblings' house,
Santos' and María Luisa's.
Oh, so they're siblings.
I didn't get that.
It's not explicit in this part.
That's in a different scene.
I don't think I read the previous part.
Santos and María Luisa
are Fauna's children.
-Right?
-Yes.
-Isn't she Fauna?
-No.
No, of course,
her character is Julia, the actress.
I'm lost. Who is Fauna?
-Shall I explain?
-No. Let's hear the rest.
María Luisa and Santos are
Fauna's children who live in the jungle.
-Is that right?
-Yes.
Yes, in the Littoral.
Well, it's the jungle, too. It's the same.
And these two people from the city
come to make a movie
about their mom. Am I right?
That's right.
We need to read the previous scenes.
What were you saying, Camilo?
Reading these scenes,
I don't get that about the Littoral.
I don't know if it's important,
I'm just saying what I felt.
Anyway, I don't think it's a problem
if it's suspended in a no-place,
or an abstract place.
I don't know how attached you are
to this Littoral image,
but I think it could work
in another space, too.
Yes, pretty attached.
And I agree with Sole.
I'd like to know more
about these characters.
Who are they?
Who is this actress, this director?
What kind of people are they?
-Very well. Anything else?
-Just one thing.
Is it possible there's some tension
between them?
It's not explicit, but they're always
competing, or mistreating each other.
Yes. The idea is they're lovers.
They just broke up.
So there's this tension all the time.
He used to mistreat her,
she got tired of it,
and now she's fascinated
with these siblings she met,
with Fauna's world.
But did Fauna exist?
Yes. Well, in the reality
of the play, she did.
She was their mother.
No, I mean the real reality, this, ours.
Not in this one, no.
She might have existed,
but anyway this is fiction.
Yes, as far as I know.
Very well. Anything else? No?
Then I go.
First, I want to congratulate you
because you worked very well.
I know it sounds schoolish
to congratulate,
but it's important to say it,
because you worked very well,
and you're going to a good place.
The other day,
when we read the other scene,
you told me you wanted to write a play
where a play was being rehearsed...
A movie.
Okay, but here,
when they rehearse for the movie,
they're not in front of a camera,
so it's like a theatrical rehearsal.
Honestly, I thought it was difficult
or I thought it was pretentious.
I couldn't see it.
But as I was reading it,
it's clear, you see it in the scenes.
Dialogues flow,
and somehow it becomes clear,
for instance,
through the character of Santos,
who starts to blur the difference
between reality and fiction,
or the actress, who becomes
more and more raptured
by the presence of Fauna,
and that allows her
to liberate areas within herself
she wouldn't otherwise allow to liberate.
As if characters were grounded
in a sort of unconscious territory,
and that's a territory where they all
converge, as a no linear space,
a space with no time,
I thought, from the material.
That, on the one hand.
On the other hand, I think it's important
to resume what Sole was saying
about the idea of the theater
within the theater,
and in that sense
I think of Calderón, Shakespeare.
I think in Arlt, too, of course.
It's a classic topic.
You know that, don't you?
Since the Renaissance,
baroque in the theater, at least,
is associated to the idea of truth.
I mean, Hamlet, which is
the emblematic play about this.
Hamlet writes a play within a play
to figure out his father's assassination.
In the play he writes,
called "The Mousetrap,"
Hamlet writes that a king
is assassinated by his brother
to marry the queen and get the kingdom.
The same story as Hamlet, but smaller.
A mise en abyme of Hamlet's story.
But when he's preparing the play,
Hamlet says,
"The play's the rope wherein
I'll catch the conscience of the king."
And there he establishes, I think,
a relation of this I'm saying
about truth and fiction.
Or also about dream and wakefulness.
What comes first? What is life?
An illusion, a shadow, a fiction...
Calderón.
It's not the same topic,
but when Hamlet writes the play, he says,
"the play's the rope wherein
I'll catch the conscience of the king."
That phrase gives me the idea
of fiction as an access to truth.
We can find that idea
throughout the history of literature.
And I can think, closer to us,
for instance,
when Piglia recovers Lacan
to think fiction.
I don't know if Piglia recovers him,
but Lacan is severe and he says,
"Truth has the structure of fiction."
That's where I get this notion
of fiction as a way to access truth.
UNLIMITED EDITION