All language subtitles for Isadora.Duncan.1966.XviD.DVDRip.Eng

I! S! A! D! O! R! A!

Isadora Duncan was banned here today,

following an incident
at the Symphony Hall.

Boston Sentinel, October 20, 1922.

Isadora Duncan, the Bolshevist,
and her husband, Soviet poet Yessenin,

were deported after pushing
a grand piano

through the window of their
14th-storey hotel suite.

Indianapolis Examiner,
November 23, 1922.

Orgy in dancer's Riviera studio.

Captain Patterson thwarts
Duncan's suicide attempt.

Journal de Nice,
October 5, 1926.

The car stalled a few feet
from the river.

The chauffeur attempted to start it
with the handle, but it was still in gear,

so it rushed forward and
plunged into the Seine.

The bodies of the dancer's two
drowned children

now lie at rest in Madame Duncan's
Paris studio.

Figaro, April 20, 1913.

Soviet poet, Yessenin, scores love poem
to ex-wife, Isadora Duncan, in blood

after slashing wrists.

His body was found today in Leningrad hotel
in which they spent honeymoon.

Pravda, December 28, 1925.

I killed the Madonna! I killed...

Isadora strangled at Nice.

Daily Telegraph,
September 15, 1927.

Crowds of 10,000 thronged
the Pere Lachaise crematorium today

at the funeral of the decade.

The Paris Conservatory Orchestra
played Air On The G-String

as final homage was paid
to this great American dancer.

The constant companion of Isadora
at the end of her life

was the writer, Sewell Stokes.
He has written a play about her,

a novel and the definitive account
of her last days at Nice.

I suppose Isadora led
the most sensational life

of any woman who's lived in this century.

I only knew her during
the last year of her life.

And to the young man that I was then,
she still had tremendous glamour.

She was warm-hearted.
She was lovable. She was exasperating.

But why am I telling you about Isadora
in the graveyard of Chelsea Old Church?

Well, it was here, as a young girl,
when she first came to England,

absolutely penniless,
that she slept among the tombstones

but, nevertheless,
determined to become a success.

From the start, she was always
a very ambitious young girl.

Isadora Duncan taught herself to dance

on the beaches of California.

By the time she was 16,
she was dancing professionally

and trying to support her family.

But Broadway in 1894
had no interest in her dancing �

it was uncontrolled and uncommercial �

so she gave private recitals
in the drawing rooms of the wealthy

and eventually earned enough
for a passage, by cattle-boat,

to a place where
she could enjoy freedom.

And so, at the height of her solo career,

when she was one of the
best-known names in Europe,

she founded a school of dancing.
And by the age of 30 when, already,

self-indulgence was beginning
to weaken her powers,

this school had become an obsession.

Oh, that's nice.

Her pupils were of all nationalities,
rich and poor.

But they rarely stayed with her for long.

As the school moved
from country to country,

always searching for a permanent
sponsor, promising pupils disappeared,

new, untrained ones
joined to take their place.

One or two faithful disciples
always stuck by her,

ready to take over
whenever she was away

earning the money
that kept everything going.

But large symphony orchestras
and Greek temples

left little over to pay the rent and supply
the needs of 40 growing children.

The only thing that never worried her
was a shoe bill.

But apart from her ideas
on free expression in the dance,

she did more than throw away
ballet slippers.

Victorian corsets, long hair
and high-buttoned boots

were all thrown out of the window.

In the early 1900s
Rodin painted and sketched her,

d'Annunzio celebrated her in verse.

Her life, her art,
caught the imagination of the day.

She became the patron saint
of the art world.

Man.

Earth.

Universe.

Friendship.

Caring for this large and demanding family

was far from being a substitute
for some lack in her personal life.

Isadora had a baby of her own, Deidre.

The father was the famous
theatrical designer, Gordon Craig.

She refused to marry him.

The memory of her parents'
unhappy marriage never left her

and she swore never to make
the same mistake herself.

Anyway, life was too full and rich
to be shared with only one man.

And if Rodin or d'Annunzio
weren't available,

she contented herself
with lesser mortals.

Oh, you shunned people.
I, at least, do not shun you.

I come forth into your midst.

I will be your poet.

I shall be more to you
than to any of the rest.

Run along, dear.

� Isadora, aren't you feeling well?
� I've never felt happier in my life.

I am in love.

In love? With a sewing machine?

No. The man who makes them.
Paris Singer.

The millionaire, dear.

And she wasn't kidding.
Mr. Paris Singer's

sewing machine factories
were hers to command.

In 1908 he sent his wife and family
off to Egypt in his yacht

and brought Isadora home in triumph.

Paris was a great art-lover and collector.

He admired Isadora,
Palladian architecture,

the Madeleine and Versailles.

And down at Oldway, his chateau
at Paignton in South Devon,

he collected them all together.

Paris Singer was ruthless, impulsive
and constantly worried about his health.

But Isadora saw him
as her knight in shining armor.

She called him Lohengrin.

This, he said, was to be her fairy castle.

To Isadora at that moment,
it was simply a fascinating mausoleum

of commerce and bad taste.

But also, she saw
what it might become �

a Mecca for the faithful,
a magnificent, shining temple of art.

How do you get in?

What did it matter if everything
was solid gold? So much the better.

Her dream of the future,
to see all America dancing �

just as Walt Whitman
had seen all America singing �

seemed just around the corner.

� Boo!
� Oh, Lohengrin! What is it?

Oh, it's nothing.
Just a trivial gift I picked up.

I thought it might amuse my goddess
if she was feeling bored.

Pull it. Pull it.

Lohengrin, how can I thank you?

I'll dance my gratitude to you.
I'll dance all night.

I'll dance until the dawn.

� Er...
� And...

Right. There.

And again.

Stop.

And once more, girls.

OK, that's enough.

After the er... honeymoon,

Paris settled back into his hypochondria
and his water cures

and Isadora saw little of him.

The arrangement was straightforward.

Lohengrin would provide a home
in France for her precious school

but Isadora must live with him here,
in splendid solitude.

Little Deidre was her only pupil now.

A year passed
and a second child was born � Patrick.

But this was small consolation
for her loneliness.

Devon was an artistic wilderness.

Bohemian visitors were frowned upon
with disdain at Oldway

and even dancing palls in the end
if one dances only for oneself.

"Oh, lovely Pussy, oh Pussy, my love,

"what a beautiful Pussy you are.
You are, you are.

"What a beautiful Pussy you are.

"Pussy said to the owl,

"You elderly fowl,
how charmingly sweet you sing."

I'm terribly sorry, madam.
I'm just clearing the tray.

Have you ever thought of
going on the stage?

Lohengrin! Lohengrin!

Oh, my dear, I've just made
the most wonderful discovery!

Another one?
That's very clever of you.

Has there been trouble
in the servants' hall?

The trouble is John shouldn't be
in the servants' hall.

� His place is on the stage!
� Oh, really?

Now, read out loud. And don't be timid.

"But soft, what light
through yonder window breaks?

"It is the east and Juliet is the sun.

"Arise, fair sun,
and kill the envious moon...

"My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

"my love as deep.

"The more I give to thee,

"the more I have,
for both are infinite."

My God, he has talent.
Lohengrin?

Lohengrin!

� You called?
� Really, this young man has genius.

He must be trained
at the best school of drama.

Of course, he'll need a little allowance
to live on. And plenty of...

Plenty of shirts, suits,
shoes, cravats, hats. Underwear.

� And all of the very best quality.
� I knew you'd understand, dear!

From now on, there was an extra place
for breakfast.

# Oh, the sewing machine,
the sewing machine

# A girl's best friend

# If I didn't have my sewing machine
I'd have come to no good end

# But a bobbin a bobbin
a pedal a pedal

# And wheel the wheel by day

# So, by night I feel so weary
that I never get out to play #

Lohengrin! Lohengrin,
stop, please.

He's disappeared!
And I do not know where he is!

Don't you pretend you're not responsible.
Just look at these unpaid bills!

You've cut off his allowance
and I know why!

It was just to humiliate me!

You swine!

You... you bloody capitalist!

And if the poor boy
has committed suicide... murderer!

Have you ever thought of
becoming a musician?

Thus a pattern was set up which
blighted the rest of their relationship.

Singer would buy her
the Metropolitan Opera House one day

and sell it the next to spite her.

They were still together
but saw less and less of each other.

But she did have the children,
who grew up happily

and were a constant
source of pleasure to her.

Singer provided for their needs
with his customary extravagance.

She was now living in France,

a rather more suitable place than
South Devon for a favorite mistress.

There was a studio in Paris,
a chateau at Versailles

and, best of all,
his latest gift to her �

a fine, new school just built
on the heights of Passy.

For the moment,
he'd returned to his wife,

so Isadora was left with her children,

free to plan new dances
and new performances.

In the spring of 1913, everything seemed set
for a wonderful future.

Isadora lamented the death
of her two children in her own way.

The car had plunged into the Seine
and both were drowned.

Life after the death of her children
was a nightmare.

There was another child
but it was stillborn.

She took to drugs and alcohol.
She was in despair.

The school became
a grotesque mockery.

When war came and the pupils
were dispersed it was almost a relief.

The school was turned into a hospital

and for a time,
Isadora became a Red Cross nurse.

But even the war couldn't blot out
her personal tragedy.

Singer disappeared
and his millions with him.

When a tour of South America
was offered in 1916, she took it.

But in Rio, the years of alcohol
and lost training proved fatal.

Her performances were a disaster,

her private life a scandal.

Times were now changed.
Where once she'd danced in drawing rooms

to an audience of admiring
princes and prime ministers,

she now danced in a small-time brothel
where they didn't give a damn.

Her true agony failed to penetrate
the alcoholic haze in which she lived.

She was just another
drunken American showing off.

The despair was repressed.

Her visions, her obsessions, returned.

In Paris she created a dance
to express the spirit of France at war

and at the same time, her own struggle
to create a new school out of the ashes.

Whatever her weakness,
she was a woman of extraordinary courage.

Two years after the war
she was still carrying the torch.

At the Champs-Elysees Theatre
on July 3rd 1920

she made a final appeal
to the French nation.

You know why I'm here today?
I need money for my school.

For the children who will dance
in the future.

Children like the orphans
of the terrible war.

There is no better way to put happiness
into the hearts of the children

than to teach them to dance.

For to dance is to live!

And that is what I want � a school of life!

Give it to me. Ask your president
to give it to me.

If not, I shall have to go to Russia,
to the Bolshevists.

Yes, Russia.

And I'll say to those Bolshevist leaders,
"Give me your children.

"And if I do not teach them
to dance like gods, assassinate me."

And they will either give me my school

or they will assassinate me.

For if I do not have my school
I would rather be dead!

"Come to Moscow. We will give you
a school and 1,000 children.

"You may carry out your plan
on a vast scale. "

What the President of France
had declined,

the Russian government welcomed.

So, full of renewed hope,
Isadora and one faithful pupil

set off on the long journey to Moscow,
full of wonderful visions.

� You're on a diet.
� Passion! Like a sucking pig, that is.

The Russian people had obviously
recognized in her a fellow revolutionary.

There would be celebrations,
banquets and speeches.

By the time she arrived,
she'd written one of her own.

Comrades, people of Moscow, greetings.

My pupil and I have long awaited,
with eager expectancy,

your joyous peasant faces.

Your tumultuous reception
has moved me deeply.

And I know that this welcome
promises great things for the future.

From this day forward,
we shall be united in friendship and love

for ever and ever. Amen!

Spending the night in the open
was nothing new to Isadora.

For months, she'd passed nights
under the stars in Greece

when building her temple.

And before that, when she'd arrived
in England on a cattle-boat long ago,

she'd slept in the Green Park.

But then she had not had the comfort
of a Fortnum & Mason hamper.

Gordon Selfridge, who'd given it her
as a going-away present,

had no idea how useful it was to become

in this Moscow station suddenly filled
with starving Russian children.

Come on!

Oh, no!

Of course, they'd never
really expected her to come.

They had thought she would never
give up the easy life of the West

to suffer, with them,
the birth pangs of a new Russia.

The economy was in ruins, desolation
caused by the revolution everywhere.

In Moscow in 1921 it needed
a superhuman effort just to keep alive.

There was near-famine,
no fuel to keep out the Russian winter

and an acute housing shortage.

They'd promised her a school.
Well, here was a gutted Tsarist palace.

She could have that.

She needed beds. Here was timber.
She could make them herself.

The only thing of which there was
no shortage was homeless children.

They came to the school
in their hundreds,

seeking refuge rather than tuition.

But before they could have either,
there was much work to be done.

And all on a diet of potatoes
and champagne.

Whatever the circumstances, there was
one luxury she never gave up.

After six weeks, she was invited to meet

some leading members
of the Communist Party.

She'd obviously proved herself.
It was something to celebrate.

Our work.

Did you murder the Tsar
just to take his place?

Even the dead
hose belongings you've stolen

would have made
tougher revolutionaries.

You goddamn bourgeois usurpers.

You're just a load of bloated fish
and you stink.

Communists? My sweet ass!

After almost a year,
the classes were in progress.

She was starting
from the beginning again,

as she had so many times before.

The first lessons
began with the arm positions,

each with a symbolic or
ritualistic meaning

and taken from the frescoes, paintings
and statues of Ancient Greece.

The temperature of the studio
was more Arctic than Hellenic.

Lack of fires, thin tunics and bare feet

made Stoicism an essential part
of the curriculum.

Hai! Hai!

� You damn witch!
� Who do you think you are,

bursting into this temple of art
with your gang of hooligans?

What she is talking about?

Are you Duncan? Yes?
You understand English?

I do not understand what you're doing
here. And who is this wild animal?

This is famous poet.
Most famous poet in Russia.

� Sergei Alexandrovich Yessenin.
� A poet!

A Golden Head!

� That's good!
� Enchantee!

...As for you, as for her and for all,

Maybe little of happiness here

From the mad but poetical soul...

...Like a Russian woman you knew

Timeless solitude before dawn,

Autumn chill of the colour deep blue.

Love for you is the funnies case,

Stupid joke to allow this happen.

But I saw your iconic face

In any of provincial chapel.

To the icons not giving a damn,

I get used being foul in language,

Now...
You are like any of them�

Yessenin was
the new Russian Pushkin.

No less a person than
Maxim Gorky had said so.

He was a peasant, a poet of the people

enjoying the indulgence
of a new regime.

He was also an epileptic, a drunkard,
a lecher, a layabout and a thief.

Isadora found him irresistible.

The fact that they couldn't understand
each other's language

didn't bother them at all.

They communicated in mime
and when this failed, they drew pictures.

He needed the medical attention
Russia could not afford.

He needed fresh horizons
to broaden his art.

Isadora would show him the world.

But she would never
have contemplated the idea

if the authorities had not threatened
to close down the school.

They could no longer afford
to support it.

A quick, lucrative tour of America

seemed the only way
of averting disaster.

On landing, they were put on Ellis Island
as suspected revolutionaries.

They were accused of coming to the USA
to sow the seeds of anarchy.

Their books were suspected of
being subversive,

their music of being
a cleverly coded message.

They were communist agents.

In 1922 the USA had reason
to fear such people.

But Isadora pronounced
all their charges preposterous

and in Boston the tour commenced
with an all-Russian program.

She promised the authorities
there would be no trouble whatsoever.

What are you doing here?
Why are you here?

Do you know what is this?
Now, look here!

Do you know our national flag?
Look at it, all of you! We...

There was trouble, too,
in their private lives.

They were married now,
and still on the honeymoon

that had started
a few weeks ago in Leningrad.

Long ago I left my village

With the blooming fields and thicket,

Tempted by the city image

And the life of fame, so wicked.

So I buried in oblivion

Orchard, summer I enjoyed...

What the hell...

Their rows usually took the same form.

He would start off
with an unintelligible tirade,

she would get hold of luckless
interpreter to translate.

His art was great, immortal,
it would live forever.

When she died,
her art would die with her.

Her dancing was a joke.
She would be quickly forgotten.

What nonsense the boy talks.

My message of beauty and freedom
will never die.

It'll be kept alive
by the children I've inspired.

� What's she talking about?
� And live on in their children.

And their children,
and children for generations to come!

Now you tell him that!

...Yes, that's nonsense!
Always looking at her children!

No!

...Yes, those children!

Get it now!

You swine! Haiduks!
Leave me alone!

Leave me alone!
To hell with you!

In Chicago, the police were alerted

to prevent a repetition
of the Boston incident.

Yessenin caused trouble
wherever he went.

He was turned out of hotels
and banned from theaters.

His kleptomania knew no bounds.

He even robbed his own wife
when the opportunity arose.

It was not a little ironical

that in order to get him out of Russia
and into America,

Isadora had had to break one of
her strictly held commandments �

never to marry.

The police had their doubts
about her, too.

Dancing to Russian music was one thing,

but actually to express
the Russian Revolution

in a dance which symbolized
the oppression of the masses

and the overthrow of government

was a very different matter.

What the hell's the matter
with you people?

Don't you like Russian music?

Are you just afraid of
a Russian Revolution?

In Russia, there is freedom!
Here, you don't know what it is.

I came here to teach you people
what freedom really is.

And your capitalist press
darn near ruined my tour.

I am not an anarchist!
Or a Bolshevik!

My husband and I are revolutionists!

But they put us on Ellis Island.

If anybody here speaks their mind,
the government prosecutes them.

Well, they prosecute you if you drink.

That doesn't stop you drinking, does it?

Some of the liquor I drank here
would have killed an elephant.

It darn near killed me.

Yeah, it's a very good thing
I'm going back to Moscow.

You should all read Maxim Gorky.

He says there are three kinds of people �

the black, the red and the gray.

Now, the black people
are people who like to terrorize,

people who want to command.
Like the Kaiser and the Tsar.

The red people are people
who rejoice in freedom. Freedom.

And the gray people are like...
well, they're like this hall.

And that goes for your statues, too.

They're not Greek gods.

They're false.
And you're as false as they are.

You don't know what real is!

This... this is real!

You were once wild here!

Don't let them tame you!

They were deported from America,
kicked out of France

and finally landed back in Russia.

Yessenin made off
with what money was left.

Isadora never saw him again.

Darlings, how lovely! Where's Wilma?

� Here.
� Oh, Wilma!

Oh, it's so wonderful to be back!

I can't tell you
how often I've wished I was here.

Oh, what a nightmare.

Boston, Ellis Island,
Indianapolis. Oh...

But you've brought money
for the school?

� There's little left of what you sent us.
� Oh, I haven't any.

You've no idea how expensive it is
replacing smashed-up furniture.

In the end,
no decent hotel would take us.

� Yessenin?
� Yes.

Didn't work out.
We're not together any more.

Man.

Earth.

Universe.

Friendship.

Eugh!

To save the school, she would
have to start on yet another tour,

this time accompanied
only by her impresario and a pianist.

Surely there would be a profit this time.

Their destination was the Volga district �

and beyond, Siberia and China.

Dear Wilma, we go from
one catastrophe to another.

Arrived in Tashkent without a kopek.

Spent two days wandering around
the streets, very hungry.

Zenon Melchik slept in the theater,

I next door in a little house
without water or toilet.

All night long, I kill bedbugs
and listen to the dogs howl.

I haven't had soap or toothpaste
for a month. Tres amusant.

I dance to large publics
of communists and workmen.

No one has money for tickets
except the new bourgeoisie

and they cordially detest me.

But courage. It's a long way,
but light is ahead.

My art was the flower of an epoch.

That epoch is dead
and Europe is the past.

The little, red, tunicked ones
are the future.

Plough the ground, sow the seed

and prepare for the next generation
that will express the new world.

With them I see the future.

It is there and we will
dance to the Ninth Symphony yet.

Love to you and the children.
ps Let's hope Siberia turns out better.

# Oh, bury me not

# On the lone prairie

# Where the wild coyotes

# Will howl o'er me

Things were not better in Siberia.
They were worse.

No one came to see her.
How to get money?

She contemplated selling her love letters.

She took them with her
wherever she went.

A newspaper had once offered her
$1,000 for them

but she never parted with them.

They, at least, were some consolation

for a career that had seemed
so promising

on the beaches of California in the '90s

and which she now realized
had come to an end

on the Russian steppes in 1924.

Indifference from the Russians troubled
her less than rejection by America.

She loved America as much as
her grandparents had done,

who had crossed the plains
in a covered wagon and fought the Indians.

Exile was bitter.

# Oh, bury me not

# On the lone prairie

# In a narrow grave

# Six foot by three

# Where the buffalo pause

Oh, my God! Fool!

# On a prairie sea...

What have they done? My letters!

Look, they're all over the place.

She never reached China,

but back in Moscow she determined
to have one more go at the authorities.

Oh, my dear, you don't have to teach me
the true meaning of communism.

In my heart I've been a communist
all my life.

I'm the queen of communists.

I've come here to help you
create the land

in which every man, woman and child
shall inherit the fruits of the earth,

united in a vast brotherhood of love.

When I came to Russia, I had no idea
of giving public performances.

I only wanted to give the greatest joy
and the greatest beauty

to the children of the workers.

You see here children
of the workers and peasants.

And aren't they fine, beautiful children?

Doesn't it prove
they can be cultured and intelligent?

I want all the children in Russia
to be like them.

But I can only give my art to a very few

because my school doesn't have a studio
large enough for them to dance in.

I have asked those in power

to give me a big arena in the summer

and a big, heated place in the winter,

where I could teach
a thousand children my art.

But three years have passed
and nothing has been done.

I have waited in vain.

Tomorrow, I leave by plane
to tour Germany.

So... I must say goodbye.

But I will never give up my dream of
teaching thousands of your children.

And you must help me!

Art is so much greater...
than government.

Her appeal was ignored.

She said goodbye to her pupils.
She never saw any of them again.

(Isadora ) Berlin. Eden Hotel.

December 16, 1925.

Dear Wilma, I am stranded here
in this awful city.

I've signed three contracts
and been swindled three times,

the last for Hanover.

When the time came, the agent didn't
have the money for the railroad ticket.

I cannot move from here

and since four weeks,
the hotel will serve no more food.

An American friend brings me
a slice of roast beef a day,

but he has no money, either.

Yes, I was terribly shocked
about Sergei's suicide.

But I wept and sobbed so much
because of him while he was alive

that I've exhausted
my capacity to suffer over him.

Me? I'm having an epoch
of such continual calamity

that I'm often tempted
to follow his example.

Only I'll walk into the sea.

Now, in case I don't do that,
here is a plan for the future.

I have almost persuaded the French
Communist Party to give me a school.

I promised them I would bring
my best pupils from Moscow

to act as monitors.

If the school can be started in Paris
for all the workers' children,

I have great hopes.

Isadora wandered forlornly
among the wreckage of her career.

The dream of a new school in France
remained only a dream.

Now in her middle 40s, engagements in
Europe came with growing infrequency.

But in some circles
her name was still hallowed

and more than once, she was asked
to attend and to give her blessing

to a recital in her honor.

Ready?

� May I call you Isadora?
� You can call me anything you like.

I lay this wreath
on the grave of my hopes.

Faster!

This is the way to die!

Faster!

Faster!

Oh...!

Isadora landed on her feet
in Nice, broke.

She had mortgaged
all her property years ago

and sent Yessenin's estate,
for 400,000 francs, to his parents.

She lived on credit
at the Negresco for a time,

then became a Riviera bum,

always ready to suffer
a wealthy hanger-on,

good for an improvised performance
at a party,

easy copy for a journalist
hard up for a story,

always on the lookout
for a nice, young poet.

Will you dance with me, madame?

Je suis enchantee, monsieur.

# Thanks for the buggy ride,
thanks for the buggy ride

# I had a wonderful time

# No smell of gasoline,
just an old-fashioned team

# It was a wonderful treat
to hear the patter of horses' feet

# My boater nearly broke
I took it as a joke

# It was all new to me

# Cos I was used to riding
in a big limousine

# But buggy-riding loving
sure beats any machine

# Now, although I lost my pride,
thanks for the buggy ride

# I had a wonderful time

Isadora, the press are still here.

Coming.

Isadora Duncan's studio, Nice,
Wednesday 14th September 1927.

Press conference.

Well, can I say, then, that you'll be given
a high price for your memoirs?

You can say that I hope to make
enough money to start my school.

And then I shall show you 500 children

dancing to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.
Whoo!

� Do you consider, as a dancer...
� I'm not a dancer. I hate dancing.

I am an expressionist... of beauty.

But... but you are one of
the g-greatest dancers in the world.

I think you can say that.

I'll tell you a secret.

I don't know how to dance at all.
Not at all.

If you put your hand on your heart
and listen to your soul,

you'll be able to dance as well as I do.

And that's all there is to it, my friend.

W-Well, if you'd care to take a few poses
that occur to you, we'd be most grateful.

As a dancer, I'm really a great orator.

My art is an expression of life.

My dancing is of the spirit...

not of the body.

When my body moves
it's because my spirit moves it.

If my art is symbolic of any one thing,

it's symbolic of the freedom of women.

My body is the temple of my art.

I expose it as the shrine...
for the worship of beauty.

Age is only self-hypnotism.

Oh, wait. Oh, leaves. Yes.
Autumn leaves.

� Ah, there's my buggy boy.
� Oh, very effective, yes.

I don't need your props for inspiration.

I need music.

Beethoven. Wagner.

One of the immortals.

# Blackbird, blackbird,
singing the blues all day

# Right outside of my home

# Blackbird, blackbird,
why do you sit and say

# There's no sunshine in store?

# All through the winter
you hung around

# Now I begin to feel homeward bound

# Blackbird, blackbird,
bound to be on my way

Look out! No, no, no!

# Where there's sunshine galore

# Pack up all my cares and woe

# Here I go, singing low,
bye-bye blackbird

# Where somebody waits for me,
sugar's sweet, so is she

# Bye-bye blackbird

# Here nobody loves or understands me

# Oh, what hard-luck stories
they all hand me

# Make my bed and light the light
I'll be home late tonight

# Blackbird bye-bye

Adieu, mes amis!

Je vais a la gloire!

# Joy, beautiful spark of Gods,
Daughter of Elysium,

# We enter, fire-imbibed,
Heavenly, thy sanctuary.

# Thy magic powers re-unite
What custom's sword has divided.

# Beggars become Princes' brothers
Where thy gentle wing abides.

# Thy magic powers re-unite
What custom's sword has divided.

# Beggars become Princes' brothers
Where thy gentle wing abides.

# Blackbird, blackbird
# Singing the blues all day

# Right outside of my door

# Blackbird, blackbird
# Why do you sit and say

# There's no sunshine in store?

# All through the winter
you hung around

# Now I begin to feel homeward bound

# Blackbird, blackbird
# Bound to be on my way

# Where there's sunshine galore

# Pack up all my cares and woe

# Here I go, swinging low
# Bye-bye blackbird

# Where somebody waits for me
# Sugar's sweet, so is she

# Bye-bye blackbird

# Here nobody loves or understands me

# Oh, what hard-luck stories
they all hand me

# Make my bed and light the light
# I'll be home late tonight

# Blackbird bye-bye

# Here nobody loves or understands me

# Oh, what hard-luck stories
they all hand me

# Make my bed and light the light
# I'll be home late tonight

# Blackbird, blackbird

# Blackbird bye-bye