All language subtitles for DAG - S04E03

Church bells.

"God himself believes in advertising."
Know who said that?

Aurélien Scholl.

The French sure know bitterness.

- Where is Benedikt?
- Your guess is as good as mine.

This is ridiculous.

- My condolences.
- Thanks.

Let us read from the Bible ...

Have you been baking?

A badger.

Sorry I'm late.

You're here now.
That's what matters.

"... beautiful in its time."

"Also, God has put eternity
into man's heart."

We are here to remember
Jouanita Maria -

- Suarez.

Jouanita's husband, Ernst, -

- has asked to say a few words.

Those who fear death -

- are usually those
who also fear living.

Hunter S. Thompson once wrote:

"To weird to live, to rare to die."

We who loved you, -

- only thought about the latter.

How might you have turned out,
if someone early on -

- had told you
you were good enough?

Because you were, Jouanita.
You were good enough.

Better than most others.

You gave more love
than anyone I have ever met.

You made the people around you -

- feel alive.

Are you OK?

And you died -

- from having lived too much.

How many can claim that?

And that's why it feels right -

- to let you, Jouanita,
have the last word.

Nice choice.

She hated church like the plague.

Let this be
the last nail in their coffin.

As a child, I would fish
from the bathroom window.

Mother considered it senseless,
believing life had meaning.

Who is she?
You look miserable.

It is a funeral.

You know what I mean, Benedikt.

I guess.

I don't know.

When were you happy last?

I thought a lot about that in prison.

Remember our summers
on the Shetland Islands?

That's the last time
I remember being -

- 100 % happy.

- Seriously?
- Yes.

It was great.

I remember you liked it there.

- You still want to be buried there?
- No.

- But you still have that gravesite?
- Sure.

Because I remember
you wanted a nice spot, right?

Back then,
the idea was to have a view -

- of the autumn storms
in the North Sea.

A place where you could leave
the rest of the world behind.

Shetland holds a special place
in our family history.

I can't recall that.

My father,
your step-grandfather, -

- lived a life -

- it was hard to be proud of.

The only good thing he did,
was in 1940.

The war was bad, but it gave some men
the chance to redeem themselves.

Your step-grandfather
biked to Norway.

Looking for the worst place,
he stole a newspaper -

- and read about
the massive bombing of Narvik.

But in Narvik they hated the Swedes
for having aided the Germans.

So he biked on
to the nearest fishing village.

He bought a fishing boat
and set sail for England.

But his navigation was off
and he ended up in Shetland.

He was like us,
so it only took him a week to marry.

Shortly after, he was given
command of a destroyer.

He was torpedoed
three Christmases in a row.

That's why
we celebrated Christmas in April.

With cold cuts.

Is it OK if I take over
your gravesite in Shetland?

It's yours whenever you might need it.
There is always a spot for you.

Wherever in the world,
there is always a spot for you.

Thanks.

It doesn't exactly feel like that.

I've looked everywhere.
Mia must have run off to Serbia.

And brought Alexander.

I have to go down there.

Benedikt, my father didn't do
what he did to save anyone else.

It was to save himself
from going under.

You aren't there yet.

You paid your dues.
You can start over.

Listen to what I'm saying
for once, Ernst!

I have to go. I have to tell Mia
I'm aware of my mistakes, -

- and that they
have to come home.

That's all I could think about
in prison.

Don't be so naive!
Don't go there now.

She's married.
She isn't coming back.

She married a friend of her father's.

Her parents moved down.
She wanted to go.

And then she met someone down there.

- Why didn't you tell me?
- You were in prison.

It would only have made matters worse.

But you could have stopped her!

I didn't know until she was gone.

And still you did nothing!
While I was behind bars!

What kind of a helpless idiot are you?

You don't pick up the phone
when I call, and you know all this?

How do you think it feels, to have
someone run off with your son?

Or are you incapable
of feeling anything?

I have nothing now.

Because you did nothing.

I didn't know what to say!

Take care of your own life.
You have me and Dag.

Dag has Eva.
And you have always only had yourself.

And you know that!

Benedikt!

You did nothing, Ernst.

Nothing.

They're here for the bag!
Drive!

Can't that nutcase
just cook up some more speed?

- We just pack it.
- Can't you talk to them?

Your prison was like a country club.
These guys were in Petak.

I'm not in this for fun,
I'm doing it to stay alive!

I'm driving you to a hotel,
and that's it.

I'll go to the bar,
you go to your room.

I am sick and tired of you!

What is this?

A lawn.

I can see that,
but what is it doing here?

It's doing good things, Dag.

Your patients come from
a cold world outside -

- and into an oasis of security,
freedom and green grass.

Before entering the cold world
of your office.

Kjell will mow and water weekly.
Say hi to Kjell.

- Hi.
- Hi.

My new book is about the Cuban Missile
Crisis being solved through golf.

Eighteen stages of the Crisis.
One for each hole.

A little positivity, Dag?

My authorship happens to be paying
for the grass you're walking on.

I had to send in your next couple
while we were tending to the lawn.

PREGNANT

Shit!

Last we met you had split up,
so what are you doing here?

Your secretary called,
asked how we were doing.

We weren't doing great,
so here we are again.

My secretary called you?

I see.

- So the next question is why?
- What?

Why are you together?

We tried living separately,
but that was hard.

Both logistically
and that the kids got sad.

- And then I got pregnant.
- You what?

Is getting pregnant
the new national pastime?

And is he the ...?

I was just dropping the kids off.

And stayed for a bottle of wine.

Why?

You drop your kids off
after having them for a week.

If you're just returning
to an empty apartment, -

- it isn't easy
to feel great about yourself.

So I thought I'd stay for some wine.

Great idea. So you could make
another kid to disappoint.

We don't want to disappoint anyone.

You were separated.
Isn't another kid a lousy idea?

I don't know
if we actually were separated.

It's still just the two of us.

Fine.
What do you want me to do?

- I'm sure you'll love this ...
- I doubt it.

Our relationship is now a competition.

We tell each other everything we do,
to gain the upper hand.

Preferably in a way
that doesn't make it too obvious.

"I took out the garbage."
"I did laundry."

And then you expect
a "good job" in return.

Not for the praise.

But you want them to acknowledge
what you have done.

Why has this happened?

Because there aren't
enough hours in the day.

So in order to be able to feel -

- that you can read the paper
without being reproached, -

- you make sure the other person is
aware of how much you have done.

How about you, Kristoffer?

I agree with Stine.
There isn't enough time.

We compete over who sleeps the least.

The highlight of the day is five
minutes alone in the bathroom.

"Twosomeness" doesn't really exist.

We live together and,
in spite of everything, -

- we work well together
as partners.

At the practical level.

We're polite, we get things done.

But nothing about us is "twosome."

Before, when you didn't have kids, -

- you had your own identity.

You had friends who saw you.

Who could see you at your worst,
and that was OK.

You could share your sickest thoughts
with them, and that was OK too.

But now, you see your friends
less and less.

You lose your identity,
little by little.

And become more and more -

- that person in that relationship.

But those thoughts don't go away.
They keep building up.

And eventually you feel
you're the only one.

I've never felt more alone
than I do right now.

With my family around me.

But you can talk to me
about everything.

No, he can't. Just like you
can't tell him everything.

Everything you tell your partner
is stored in some mental vault.

Until it pops up later,
at some inopportune moment.

Your life is like any family's
with small children.

So what should we do?

Turn it into a competition.
That's what it is anyway.

Hang up a chalkboard in the kitchen.

Give each other points
for everything you do.

Five points for mowing the lawn,
two points for doing the dishes.

Five points for waking the kids.

And one you reach 100 points,
you get one free day to yourself.

Then you can do whatever you want.
Go fishing, get drunk, play FIFA ...

Both of you agree to the rules.

And both of you will put a little more
effort into the housework.

I see.
You have nothing to talk about.

How about Thursday?
Excellent. Thank you.

Calling for clients?

Only those who are miserable.
The first rule of marketing:

It's harder to land a new client
than to retain an old one.

- Here you go.
- What's this?

Your test results.

Your cholesterol level
and blood pressure such.

No butter, salt or bacon
for three months.

- Any other crappy news?
- I sent a copy to Eva.

Of course you did.

We're at the top.

Hi.
How are you?

Hi.

- How are you?
- I can't hear anything.

The iPad is in the living room.
See if you can get a new high score.

So, what's up?

Long story made short,
it ended up with ...

Too loud?

I parked Dorina at a hotel.

I was going to take
a quick trip to the bar.

You never know what you might find
at a cheap hotel.

It was the usual mix
of backpackers and losers.

With one notable exception.

FUCKABLE PREY!
TARGET LOCKED

Fredrikstad?

I've been there a lot.
Nice town.

I know about marching bands.

Did you know term Janissary
comes from the Turkish -

- "yeni çeri"?

They were elite infantry units -

- for the Ottoman Sultan
back in the 1300s.

May I join you?

I would do anything
not to go back to Dorina's room.

But this girl wasn't
what I had in mind.

She was nice, but I was
hoping for something extraordinary.

- What instrument do you play?
- So I tried to juice things up.

So this has nothing to do with the
drugs in church. You were fucked deaf!

Let me get you a beer.

Beer?
Sounds good.

- I'm watching Leon.
- I can't hear you.

Want me to show you something?

Say this is -

- 100 years.

How old do you think you'll get?

80?

And how long will you be healthy?

70?

How old are you now?

35.

How's it going?

There. That's where the thread is.
And one there. Perfect.

- Hello?
- Hi.

- Excellent.
- What is that?

- A bacon lamp!
- Yup. A bacon lamp.

Leon and I made it. Since I can't
eat bacon for a couple of months.

I have here -

- a 100-watt light bulb, so we'll get
a lovely bacon odor eventually.

Lovely!

And it gives off a nice, warm light.

It's like the Kinder Surprise
of interior design.

- I heard Benedikt in the hall.
- Yes, he scared the crap out of me.

Imagine ending up and deaf
on a shoe rack.

- We're out of bacon.
- Yes, we are.

- Should I get some more?
- Sure. Check in the kitchen.

Want to get married?

We just came from a funeral.
Not to be rude, but ...

I thought it would be nice to do
something pleasant on a sad day.

- You aren't kidding either.
- Nope.

I mean ... Wouldn't we
have to invite lots of guests?

No.
It could just be you, me and Leon.

Sure.
Why don't we talk about it tomorrow?

- Or later.
- Sure.

OK.