All language subtitles for Tu.imagines.Robinson.1968.1080p.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.x264-eng 03

YOU IMAGINE ROBINSON

A film by
Jean-Daniel Pollet

First, we should have
explained these images.

Explain now this scene,

the woman,
the scarf,

the bird,
the wall,

the face.

In a kind of sleep,

with also this real landscape
where you are,

where you would be alive.

With the other side of the
landscape as in sleep,

where you approach
what scares you.

That,

the same scene that
still presents itself,

another of these parts.

The same images that insist,

which come back in another way.

In an impossible
wakening situation,

where open eyes would not
see what should be there.

A bedroom...

Where the sleeper
would dream of himself,

sleeping in a dream.

Hero of the Western World,

drifting.

Taken away
thus...sleeping.

Still alive.

You imagine torture
or a forbidden intimacy.

And then,
after suffering,

further than you've ever gone.

You already have the gestures
that will let you survive.

Now a destiny for you,

open,

of which you would be the
master outside the world.

From a few images

like seeds that you
would have taken away.

Here...

because of your fear,
inventing.

I was in the boat.
I'd been drinking.

A bomb fell.

Three quarters of
the world destroyed.

Only a few portions remain
of earth and water.

I was on one of these
fringes by chance.

Imagining the end of this society

where you traveled,

that only you can escape.

Paris...destroyed.

New York, London, Rome.

Not even the dead...
Nothing.

One survivor.

Why not?

You.

In the fable that saves you
from your nightmare.

In your nightmare.

And you start by looking
in the ground.

Digging.

Wanting an answer.

In your madness.

You imagine Robinson.

You imagine the story in color
of a man who represents you,

thrown up on an island.

Alone

and he would have everything to do,
everything to rediscover,

starting from nothing
for his own benefit.

He is in reality
on borrowed time.

At the same time

the allegorical ensemble
from the beginning reappears.

The allegory is
still there, around.

Like ghosts who would come to haunt
and call to them, the one who is alive.

Fingers,
hand, arm.

And after?

The face.

Mouth.

Nose.

The eyes.

An eye, two eyes.

The heart.

Or, like the meaning.

The scrambled meaning
of what worries the fable,

where you recognize yourself.

Allegory,
always present,

deep down,

and heavier than what
could be taken for reality.

That is to say
this asylum,

the place where you took refuge.

What could be
taken for reality

is what we called, 200 years ago,
a philosophical tale.

You would come back to nature.

You would find what
would be essential.

But, if you speak
you keep yourself wise,

like in an engraving
from an old book

I am in the East,
in the West.

In the North,
in the South.

South of what?

South of the sun.

But already the sun is no
more a benchmark for me.

It would take
an isle or another town.

Which town?
Which isle?

I don't know anything
about cities anymore.

This is not a return to
the origin of language.

I know nothing
of cities anymore.

This is not innocence.

Rumors.

Sounds of war.

Then suddenly
wars break out,

like clouds.

Elsewhere surely is fighting.

Someone
is defending his right.

Who? Who is
in his right?

Which is the city, right now?

Faces, friends,

shredded,

dead,
defending their street.

Or a bomb.

Waking, they
are all dead.

All.

Those who were
right and the others.

To wake up alone.

The great silence.

Sleeper.
Outside.

Outside
where she walks,

she comes.

She alone who
looks at you,

who is waiting,
who is there,

who's looking at you.

I can't stand it anymore.
I don't even want to die.

I'm going to drag myself
on this square of earth

and no one, but no one.

They say the head bursts.

Let's assume these
ropes at some point...

at some point

to be torn...

to break...

What would be a dream

is now installed in that
which poses for reality...

And everything happens in reality,
in colors and light, in the noises.

With the way for example,
of moving from one day to another.

You live in the reduced space
of the fable in which you dream.

In the proximity of colors.

Not moving from here.

And they are all ready to be there,

never quite absent,
gone back now.

Docile, watching
what happens.

Mute.

All ready to fade away.

And they look at you.

We must not let
our tongue ossify.

Speak.

If need be, say anything,

but speak.

Hygienic measure.

Speak, speak, speak.

Hello, how are you?

Thank you for coming.

It is not strictly speaking
a party or a meeting.

It's not...

Talk about anything.

Of this island.

The color of the sky.

While the difficulty is
speaking in the image,

because these images,
obviously, do not speak.

When it comes to chatting

we would say at the heart
of the image, in the fable...

It's a relative meaning,
a coincidence of speech.

I have nothing.

David has nothing.

David is alone,

all alone.

David is a man.

The man,

the woman,
the child,

the dog.

The personal pronoun,
the grammar.

Conjugate two hundred times,
the verb a hundred times!

Numbers

One...

two, three, four...

I have to speak.

I have to speak.

Say the words,
all the words.

Take care not to forget any.

Window...

Cloth...

Dream.

This island is populated
by 625 million crabs

Crabs are red,
the fish are white.

The rainbow has seven colors.

Rainbow.

Brittany, house.
a wall, bricks.

Telluric, archaic, cynical.

What actually happens
is what we see.

And then, what the fable has
built and burnt by the fable.

What's there in front of you
is burning, your shelter.

So...

the bird first detached
from the allegory

and which made the link

between what would be the
real world and its beyond

was sacrificed

so that everything comes together.

At this point of the story,

everything is brought back
to this little corpse

and you no longer
know who you are.

Then you start again
according to an identical scenario:

to build, to live in,

to get something to eat,
to talk about, to play,

to sleep.

There where you set yourself,
where you are seen.

You are caught up in your game.

Walking through the
same small space,

you don't want to go away,
explore, change.

It would be disappearing.

Having decided to oneself,
as in a childish bet,

that it is here one will find you.

David multiplies.

The one who lights the fire,

the one who gathers,
the one who cuts.

The one who digs.

David watching birds,
David watching fish

and David who...

And what passes for the
dream, a unique dream,

a coherent obsession.

It returns when you summon it...

but slowly.

And this time it's you
who invoke this apparition.

It's you who hold it
in front of you.

She who would be no one

in your real biography,

or only a very brief moment,

if at all.

The Isle of David!

A surprising spectacle!

The wind everywhere
and his nest,

because the famous
David lives in a nest.

A dog!

The paw! The paw! Paw-paw!

Yesterday Ladies and Gentlemen,
yesterday, David was afraid of a rat.

Not really a rat,
but really scared.

Who hasn't seen David
feeding on grass

has seen nothing!

But no one ever sees David.

Nobody except me.

Come on!

Come on just the same,
you never know.

David's rock.

The stone that David
polished with his hands,

three days and three
nights of patience.

And David who could do nothing
with his ten fingers, nothing!

David loved Joyce,
Borges, Rimbaud,

David knew the
"Vowel sonnet" by heart.

David reciting the sonnet to a girl...
no, it's the girl.

Rimbaud crossing the
desert to sell weapons.

and it was an air-conditioned desert,
full of Arabs and camels.

David's desert is a real desert,
an empty desert!

Empty!
David's void!

Empty!

Ladies and gentlemen,
the void!

David was good-looking.

He knew English
and a little Spanish.

One day in Barcelona he got lost.

David loved Spain and bullfights!

David loved music!

He loved Bach! Monteverdi!

Bartok! Varèse!

David had his own brand
of whiskey, his cigarettes!

David exhibited large canvases.

David

knew how to play with stains.

knew how to draw

eyes... feet... hands.

David no longer draws,

he polishes pebbles!

David's pebbles.

David's stones.

David's branches.

His crab.

David's crabs.

Ugly crabs, carcasses.

Inside...

there is no more crab,
the crab is dead.

David's crab! His crab!

David's crab! His crab!

Despite everything you stay there.

Your fiction is completely
inside the circle that it has drawn,

where you dig your grave.

And you would like to speak now.

Sick.

Return

to another landscape,
so different.

See, see again, questioning you.

Don't come back...

and the water floods.

Red water

and breaking trees.

The barrier

returns to the starting point

What is blood?

Suddenly

it freezes,
thickens.

I'm thirsty!

I'm thirsty!

And that stinking water!
It will rot.

It will rot.

So this is the theater where
you play, where you gesticulate

You always move,

in the fragments of the world
that are prepared for you.

Somnambulist.

And you imagine the moment
where she would dance

with the assurance of memory.

And you are afraid...

In your sleep
that never stops.

Yet your memory does
not belong to you.

It goes back further than you,

for example, back to the year 1719

when Robinson Crusoe appeared.

These brand new images are
actually two and a half centuries old.

Since I've been counting

I've counted 67 nights.

Before.

One day I'll make you
a fish or some mice.

A dog too.

An entire, still
world to hear me.

The dog, I'll call him Friday

and Friday also the mice.

And every day that
follows will be Friday.

I wanted to run away.

I thought I wanted to run away.

I really wanted to.

These brand new images are
actually two and a half centuries old.

This is where you go,
blind, today.

In a memory
which is not yours.

You are in a
mythology in decline.

What you do is
already fully written.

The wind,

rain.

No matter.

It's for me that I write,

as I live, for me.

What you repeat,
but useless.

On the sand.

And you are unable to
start over what was done.

Work, animals trained
to work, slaves.

You are only a refugee,
anywhere.

Come out of nowhere,
fell from the sky.

So that your deliverance could too,
now, only come from chance.

Like what you pronounce,
randomly.

I decide that
today is Monday.

I might as well decide that
this day has another name.

Every thing will now
have the name I like.

While the five continents,

including the islands which
are firmly attached to them,

are still engaged
in violent history.

The weapon you made for yourself
in this truly deserted island

is for playing.

Prisoner

and your deliverance
cannot but fall from heaven.

I have to talk, it's the
rule of the game.

Play.
The intertwining lines.

A maze.

You walk, you walk, you walk.

They like money, Webster and
the other one with a Z name.

All these boxes that
look alike, the same.

Blacks and whites
that intersect.

Queen, they eat all my pawns.

Always.
I don't know.

Cards too.

The tremor when
unfolding the fan.

Heart, spades, clubs.
Two clubs, king to queen.

On the other side
half-closed eyes.

Read in the eyes.

He doesn't smile.

His hand, huge

and the ring,
moonstone.

The backs of the cards.

These marblings
like birds' feet.

The imprint of a thousand birds' feet,
a thousand times repeated.

A geometry.

And behind the geometry,
other shapes.

Red or black.

The smell of tobacco,
then the rustle of lace.

These names from the past.

Serge, Indian madapollam.

I have to decide

The lines are blurring.
A geometry falls apart.

Prisoner

and your deliverance
cannot but fall from heaven.

Or else

you must face the forbidden
that keeps you under its spell.

Get up, get out, move on.

Nothing more!

And if it cannot fall from heaven...

Your deliverance would come
from what you do now,

from violence.

A mask.

Not the dark,
not the light!

Nothing!

Not even fear.

Nerves,
the network of nerves.

A spider that gnaws at you.

Unfold. Why?
They are there.

They are watching me like rats.

Motionless.

Not even a breath.

The foetus.

No one.

No one here to
force me to unfold.

I will

go back

into the night.

Bend, bend
in the water.

I asked for nothing,
nothing.

I will return,
bend in the water.

My head
will go away.

Lapping.

The exterior,
lap... lappi...

The... thousand... little

antennas.

Water, madame.

He goes

The others say:

Maria!

He goes...

This long, slow slide...

They say: Water.

Fable and allegory would
through violence be erased.

These are my last words.

If my lips open again

it will be to really talk,
to someone else.

I don't know if the words
that I pronounce

would be understood by another.

This morning
the sky is clear.

Fifty two days
of getting ready.

I know perfectly
well where land is.

The sun and the
stars will guide me.

Fifty two days
to learn the sky.

I have to go.

The worst:
not knowing.

Not knowing if
I've gone crazy.

Not knowing the exact
number of days, of nights.

No rush to leave,

simply,
I leave.

And you leave the fiction.
You say goodbye to it.

You get ready,

knowing that this time again

you will stay, despite everything,
inside the circle that fiction has drawn.

In the fable you will leave.

And it could be to go die
in the water and the night,

in front of you.

To be only bathed,
carried away.

How far you could go? Out of
this world, feeding off yourself,

returning, driven.

Sleeper.

Have you ever come
or come back here?

In this place that will be inhabited
again by the same figures,

despite the noises,
the voices.

You,

dressed as the men of
this country actually are,

though you're not one.

Subtitles: Dagomir
corvusalbus edit