Genius (2017–…): Season 2, Episode 1 - Picasso: Chapter One - full transcript

What, what is it, huh?

God has taken him.
We will pray for him.

No... No, no, no, no, give him to me.

I'm sorry, my love.

No, no, no...

Shh, shh, shh...

What are you doing, brother?

He sounds very angry.

In the name of the Father,
the Son and the Holy Ghost,

I baptize thee José Francisco
de Paula Juan Nepomuceno

María de los Remedios Cipriano de la
Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso.



_

Ole!

You see how brave the matador is?

But what if the bull kills him, Papa?

He is an artist, Pablito,
and he is willing to risk his life to

do something truly beautiful.

Ole!

It doesn't look right.

Nonsense.

You're a great artist.

One day, your paintings will
be on the walls of the Prado.

Maybe I should be a soldier.

Well, then you will be general.

And if you're a priest,
you will be Pope.



Look what our Pablo has done, Papa.

Hmm? Oh!

My horse doesn't look real, Papa.

Not like your pigeons.

I want to paint like you.

Then I will teach you, Pablito. Hmm?

You are a genius, Maya.

A true surrealist.

Look. Mi papá taught
me how to paint pigeons.

What do you think?

Maya, no!

Papa's paintings are very precious.

Oh, well, you know.

She's a critic, the only
one I have ever loved.

I'm gonna get you. I'm gonna get you.
I'm gonna get you.

She is so happy
when you are here, Pablo.

Can't you stay the night?

Marie-Therese,
you know I have to work.

You can work here.

No... with this little
devil savage, you know, my ideas...

But I'll be back next week.

Hmm.

The roses are exquisite, Hervé.

Thank you, monsieur.

Cut me a stem, would you?

You should let them grow wild, too
much pruning destroys, uh, beauty.

Yes, monsieur.

Vamanos, Marcel.

To Grands-Augustins?

I want to make a stop, first.

You frightened me.

Nonsense. You're fearless.

You're experimenting
with double prints again.

What do you think?

You're a brilliant photographer,

Dora, but there is a painter

trapped inside of you.

Oh?

You should set her free.

Well, perhaps I will.

There are thorns.

Be careful.

Never.

We need a passionate statement from

you, Pablo, something to capture the

world's attention.

What do you have in mind?

We want you to make a painting
to fill this entire wall of the

Spanish Pavilion at the
Universal Exposition.

I have never made
a painting that large.

I wouldn't know where to begin.

Franco and his fanatics are
winning the war in our beloved Spain,

spilling the blood of
those who defend democracy.

Fascism's spreading
across the continent.

The threat is enormous, so the picture

itself must be enormous
to move the public.

Tens of thousands of people
will attend the exposition;

from the rest of Europe, from America.

A bold artistic declaration
from Pablo Picasso,

the most famous of
all Spanish artists,

would alert the world
to our plight and

help us raise awareness
and money to save the Republic.

Franco has Hitler and
the Nazis on his side, Pablo.

We need you on ours.

How can you refuse?

I don't take commissions!

I paint what I want and what I feel,
not what someone else tells me to!

This is a chance to
make a real difference.

Even if I had an idea, which I don't,

a picture is not going to stop a war,

no matter how gigantic it is.

It could move people to stand
against fascism and violence.

But I am not a poster artist, anyway.

I don't make propaganda.

Do you want to know what I think?

No!

But I am certain that you're
going to tell me, anyway.

I think you are scared...

Mm-hmm.

Scared? Of what?

Scared that if you make such a

gigantic painting and
it's met with silence,

you will have failed...

That's ridiculous.

Or if it makes too much noise,
the fascists might come after you,

and you might lose your
nice, easy bourgeois life.

You live like a king, Pablo;

with your fancy automobile
and your fancy apartment.

What happened to the rebellious
young artist who used to spit in

the face of authority?

Where has he gone, hm?

I want to see, Pablo!

I want to try another one.

Now, sit still.

I can't.

Come here.

I look pretty!

I draw what I see.

You feel warm, Conchita.

It's diphtheria.

Please God, no.

Is there anything to be done?

There is a serum, but I
will have to send to Paris for it.

Go back to bed, son.

Everything is all right.

Please, God, spare my
sister María de la Concepción.

If you save her, I
will never again waste

my time with painting and drawing.

In Jesus's name, I swear it.

To You, O Lord, we commend the soul

of María de la Concepción,
Your servant.

In the sight of this
world, she is now dead.

In Your sight, may she live forever.

Forgive whatever sins she

committed and, in your goodness,

grant her everlasting peace.

We ask this through
Christ our Lord. Amen.

You were a good brother to her.

I killed her.

Why would you say
such a horrible thing?

I made a vow to God
that if he let Conchita live,

I-I-I would give up painting...

Oh, Pablo...

But God knew I
could never keep my promise.

I loved painting too much.

Maybe more than I loved Conchita,
so to punish me he took her.

God is not punishing you.

He was telling you that you have a

great gift, one that He has given you.

He wants you to know that
you must never stop painting.

Come back to bed.

I can't.

Mm, because you are too old?

You know, it takes a
very long time to become young.

Not now!

Sorry to bother you, Pablo, but...

What is it, Jaimé?

"Guernica, the most ancient
town of the Basques was completely

destroyed yesterday by
insurgent air raiders.

A powerful fleet of airplanes
consisting of three German types,

Junkers and Heinkel fighters, did
not cease unloading on the town.

Bombs that targeted defenceless
citizens on a busy market day,

levelling buildings and
setting roaring fires."

"The fighters, meanwhile, plunged
low to machine-gun those of the

civilian population who had
taken refuge in the fields."

Women and children...
ripped to shreds!

Those fascist bastards.

Franco rode in with his Nazi pigs.

They can't be allowed
to get away with this.

They attacked your people.

I know you didn't want to make a painting
for the Spanish Pavilion, Pablo,

but now you must.

I am going to need a...

very big canvas.

Where did you learn to draw like that?

My father.

How old are you, anyway?

14.

Jesus Christ.

It's Pablo, actually. Pablo Ruiz.

Manuel Pallarés.

Well, maybe you're not Jesus,

but the way that you shade
the folds of his skin,

there is something
goddamn holy about it.

To be honest, I'd, I'd rather
be drawing a beautiful woman's ass.

You've never seen a
woman's ass before, have you?

Five pesetas!

To whichever one of
you wants to cure my

young friend here of
his acute virginity.

You can go now.

Are you deaf?

Can't, can't I look at you?

You have done more than look.

Now out with you.

No. I mean, without your dress.

Your friend didn't pay for that.

That's not enough to
peek at even one bare thigh.

Please, just for a moment.

Oh, and that will be enough for you?

Enough to remember what you look like.

I am not so pretty in the light.

Not anymore.

I think you're very beautiful.

You do, do you?

Yes. And I want to paint you.

It is extraordinary, Pablo.

It's a gift, Uncle, to thank
you for everything you've done for me.

And such a touching subject.

It's a story
inspired by my sister's death.

We are calling it "Science
and Charity." I sat for Pablo,

but the figure of the doctor,
he's inspired by you, Brother.

To think such a marvellous
work could come from such a young hand.

Yes. Pablo has far exceeded his peers.

There's nothing left for
him to learn in Barcelona.

I'm hoping to study at
the Royal Academy in Madrid.

But it's quite expensive.

Now I see the charity
you allude to in the painting.

I'm ashamed to ask for your
generosity again, Salvador, but...

Nonsense.

It will bring honor to the Ruiz name
to have a true artist in the family.

You will not be an artist
until you have mastered the rules

of linear perspective
and orthogonal lines,

the laws of drawing
and precise contour.

You will not be an
artist until you have

copied the masters, studied anatomy,

and learn the language of geometry.

No, Ruiz.

How many times must I tell you.

Your technique is all wrong.

I'm drawing what I see, Maestro.

Well, then you
are seeing it incorrectly.

You must use straight lines,

so that your figure is properly

proportioned and positioned.

You have talent,
Ruiz, but no discipline.

And without discipline, you will fail.

Ruiz?

Maestro.

So, this is where
you've been spending your time.

Yes.

Or sketching at the Prado.

And when was the
last time you attended class?

You only teach rules and imitation.

I want to do something original.

Original?

Unique.

Your uncle has written
to inquire after your progress.

What shall I tell him?

Whatever you like.

He knows even less about
painting than you do.

He pays your bills, your tuition.

What does that
have to do with anything?

Do you suppose he will continue
to do so when I inform him that

you have made a mockery
of his generosity?

How could you humiliate me like this?

Degrain is a fraud.

His approval could
have won you commissions.

I don't want to paint
what everyone else tells me to.

I want to be free to
paint what I like.

Freedom is for rich men.

You see how many
students I must take on,

just to scratch out a meager living?

Pablo.

You could be a master at the Academy.

You want me...

You want me to be a teacher?

I'm sorry, Papa.

You, you have taught
me all I need to know.

That's why I don't
need any more school.

I can barely feed
your mother and her sisters.

And your uncle will not
give you another peseta.

What will you live on?

I don't know.

But I would rather starve than let
someone force me to paint inside a box.

I am going to be a great
artist one day, Papa.

But I will do it in my own way.

Spain is at war with America.

Every able-bodied man
must report for duty.

We must protect our colonies:

Cuba, Guam, Puerto Rico,
the Philippines.

We must defend the empire.

Report for duty.

Well, if it
isn't the prodigal Pablito.

Manuel!

You know, I thought you were
at the Academy in Madrid teaching

everyone how to draw women's asses.

I need somewhere to stay.

I can do illustrations
to help pay the rent.

You'd have to
pay the rent on your own.

I'm going back to Horta.

Horta? Why?

I don't want to get ripped
to shreds by American bullets,

or die of yellow fever in
some godforsaken Cuban ditch,

just so the damned imperialists
can get cheap sugar for a coffee.

You were drafted.

You're lucky you're
not old enough, or tall enough.

Won't they find you at home?

I will go back
to the farm for supplies,

then I'm camping in the
Santa Barbara Mountains.

The Spanish army is far too lazy
to climb all the way up there.

Let me come with you.

Please, please, Manuel.

I can't go crawling back to my father.

Just over the next rise.

That's what you
said after the last rise.

P. Ruiz.

No.

P. Ruiz y Picasso.

No. What is wrong with just Ruiz?

It's so damn common.

It's also your father's name.

Exactly.

I need my own.

Something people will remember.

I tried my other names...

Diego José-Ruiz, Juan-Nepomuceno.

You don't strike me as a Nepomuceno.

What do I strike you as?

I know you, Pablo.

You're not gonna let me or anyone
else tell you who you are.

It's perfect, isn't it?

Yes.

And someday I'm going to
paint the perfect painting.

That sounds stupid, doesn't it?

No.

It sounds quite brilliant actually.

Let's never go back.

What?

We have everything we need here.

Food from my family's farm,
nature, art, friendship.

What about girls?

There's a whorehouse in Gandesa.

We could stay here.

No rules, no teachers, no government.

You could paint your
perfect painting, Pablo.

Here.

The paintings!

These paintings, they were
the best work I've ever done.

I'm so sorry, Pablo.

The rains never come this early.

It's a sign.

A sign?

Like when my sister died.

God is telling me I'm
wasting my gift here.

No, that's, that's crazy.

We'll go back to the farm.

We get more supplies and we come
back, this time, we build a shelter.

No.

If I stay here, even
if I paint the perfect

painting, no one will ever look at it

and see what I see.

No one will know my name,
whatever the hell it is.

And Conchita, she will
have died for nothing.

Why have you stopped, Pablo?

It's been so many years since I

tried to make a painting
that tells a story.

What if I cannot do it anymore?

Of course you can.

No, it's not
violent enough, it's not...

angry enough.

So make it angrier.

I wasn't there.

I don't know how the flames felt on

their flesh, how their
screams sounded.

I need to see him.

He's working.

He was supposed to come Tuesday.

It's Thursday.

You'll just have
to wait with everyone else.

I need to see him.

Mademoiselle, please.

Please. Listen to me.

I had an appointment for
an interview three hours ago.

I know. Yes.

Why does she get to go in?

It is the same for everybody, sir.

Pablo?

Who is this woman, Pablo?

Sorry, I told
her you were working, but...

I am Dora Maar.

And you must be Marie-Therese?

Yes, the mother of his child.

The woman he is going to marry.

Perhaps you should pay a visit to

his wife, the mother
of his other child,

and inform her of this expectation.

Tell this woman to leave.

Now.

I'm not going anywhere, Mademoiselle.

One of us is leaving, Pablo.

Which one, is up to you.

You know what, you settle it.

Yup.

Ladies, ladies, please!

Are you insane?

You make us all look so lovely, Pablo.

Will you do me next?

If you let me stay another
night, I'll decorate your walls.

It's not bad for a whorehouse

sketch, but I've seen much better.

Have you?

Yes.

Nonell, Casas, me.

Oh, you're an artist, are you?

Yes, and I see you're
trying to copy our style.

You've obviously been
to Els Quatre Gats.

I can't afford Els Quatre Gats.

And I don't copy anyone's style.

Are you going upstairs or not?

Not.

Out with you then.

Oh what? You should come by some time.

I'll buy you a beer. Huh?

Let's go.

My name is
Carles Casagemas, by the way.

What is yours?

Picasso.

"Guernica, the most ancient
town of the Basques was

completely destroyed by
insurgent air raiders."

Ripped to shreds.

Fascist bastards.

They can't be allowed
to get away with this.

What if the bull kills him, Papa?

He's calling it "Guernica."

Everybody's talking about it.

It's brutal isn't it?

Perhaps even ugly.

I read that he said, "Painting

is not meant to decorate apartments.

It's meant to be a weapon."

But there should be beauty in it,

even when the subject is painful.

I think it's powerful.

As a work of propaganda, maybe.

Perhaps you should
write a review, Francoise.

I'm sure a scathing
critique of the greatest

painter in the world will do wonders

for your art career.

Matisse is the greatest
painter in the world, Genevieve.

Maybe.

But Picasso is much better looking.

Don't say you were at school.

I phoned them.

I went to the Exposition.

You skipped class to what?

Watch the boat races with some boy?

No, I went with Genevieve,
to look at the architecture

and the paintings.

I don't understand you, Francoise.

I have given you every opportunity.

I want to be a painter.

You think I raised
you to starve in Montmartre?

Making caricatures
for English tourists?

I won't. I'll do serious work.

You will go to University.

You will become a
lawyer or a professor.

Do I make myself clear?

Yes.

Consider yourself
fortunate, Francoise.

Not many fathers in this world expect
more from their daughters than

to find a husband.

Something funny?

My good friend El Caudillo,
Generalissimo Francisco Franco,

has just decreed that divorce
is no longer legal in Spain.

Your painting must have
wounded him gravely, Pablo.

Well, then it was worth the struggle.

I'm proud of you, truly.

You think he created a new

national law just to get back at me?

Your canvas was so big after all.

Well, it will certainly make

my wife want to get
up and dance again.

No divorce in France,
no divorce in Spain.

She can remain Madame Picasso
until the day she dies.

Olga will be thrilled.

But I'm afraid your poor Marie-Therese

will be positively devastated.

And you, my dear?

Aren't you even a
little bit disappointed?

Now you can never be
Madame Picasso either.

I would never marry you.

Wouldn't you?

Of course not.

Marriage is a bourgeois convention

supported by priests and lawyers and,

uh, fascist dictators.

And besides, wives, by definition,
are boring creatures.

Oh, I could never be bored by you.

Where are you going?

The light is perfect.

No, let's go back to the hotel.

I want to paint you.

It is extraordinary, Pablo.

Dora is whatever I need her to be;

a mouse, a bird, an idea, a storm.

She makes me wish I was 18 again.

Well, if it isn't the
Leonardo da Vinci of the whorehouse!

Come. Come have a drink.

Toulouse-Lautrec is an inbred dwarf!

Oh, Toulouse-Lautrec is a genius!

Look at this.

No one can touch him when it
comes to capturing real life.

I think Nonell here
is just as good as Lautrec.

Maybe better.

Stop kissing my ass, Casagemas.

You're going to give
me a venereal disease.

You can't judge Lautrec
without seeing the colors.

And to do that,
you have to go to Paris.

If you're going
to Paris, forget Lautrec.

See Degas, Cezanne.
Now there is a genius.

You've been to Paris?

He keeps a studio there.

I'm going to Paris.

Are you?

Well, as soon as I can sell
enough work to afford a ticket.

Don't laugh. He's very talented.

I've seen his work.

They're accepting submissions
for the Spanish Pavilion at the

Paris Exposition next year.

Paint something for that, Picasso.

The only pictures chosen for that

bourgeois pageant of
prettiness will be

nauseating landscapes and dying saints
painted to please the tourists.

Everyone stay where you are!

Don't move! Stay in your seats!

Come on. Come on.

Hey! Hey! Hey!

Faster!

I'm trying.

Hey.

What the hell was that?

They're rounding up anarchists.

It happens two or three times a month.

Are you an anarchist?

Of course. And a Decadente.

And a Catalaniste.

Aren't you?

I don't know much about politics.

Well, if we're going to talk

about politics, I need another drink.

All government institutions

must be abolished entirely and all

systems of authority
vigorously opposed.

Is this gouache and charcoal?

Yes, it's much
less expensive than oils.

I wish I had a place like this.

Oh, you can work here if you want.

Sleep here, too.

There are no whores to keep you
company, but no bedbugs either.

You've got a confident line, Picasso.

Or should I call you,

"le petit Goya."

Goya? Goya's a rotting corpse.

Picasso and I, we are the future.

If you and your partners were
smart, you'd give us a show here.

Have you got
anything for me to look at?

What about you?

How many of those have you done?

Give me a museum, I'll fill it.

"A young man,
almost a child, Picazzo..."

He spelled your name wrong.

Of course he did.

"Picazzo displays an
extraordinary ease in his handling of

a pencil and brush..."

Mmm, that's excellent!

"But as one examines the work,

one notices mistakes,
lack of experience,

and hesitation about
which path to follow.

In order to achieve
personality in art,

one must not base
it on that of others.

One must take a different direction,

to avoid gathering
the master's crumbs."

This reviewer is an idiot.

"Only the painting which portrays
a young girl praying at an altar,

painted with natural
ease, demonstrates

qualities which we hope
will reach maturity

the day when Senor
Picazzo brings richer

experience and study
than he shows today."

You're right for once, Casagemas.

This reviewer is an idiot.

He thinks Picasso's worst
picture is his best.

Hey. You're a bastard,
Nonell. Don't listen to him, Pablo.

No, he's right. It's sentimental.

It's...

old-fashioned.

And it's going to get me to Paris.

I submitted my painting, and it's been

accepted to be show at
the Spanish Pavilion

at the Universal Exposition in Paris.

Oh, we are so proud of you, Pablo.

Aren't we, Papa?

Very proud.

I knew when I saw it.

The girl praying in your picture,
it's Conchita, isn't it?

Yes, Mama.

This is the kind of
work you should be doing, Pablo.

Noble subjects, formal compositions.

Yes. Of course, Papa.

Imagine how you will feel standing

among all those people,
thousands of them,

staring at your painting.

Oh, that would be wonderful, but...

I can't afford to go to Paris.

We'll give you the money.

Won't we?

But you can't afford it either.

Ah, we'll manage.

Don't worry.

Thank you, Mama.

Thank you, Papa.

Be careful how you spend it.

We need two fashionable suits.

We're going to Paris.

Can you make them button
all the way to the collar?

We can't afford waistcoats.

Monsieur Vollard?

Yes?

Carles Casagemas.

I'm sure Isidre Nonell
has mentioned me.

No.

I, I'm residing in his
studio with my friend Picasso here.

He has a painting displayed
at the Spanish Pavilion

in the Universal Exposition.

Perhaps you've seen it?

No.

Oh well...

We're told you have an
affinity for Spanish painters.

And we thought we would give you the

first opportunity to show our work.

No.

Eh, monsieur, you have
not even seen our paintings.

And have you even
looked at the work I sell here?

It's a Cezanne.

Can either of you paint
something as extraordinary as that?

Come back when you can. Hm.

Germany has invaded

Poland and has bombed many towns.

General mobilization has been
ordered in Britain and France.

What is all this, Rosi?

I'm shipping what I
can to London for safekeeping.

Putting the rest in the vault.

That's it then?

You're just, uh, closing up the shop?

Surrendering?

The Nazis are coming.

I'm getting my family to safety.

You should do the same.

Barr can get you all visas.

And what about my paintings,
my sculptures, my etchings?

Can he get me visas for those, too?

Pablo...

Perhaps you can
stuff some in your vault,

but-but I've got
thousands all over France,

at Grands-Augustins,
at Tremblay, even La Boetie.

And the Nazis have labeled
every bit of it as "degenerate."

What do you suppose
they do to degenerates?

Do you think I'm gonna run away

and let them confiscate it or burn it?

You think you can stop them?

Guernica made them very angry, Pablo.

I've had my work destroyed before.

I know what it feels like.

I am not going to let it happen again.

You can always
make more paintings, Pic.

What if I can't, Rosen?

You have children, women you love.

Some things are more
important than art.

No...

Not to me.