So what I'd like...
The song will be called
"Song for an Absent Woman" or "November 6th".
I wanted to write something entirely without words.
There are words, but I can't...
Imagine Paris, one morning in November,
not cold yet, still sunny but chilly.
A November morning that's like March...
A little sun, a little drizzle.
It's Paris.
A very slow walk across Paris.
It's black, like a long... as if...
Like a cluster...
Understand?
Heavy with people, or not...
It plays itself out very slowly.
It's all pretty dark, you see?
And I saw something like...
You see?
Something like a slow prayer...
See?
Even with choruses.
The kitchen's there.
We put the piano here. Is that okay?
It's fine.
Excuse me.
Can you stop for a second?
I'd like to walk.
Can we begin?
MASK Black clown
Luc, darling?
I wanted to ask you about the eclipse.
In two hours...
All right. No, I wouldn't dare.
No, I wouldn't dare.
You know me. I'd never do anything like that.
Yes, we'll see each other tomorrow.
Go to sleep, darling. It's the best thing you can do.
No, you'll go too far.
I kiss you...
I kiss you from the tip of my heart.
Tips of my fingers.
When I don't dare, I don't. But when I do dare, I do.
By telephone or by letter,
listeners can ask us all their questions...
Time to turn you off, darling.
I have work to do.
May not look it.
"It's too late..."
Not late for me.
I don't know...
I don't know
- Is that you? - What?
- On my way up. - So how much?
- You know... - How much, Mother?
A little, not much.
Let's talk about it tomorrow.
This is all I have.
One night only... I gambled... this week.
All the more reason to take this.
Take it and let's get this over with.
And don't worry about me or I'll worry about you.
Vicious circle...
Never-ending.
- Go to sleep now. - You're one to talk!
If you need anything, ask Lucienne.
Not Lucienne.
She won't lay off.
I'm difficult when I work. No need to shout.
When do you come back?
I go, I come, I pass through.
Now you'll know where I am.
My God, all those cities,
all those stations.
France...
at night.
Cut!
Was I on my mark?
Should I be here or there?
No one tells us anything.
How was it?
Another take?
Was it all right?
It's a wrap. Thanks, everyone.
Not another?
No, he's very happy.
He's happy. So we're done.
Thanks, Brigitte.
You're crying?
- No... - You are. I can see.
I brought you what I told you about.
- For your nights. - Thanks.
Thanks a lot.
You knew her personally?
Yves, the musicians are here.
We can rehearse.
Let's do it.
Can I ask a favor?
Can you stay to try to fit in that gesture?
Of course.
Maybe we can try it in this scene?
Damn he's tall.
Maybe, Vincent, sit.
In front of the piano.
I'll clear the table.
Let me help, Brigitte.
Let's start with the 1900 repertoire.
Did you rehearse it?
The covers are coming out. The press...
So, Yves...
what do you want?
Everything.
Hands off my piano, please.
Let's start from the top.
Sir, said the maid, stop the charade
I have a nice bed The other guests... have said!
Know that?
You know Fragson?
Start playing.
Léon, you said: "Forget me, for soon I will wed"
What you're asking is rotten
Some loves can't be forgotten
And now... your line...
Who are you showing off for? Too many notes!
No smoking!
Oh, Mister Fireman!
I always said you were the first man
To have me naked and pure
It makes you smile So smile, little man!
But that's something a woman doesn't forget
So pure I was ridiculous
Of life, I was naive
You're no Hercules
But what you'd do to me... I found it nice
Other people's words.
Yes.
And now the Brassens.
With his sack on his back
He came from Eldorado
He had a big white beard
His name was Santa Daddy
At some point, you can get up.
He put some bread in my basket
He put his hands on my hips
He strolled me around town
Right down Easy Street
Luxury to the moon
Served on a silver spoon
He put some seed in my barn
He put his hands on my hips
Now go to your mother.
I had nothing on my back
He draped me in clothes
He dressed me to the nines
I won't be cold for a while
He put mink on my wrist
He put his hands on my hips
Let's close the curtain
On our miseries of the past
Even if outside there's wind and rain
It's no longer my fate
The good old days of running free
He put his hands on my hips
"Little Girl and Father... Christmas."
The title of the song.
Impossible forgiveness.
We need the mother in the scene.
There are battles other than with gunfire...
Hold on.
There are battles...
Hold on.
- There are battles other... - Than with gunfire.
Other wounds than on fields of battle...
Let's work on this, then see.
Listen...
This too... but it's too long.
...for the memory to die
of this love full of pain...
Do I have a harder time with melody or rhythm?
- You wouldn't like it? - Sure.
I can't play it...
I can sing it because I wrote it,
but I can't read this.
Why not?
I can't. I can't sight-read. I didn't write this.
Of this love full of pain
For which I was ready to die
I'll wait for joy again
That I may smile when I rise
For the sun to dry my pain
And the night to soothe my cries
I've heard about a shore
Which heals hearts that cry
Dead loves washed ashore
Black shipwrecks of times gone by
She trembles.
She gestures that she won't go back on.
In the theater, the buzz of grinding jaws and insects,
like an invasion of giant ants,
all-devouring.
She's really afraid.
A long scream, she steps back.
It's like a dam holding back water.
She gives in, pulls back the curtain,
she enters.
Water bursts through.
The rodents keep gnawing away.
Two thousand people clapping away.
I was afraid too.
It was wildly violent.
I spent entire nights in her apartment,
listening to her tapes.
And in fact,
it all comes at the same time.
Note after note.
Word after word.
Like someone digging the earth by hand,
who throws the dirt behind her,
searching for something,
light...
It was long for her.
Patience, stubbornness...
blindness.
But the real danger
was when she felt the song was done.
That's when doubt would resurface.
In one second, everything could be destroyed.
That's the problem with tape recorders.
You hit a tiny button and it's all erased.
Need a cigarette.
The stage was over there.
And the bar, here on the right.
L'Écluse,
the small left-bank nightclubs...
You saw, tiny like two postage stamps.
Up close to the audience, face to face.
You just have to cross the bridge...
You did it on purpose.
From L'Écluse to the Chatelet.
All I did was cross the Seine.
She said so at the Chatelet, during her last concert.
I was there.
How sweet of you.
How sweet of you to come tonight.
I thought that...
or I imagined...
I imagined that...
I don't know...
that I was suddenly...
a concert pianist.
Would you dance with me,
tonight?
Dance?
I'm looking at you because...
I first looked at you before listening to you.
The first time I saw you,
you were like now.
A character seated,
behind a piano
who was singing.
And I think what I first recall
isn't so much the sound of your voice,
but your body,
your hands,
your eyes.
Later on, when I saw you again,
you were dancing.
And I was happy because
suddenly it was as if...
an insect had cracked something, had conquered a space.
Because you exist...
fully...
deeply...
through yourself and what you are.
Sing.
Say it from the tip of the lips
I hear it from the tip of the heart
Not so loud, calm this fever
I'm listening
Say it to me softly
Whisper it to me simply
I'll listen even better
Perhaps
If you speak from the tip of your lips
I hear it from the tip of the heart
And I can continue my dream
May love be to my ear
Sweet like the song of the bees
One summer day in the sun
Look into the leaning night
There, that boat slowly swaying
"This is what I'm sure of.
"She doesn't live her life but tells it so powerfully,
"she ends up believing it, as do those around her."
Come in, Mister Producer.
"Thus it is hard to pin her down to dates
"to facts, to details.
"It was like she was never the same woman."
Look into the leaning night
There, a boat slowly swaying
How pretty, its white sail
That's dancing
I'll tell you from the tip of my lips
I love you from the tip of my heart
And we can live my dream...
It's written like this.
Charley, you're my manager. How about the gloves?
Done. Anything else?
- You did it yourself? - Yes.
- Where are you? - With Sylvie.
Sylvie goes to Japan. I get Tarbes!
You won't go to Tarbes.
For sure? No itinerary yet!
- No Tarbes. - The radiators?
63 degrees. It's in your contract. Every show.
Enjoy the tour.
But... it's blue.
It wasn't blue. The car was gray.
The blue car is just for interiors.
In German?
She sang it in German too.
You're really too tall for Roland.
We'll shoot you seated.
Get in.
We'll start on you, Brigitte.
Sitting up front.
...We left Indre
Indre?
Hungarian!
Now French.
Speak softly love because they may hear us
You didn't know that version.
I'd love a bouillabaisse.
Bouillabaisse in Chateauroux?
What's to see here?
You can't visit a city, then sing.
Impossible!
Because you expend energy, lose concentration.
I couldn't.
I'd like to be able to...
I couldn't walk around,
be moved by things in the street...
It saps my energy.
No, I need to charge ahead.
Like horses.
After L'Indien, you want the red filter?
The red...
I'm not thrilled about blue, white, red.
Some pink, some blue, not much.
A spot, a few filters and... "curtains up"!
Don't worry. I'll signal to you. No sweat.
Singing in the dark would be the best.
What do you think is next?
Take a guess.
Know where I was this morning? The market, 6 am.
And what do you find at 6 am?
A gift.
Get the message?
"Don't worry about playing lots of notes..."
The firemen?
Is this Indre? What region is this?
Who can tell? We'll be touring indefinitely.
Did we call Charley? To raise donations to kids for Christmas.
I have the money now. He has to take care of it...
Roland?
Roland, I'm tired.
So are we.
To help you?
I'll come up...
We have to keep our cool.
It'll be easy because it's freezing here.
Can I help you, my darling man?
There are enough of us. Thanks anyway.
I've been around, you know. I can climb a ladder.
Tonight is music hall. Time to get moving.
The singer tonight is doing... variétés!
I see you're working without gloves.
You'll burn yourself.
Choose a pair. They're different sizes.
Share them with your friends.
It'll reassure me.
I really mean it. I do.
Slide it center stage.
I'll look silly again. A secretary at her desk.
Darling, we'll put it there...
Can you push?
It's unorthodox, but...
What does Mister Tuner think?
442 is hard for you.
It's a bit high.
Sounds fine, right?
How I feel...
Look from here my little Easter lamb.
The changes in temperature...
It's nice of you to come.
Is Préaux far from here?
Not really.
During the war, I was hidden in Préaux.
It's true. I'm not kidding.
Is Buzançais far?
My friends have a chateau.
You know the Boisrenaults?
You're pretty well-connected.
Remember the train that got attacked in Châtillon?
No.
You weren't born!
I was in the train.
It's the truth!
I know your region well.
I'm not kidding.
The little girl
in the wagon-car who wasn't killed...
is me.
After that, I rarely came back here. And tonight...
here we are.
Almost 40 years later...
Well, not quite 40.
Gaudry!
Undress that for me.
I'd like an explanation.
L'avventura...
Life... dancing with you...
Every night I spend with you, my love, is l'avventura!
I'd have made a hit out of it.
The problem is...
Roland mustn't be in the light.
We only see him. It's annoying.
No, no, no, Tony!
You come from outside with your coat on!
You rub it against my outfit. Hands off my outfit!
It's not fetishism.
You don't touch a surgeon. Same thing!
You still don't get it after 10 years?
I put it on the side!
These outfits are expressions of love.
Love, that's right!
Music is love!
This expresses love. It's sacred.
Hands off! You just toss your stuff nearby!
Marie!
Medicine!
Corydrane, everything! Give me both!
What am I to do? Nothing left!
- Why no refills? - I'll go now.
You'll go now... Do you at least have money?
Charley gave me this.
Buy yourself some clothes too. Look at you!
You look like a nun. I'm the only nun here!
Get something hot to trot!
Where are your show-offy green tops?
I'll go shopping.
Will you take me?
Take me!
We'll both go.
We'll make you over.
We'll get some... sardines.
No, sardines are for the men. They're mine!
My love, my beauty, my king
My child that I love
My love, my beauty, my law
My other myself
You are the setting sun
Fallen onto earth
You are my last spring
My God, how I love you
I'd finished my journey
Advancing towards silence
With a beautiful insolence
I'd given up on everyone
Walking in an autumn
My last autumn, perhaps
I desired nothing anymore
But like a miracle
You rose into my light
And you, my child, my king
Breaking down my frontiers
And you, my setting sun
My sky and my earth
You gave me your twenty years
From the heart of your self
You are my last spring
My God, how I love you
I've always thought that loves
That the most beautiful loves
Were incestuous loves
There was in your gaze
A luminous tenderness
You wanted to live with me...
Film me!
I reopened my home
My windows wide open
And I crowned your forehead
I kissed your mouth
And you, my adolescent
You, my wound
You lay your twenty years
Besides my forty
But barely are they born
They are condemned to die
The loves of despair
So that it won't lose its shine, this diamond we were given
I burned our cathedral
The loves most beautiful
The most beautiful loves
are incestuous loves
"My child, my love..." is a new song?
It's called "Incestuous Loves".
And "The Executioner"?
Not very original.
But it's beautiful.
For Yves, please.
You're making a film about Barbara or about yourself?
Same thing.
Is it?
One day, you whispered into my ear.
At 16, it changes your life.
"Do what you want with your life, darling!"
Cut.
Was is a lullaby my mother never sang?
Or a friend...
or a lover or...
Come.
It shoulders all the sadness
that suddenly vanished.
Starting over, not losing hope, it's all thanks to her songs...
Hello, Brigitte.
I'm glad to see you.
Look who's back in town!
You promised not to touch a piano.
Yes, but no.
Thanks, Juliette.
See you tomorrow.
What's that?
Hendrix.
Well, I try.
You're my prop, man.
Never heard that one.
Prop me up.
Like a proper man.
I fell asleep?
So we need coffee. Lots of coffee.
I'm starving.
My good man, can we have something?
Borscht?
Borscht? How wonderful!
Hello, by the way.
Did you take us across the Styx?
How many miles did you drive?
Without this, you'd be disenchanted.
You never drove before?
Never.
Nice little piano.
It was my mother's, I kept it. Feel free.
Really?
I have to work a little on this number.
Sorry about that.
It's raining
25 rue de la Grange au Loup
I remember the rendezvous
My mind will forever recall
That room at the end of a hall
Sitting by a fireplace
I saw four men stand up
The light was cold and white
They were in their Sunday best
I asked no questions
To these strange companions
I didn't speak, but from their eyes
I understood it was too late
And yet I was at that rendezvous
25 rue de la Grange au Loup
But he never saw me again
He was already gone
So you know the story
He'd come back one night
And it was his last journey
And it was his final shore
He wanted, before dying...
He wanted... dying...
To warm up with my smile
But he died that very night
With no farewell, no "I love you"
On the path by the sea
Lying in the garden of stone
I want him to gently repose
I lay him under a bed of roses
My father
Her songs are like...
Like beating back tears.
Which explains the speed, the rhythm, the cabaret.
It's not Valmy, not Verdun.
It's Nantes.
Swinging Nantes.
My darling...
Don't look for your stuff when you go. It's already outside.
Go now.
Leave.
I've spent more time singing than in a man's arms.
More time with my fear in theaters...
In the wings.
...in the wings of theaters
than days looking at the people I love.
- That I loved. - No, that I love.
Singing is not a job.
I want to sing. It's my life.
I know life. Trust me.
I open up to others by singing my freedom,
my truth... my relig...
No, I'll take that out.
Let me take care of you.
You'll never be hungry.
I'd like to learn to live with someone.
To love another, not others.
Visit parks and gardens.
I will learn the seasons with one man.
One to stroke my weary hips.
One who'd be there in the half-light of dawn.
One who'd listen to me speak, not sing.
I'll learn.
Another drink?
Some hot coffee?
No, darling.
...that all things past
Can never be regained
They wouldn't leave.
They'd stay at the end of the concerts.
The lights were on. We'd wait 45 minutes.
I must tell you, tonight is my last time singing
at the Olympia, at Bobino, anywhere. I'm stopping.
She hadn't told anyone.
Not Roland, not the crew.
It's my religion, my only way to exist.
I didn't accept myself. I felt ugly.
In life, there are three jobs that are alike.
Being a nun, being a whore and doing what I do.
So my life took an extraordinary turn,
because I began writing.
I had no idea I'd be writing. When I say I'm stopping...
And so she quit?
No, she stopped touring.
She stopped her yearly performances.
Paris, Lyon, Marseille...
Not for me! Because this job is for adventurers.
Who knows what's next?
Anyway I'll do whatever I feel like,
just like I've done up to now.
I love you all.
And yet I know there's a Barbara alive
who does imitations,
who dislikes rabbits and speaks to dogs like men,
who eats in tiny restaurants.
I know it perfectly well.
Brel is dead
Is she dead?
Her fans sent so many flowers they had to hang them in trucks.
Prison?
Women's prison.
She had her piano delivered for concerts she gave.
No reporters!
She wanted it kept quiet.
Is 400 condoms enough?
AIDS was just beginning.
After her concerts, vases of condoms in the lobby.
Push the piano faster, please.
Make the turn quicker!
They were as dumb as repo men.
Do it yourself!
But we get it if we cut before?
It's my fault.
How stupid.
It's you...
It's you I love!
I can't believe it. How wonderful. I'd forgotten.
What do I do? What do I say?
It's been so long.
Only 10 days.
That's not what I mean.
For so many years I've wanted something to happen.
I'm overjoyed!
Overjoyed!
Me too!
This is something.
"One day
"or maybe one night..."
One day
or maybe one night
Near a lake
I'd fallen asleep
Suddenly
Seeming to pierce the sky
Coming out of nowhere
Appeared a black eagle
Slowly
Wings wide-spread
Slowly
I saw him circle above
Next to me
Rustling his wings...
24 inches.
I brought you some candy.
I wrote something quickly, about Brel.
Just now.
I can show you.
- That's... - My hut.
Why not make a movie, you and me?
Let's start over again. Something new: a movie.
And I need a woman.
An ugly woman, yes.
But you know, ugly like me.
Ugly like you...
All right, then.
I'll do it.
It will be called "Mussels".
How epic.
Either "Léon" or...
"Léon" is better.
What will my name be?
Léonie.
Léon and Léonie.
Oh, I love it.
Two unattractive 40-somethings in love on Blankenberge beach.
I'll show you the beach where I dreamed as a kid.
You coming?
I'm coming.
Yes, Jacques, take me out of this body.
Jacques, where are you?
In your plane, darling?
Where are you? I miss my Don Quixote.
I found a Ravel to play in your Jaguar.
The sun was so pretty this morning. I'm sure you saw it.
Okay for the beach. I'll go see.
I'm writing a song. I can't.
You're hard to describe...
Thanks.
Good evening.
You can laugh, you don't care, you sleep in the sun, I love you...
Yves!
Come see the Roanne house.
Roanne is 1938, pre-war. It doesn't work.
Yes, but look at Saint Marcellin.
The real one doesn't match.
Real one doesn't match.
She kissed me once.
Who?
Avenue Victoria, Chatelet '87.
No, the right was already in power.
So it was... '93.
Funny, I thought I was younger.
If Barbara hadn't had her manager...
She'd give it all away.
He saved her!
How are you?
Maybe try these lines. An old contract.
Maybe Charley could say this. Her manager.
The tax department is asking for 1.5 million.
The tax department wants Barbara
to pay 1.5 million in back taxes.
150 million in old francs.
You keep the Mercedes, not your checkbook
or credit cards.
As for expenses,
you'll receive an envelope with 500 francs.
A day.
Marouani.
Forgotten me, Charley?
There's only you, Barb.
Go ahead.
Anyway, so...
Did you see the house?
So? You like it?
Put my suitcases down? Never!
Consider a house like an investment.
- Or a shelter. - I'm a nomad.
A gypsy, like my ancestors. It's my fate.
No mooring. Break camp in a minute!
What about your driving lessons?
Tell them I'm lousy.
And that she couldn't drive anyway.
This is where she lived.
Come on.
Where next?
Is it here?
That's the cultural center, Barb. You can't miss it.
It's brand new, enormous.
Where's the entrance?
How cerebral.
I mustn't act silly.
You can't call that a piano.
I don't understand.
Sylvie Vartan's pianist was happy with it.
I don't have Mrs. Vartan's talent.
Peter, do something. A black sheet or something.
Hold on!
Goodbye tree, my pretty tree
Oh how pretty you used to be!
As old fashioned as you may seem
You're not part of my childhood dream
Yes, that tree was pretty.
Too bad it's in the piano's belly.
No one would have seen it.
It's me they come to see.
You can't change their habits.
Or mine either.
Your Magic Box?
What's that?
Fantastic!
It's like purple rain on shady mountains.
I started too late.
Is it God's hand or the Devil's
Which one day, united, crossed our paths?
Is it one or the other? I really can't know.
But for this love, thanks and hats off!
Is it God or is it the Devil
Who wove the heavens that beautiful morn?
Planting in the heart a bit of sun
That breaks the water in 1000 crimson shards
Is it God's hand or the Devil's
That put on the sea that strange sailboat
Which like a serpent, seems to unwind
Black and white on blue, dancing in the wind
Is it God or the Devil or both at once
Who joined together to offer us this morn?
Is it one or the other I really can't know
But for so much beauty, thanks and hats off!
Is it God's hand or the Devil's
Which put that rose in the garden there?
For what love, for what lady fair
That silky rose in that garden there?
Those ripe prunes, those white lilacs
Plump redcurrants, children laughing
Christine so pretty under her white skirt
And right in the middle the sparkle of her twenty years
The disappearing sail, that rose there
Flowers, fruit and our tears of joy
Who could have offered us such beauty?
Gather them in silence They're for you and me
They're hiding in the back lot.
I once knew these streets!
I can't do it.
Behind the Porte de Namur are houses,
streetwalkers, a big woman with the heart of a good dog
who hides her money under the floor.
After drinking all day, she starts to shout:
You owe me rent, kid!
We lift up the wood flooring to prove her wrong.
Artists in a big house,
lots of artists.
A piano in a white atelier, like a merry-go-round horse.
I told you all that?
Yes.
And this too.
There's a law student.
When he opens his coat, marionettes fall out.
This is me:
Brussels must go up in flames.
In the ashes, the phoenix will be reborn,
with a thin little face,
short hair, eyes near the temples.
You're the poet, my dear Tournier.
As for me, I'm not a poet at all.
I'm not someone who writes. I can't write.
I sing.
Tralalala... Then lights out.
No, that's really nonsense.
And after, what do I do?
Songs. Your "ditties".
So then start a collection of ditties.
"Ditties of Today".
Anything but this!
"Poets of Today", honestly... That's not me.
I hate fairy-tales, legendary epics, the fantastical,
trompe-l'oeil and bright, deceitful colors.
Unfortunately I don't have Gainsbourg's imagination.
Why don't we go see the trees?
Can I just ask your date of birth?
June 9, 1930.
In Paris?
In Paris, at Batignolles.
Would you be so kind as to help me?
From underneath.
This comes from Tunisia.
It's what they put, on holidays,
on the tails...
of horses.
Do you have family there too?
No, believe it or not.
I'm Russian on my mother's side.
Odessa, to be precise.
And your father?
Excuse me?
Alsatian.
Television is truly marvelous.
All these men coming towards us.
Capes and overcoats.
It's like being with the Windsors.
Here comes the plumber.
That T-shirt is quite something!
Handsome in his suspenders!
Why the house?
The house?
I can't say why. It's not important, just an image.
To be able to say "I'm home".
It's an image.
A little piece of France.
To be able to change the locks.
You'll be my sounding board. Listen.
A little girl with tousled hair
Who hid her sorrow in lost gardens
Who liked rain and wind and straw
And the cool night breeze
And forbidden games
That poster wasn't there.
Really?
It was always in front of me.
That's it for this set.
Oh, this.
Youthful words...
Thank you.
You're welcome.
Can you help me?
Just pull it.
Mr. Tournier?
Thanks very much.
I'll take it back.
Can you watch the piano?
We'll get the movers.
Yes, my chalet, my teepee...
My tin tub, my oratory,
my drunken boat,
my lover.
My baby grand.
I don't know how to say I love you, I do not, I do not
I can't say I love you I cannot, I cannot
I said it so often for a laugh
Those words are no laughing matter
Now that I want to say it
I dare not, I dare not
So I made this music
Which will tell you better than me
For a tear or a smile
That might come from you
I'd do the best and worst
Anything it takes
But both night and day
When I'm lovesick for you
Now simply saying I love you
I dare not, I dare not
So listen to my music
Which can tell you better than me
I know your mouth on my mouth
I know your eyes, your laugh
your voice
The fire when you touch me
The sound of your footsteps
I'd recognize, undressed
Your naked hand among thousands
But simply saying I love you
I cannot, I cannot
How silly, I'll say it
It's just three little words
But I'm afraid you'll smile
Please don't look at me
Here... at the piano I will say it
With love in my fingertips
At the piano I could say it
Listen to me, look at me
I don't know
I cannot
I dare not
I love you
Am late with everything
and for everything.
I can't remember the day.
What?
Singing is not that important.
What?
It's my life.
I always wanted it.
As they say,
I know my songs.
So, what?
Even if I know how derisory what I do is,
even if I know this and that...
and more...
That's how it is, I tell you.
That's how it is.
That's all.
I'm upside down.
I chase after time.
I come to you.
The disease necessitates psychiatric care as well.
Love and death trigger archaic and terrifying things.
Not long ago in the United States there weren't many cases.
Michel?
Tell me... Do you remember
when exactly you took me to the auction house?
Was I already in rue Michel-Ange?
Of course not.
I was still at the hotel.
Yes, spring of '68. But wasn't it November?
You think so?
How kind.
Yes, take care.
Goodbye... Goodbye, my angel.
Listen to this.
That's the Japanese for you, as cliché as it sounds.
What equipment!
They do it there on...
little electromagnetic discs,
in linear PCM.
Here. Listen to what they do.
As far back as I can remember
Yes, since I love you...
That's not your voice!
They all started singing because I...
Nothing came out.
The pain.
Elisabeth, I'm in pain.
This is the swan song.
What's that ghost story you told me the other time?
- Ghost story? - With the voice.
I don't know what it was.
Color, intensity, spectrum...
Spectre!
Spectre, yes, that's it.
- Spectral voice. - Very amusing.
I'm in pain.
I'll make you some chicory.
For who or what? Against who or what?
Enough with your violence
Are you coming or going? Who are you?
I beg of you, keep quiet
Who, when, how, why? Must we be for or against something?
I'm for the setting sun atop deserted hills
I'm for deep forests
...methods used for ethnic cleansing
led by the Serbs of Srebrenica,
torture, rape, mutilation.
Because a child who cries
No matter where he's from is a child who cries
A child who dies
At the tips of your rifles is a child who dies
It's appalling, having to choose between two innocences
It's appalling to have as enemies
The laughs of childhood
For whom against whom and what
Till we lose the taste for living
Taste of water, bread, snake oil in Batignolles playground
But for almost nothing, to be with you
And for a half-open rose
For a breath, a breeze of abandon
And for this shivering garden
Barbara?
This is she. Here I am.
I wasn't near the phone. So?
- Gilles Pialoux gave me... - He was right to.
Are you at the hospital?
So Cleews Vellay.
Taste of water, bread, snake oil in Batignolles playground
Against no one, against nothing
But for all the open flowers
But for a breath, a breeze of abandon
And for this shivering garden
Live passionately
And fight only with the fire of tenderness
And wealthy in deprivation
Having your own truth is all the wealth you need
Stop speaking about poetry
But let the wild flowers live
Invoke transparence in the gray backyard
Where dawn would finally stand a chance
Live...
with tenderness
Wednesday 24. Last day of rehearsals at Précy.
Tonight, we load up the truck.
Anguish.
I stare at the rocking chair.
The 25th.
7 in the morning.
Patrick loads up the car.
Impatience.
Pacing around since 4 am.
Get in the van to the Mogador,
via Pantin.
Traveler.
At the Mogador, the crew sets up.
The show starts taking wing at that very moment.
Charley, present everywhere.
My dressing room is just how I like it.
Enter Christophe with his golden fingers.
The piano is in position.
Mahut, Gérard and Sergio too.
The floor was repainted.
I take possession of the stage.
It is my ship.