All language subtitles for NewMov-Delta.of.Venus

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the early morning chill.

As if drawn
by some invisible force...

she headed off
across the waking city.

Her cravings were vague,

poetic.

She was expecting someone.

Her excitement growing,

she ran through the treelined park
to the banks of the Seine.

Out of the mist,

she heard
that familiar sound...

with oars dipping

into the frigid water.

The creak of the skiff

powering forward,

cutting arrow-straight
through the still river.

As she watched him...

she asked herself...

how could a man
she'd never met

fill her
with such longing?

She knew the answer.

It was precisely
this feeling

she had been starving for,

to fall in love
in such a way

that the mere
sight of a man,

even a block away,

would make her tremble
and soften and melt.

I think it's the best work
I've ever done.

I'd like you
to try and sell it.

There is no business.

If I were you,
I'd consider going home.

This is not a time
to be in Europe.

No.

No, I can't.

I haven't gotten
what I've come here for yet.

I loved your book.

Your book is wonderful.

Good luck on the tour.

Hell of a party, Marcel.

All I had to do was
tell people the liquor was free.

- They're your friends.
- God bless them.

To the two most beautiful
women in Paris.

To our gifted but naughty
guest of honor.

And to Marcel, our host,
agent extraordinaire,

who blessed my life
with his belief in me.

Thank you.

Watch out.

Watch out.

Elena.

Marcel.

I thought
you were working.

My muse must have
gone to the beach.

I haven't had a single
coherent thought all day.

- Do you mind?
- No.

I know you.

This morning...

and the morning
before that

and the morning
before that...

on the bridge.

I write at night,

and at sunrise, I take
a walk along the river

before I go to sleep.

I know.

What else do you know
about me?

Elena Martin, American,

came to Paris four months ago
to be a writer,

works hard,
keeps to herself,

could be shy,

could be a recluse.

Well, you have me
at a disadvantage.

For now.

Beautiful, isn't he?

And dangerous.

The truth is, I only consented
to this little going-away party

because I hoped Marcel
would persuade you to come.

Now here you are.

Time stood still.

We could have been
on the dance floor for 1 0 minutes

or two hours.

I don't know.

Tell me about your book.

I hate it.

I know what you mean.

Do you?

He talked about his work

and his upcoming tour,

how he was leaving for New York
at the end of the week,

how he didn't want to go,

and right in the middle
of it all,

he began telling me stories.

He spoke the way he writes--
clear and precise...

shocking at first,
then beguiling.

I was at a dance like this
once in Saint-Tropez.

I could see it all.

Everyone was drinking
themselves blind--

townspeople,
society people,

mixed with fishermen,
artists,

whores.

Bonsoir,
mesdames et messieurs.

The band was hot,

jungle-hot,

then the bandleader
announced this...

special dance.

When the music began again,
it was wild, hypnotic.

Then they turned out
the lights,

first for five minutes...

When the lights
came back on,

some people left.

The rest waited,
as if for a storm.

They waited for the lights
to go out again.

Then the lights went out
for 1 0 minutes.

Pretty soon,
you couldn't tell the difference

between the whores
and the town girls.

They were all
in the same state--

hot...

giddy at the prospect
of being caught by the light.

Some were bare-breasted,

their dresses torn.

And finally, for 1 5 minutes,
when the lights came back on,

all you could hear
was a woman's moan,

rising in ecstasy,

lost to the world,

perched on the edge
of a cliff.

She refused to relent

until she achieved final
and complete release.

Flesh.

She was hunger
and flesh.

Workers of the world, unite!

Chaos, madness.

The scent of war
has created hysteria.

Every party turns
into a political rally,

and every rally
turns into a party.

Communists and fascists...

red banners
and gray shirts.

This is the wrong time
to be in Europe.

It doesn't matter.

I just thank God
I'm here.

Lawrence!

Lawrence.

Harry.

Lawrence.

What a delightful surprise.

Millicent, this is
Lawrence Walters.

How do you do?
Your book is wonderful.

- And...
- Elena Martin.

Charmed. I published his first
manuscript four years ago.

Caused one hell of a stir--
the entire moral league up in arms.

- Churchgoers, concerned housewives.
- I remember it very well.

Now he's so famous,
every publisher wants him.

I love your work.

Come on, Elena!

- I'll see you in New York.
- Talk to you, Harry.

I'll be at the Plaza.

This is ''Liberty,''

your English-speaking
broadcasting system.

Used to be
the stairwell.

When the stairs
fell apart,

they closed it off and
turned it into a flat.

Perfect.

- Do you mind?
- Be my guest.

Ahh, I love whiskey.

Whiskey... and women on bridges
in the early-morning fog.

Too much whiskey.

Before tonight,
I entered each room

looking for a miracle,

which never took place.

Now here he is,

asleep in my bed.

Before tonight,

I was growing sad
with restlessness and hunger.

I felt that nothing
would ever happen to me.

I felt desperate with desire
to plunge into living.

- Merci, monsieur.
- De rien.

I passed out.

Look around you.
Tell me what you see.

What do you mean?

Tell me a story,

like you're writing it--
describe it to me.

I see...

I see...

I see a wealthy man...

who's returning home
from a visit to his mistress.

He's sad...

because his arthritis
has been acting up again

and he knows that she's
grown bored with him,

taken on a younger lover.

There they are,

kissing...

just like
their grandparents kissed

and their parents kissed...

and the way...

we kissed last night.

Your turn.

I see an adventurer...

a dreamer...

a very good writer.

How would you know?

I peeked at one of your stories
on Marcel's desk

when I was at his office
the other day.

I swiped another
when I left this morning.

You what?

''Something... in her
had created a perpetual defiance

of the very possibilities
of experience,

an urge for flight.

She had stood many times
on the edge

and had to run away.''

Your work
makes me jealous.

Of what?

Your spirit.

Your potential.

Would you like some tea?

Tell me what you feel.

Your body...
pressed against mine.

Does that excite you?

Oh, yes.

Do you want me
to make love to you?

Yes.

Ah...

Jean-Luc.

Elena, Jean-Luc.

How do you do?

- Please, please.
- Thank you.

Sometimes
I come here to sleep,

sometimes to write.

If there's a God,

I think this is the closest
I'll ever get to Him.

I can't believe
you're leaving.

It breaks my heart.

Come with me.

I can't.

I need to work.

Death to fascism!

Death!

Death to fascism!
Workers of the world unite!

So, so...

the crusader-- he puts
a chastity belt on his wife

and gives the key
to his best friend.

Yeah?

And he's barely
riding a mile

when his amigo comes
galloping up shouting wildly--

''Stop! Stop! You gave me
the wrong key.''

Why do you always ruin
the hit line for me?

Punch line!

Punch line,
darling.

So how's work?

Good.

Bad.
I don't know.

Meanwhile, I spent
my last cent on an angel.

Miguel has
a proposition for you.

My life drawing class
needs a new model.

Everyone's
modeling nude.

- It's the rage.
- No, I don't think so.

I've done it a trillion times.
It's liberating.

A body is
a body is a body.

If it doesn't work, you can always
take up prostitution.

Oh, Donald.

It's what you all want,
isn't it?

You must be joking.

No, you do nothing
but have sex all day,

someone else
pays for everything,

a villa in the country,

I mean, life is grand.

It's made, and someone else
is paying for it.

You are a vicious,

vicious, vicious
little man.

Elena? Elena?

You should work
for him.

You have
a beautiful body.

I see a woman
surrounded by men

on a cold Paris street.

I see a soldier...

who's frightened of leaving
the only world he's ever known.

I see a boy
dressed as a soldier,

whose mother,
when she dropped him off

at the train station
yesterday morning,

remembered sending him off
to his very first day of school.

I see a red-headed woman

who knows
the boy's thinking,

''What if I die...

without ever having
made love to a woman?''

So beautiful.

I've never let anyone
look at me before.

No, not there yet.

Softly.

I can taste myself.

I love it
when you kiss me.

I want you inside me.

The world is now shut out.

There's only this sound,

this feel,

these fleeting moments
that are left.

By this time tomorrow,

he'll be gone.

It's only
a question of time

Before you are all mine

For, my darling,
can't you see

You belong to me?

And it's only
a question of...

Ah, that's sweet.

'Cause the love
that lives in your heart...

The man of the hour.

I love that man.

Beautiful,

don't you think?

Sublimely, terrifyingly,
gorgeously,

dangerously so,

with just enough madness in him
to keep him interesting.

...to me.

Thank you.

You were great.

Thanks.

Thank you.

So... where is he?

- Saying good-bye--
- Don't say it.

- What?
- Pay no attention to him.

He's just jealous.

I was just saying goodbye
to an old friend.

Why her?

I asked you a question.

Because I have a passion
for self-destruction.

Because she means
nothing to me.

I don't know
what I expected.

Please, Elena.

I want
to talk to you.

I'm sorry about what happened
on the street.

I don't know
what I expected.

Please.

I don't want
to leave like this.

He was gone now--

out of Paris...

and out of her life.

The fall was much greater
than she had ever known,

'cause she'd ventured
so far into emotion

and had abandoned
herself to it.

The most terrifying aspect
of her feelings

was that she was unable
to shrink back as before

to shut out the world.

She realized that he had
not only penetrated her body,

but also her very being.

Please, Marcel,

if you can't
sell my stories,

just give me
some work.

I don't care
what it is--

technical manuals,
translations, anything.

We're in a depression. Nobody's
publishing. Nobody's buying.

But you could try.

I heard from Lawrence.
The tour is going well.

How nice.

He's worried about you.

Take this.

No.

Merci.

But I could never.

- I've never been so nervous.
- Good.

I've always believed
one should confront

that which frightens
them the most.

Open your eyes,
Elena.

Put your hands
on his hips.

Put your head
against his back

and look out.

Pierre, Elena.

Elena, Pierre.

Be happy.

Bonjour. Oui.

For you.

No, not until you've
paid your rent.

Fooled you.

Hello.

Marcel.

Yeah.

When?

Ciao.

You sold it?

Sold what?

Oh, the story. No.

But you said
you had good news.

Perhaps.

It depends on your reaction
to what I have to propose.

I received a call
from someone yesterday,

a person
who collects erotica.

I wouldn't normally
have thought of you

for this type of assignment,
but it pays rather well.

- How well?
- 200 francs a page.

That's a fortune.

What kind of a pervert would pay
that much for a dirty story?

If that's your reaction,

then this isn't
the job for you.

Who is he?

Let's just call him
a serious collector.

Who is he, Marcel?
I want to know.

He wishes
to remain anonymous.

Where does he live?

You are such
a pain in the ass.

He lives in a villa that
he inherited from his family.

It's crumbling and
surrounded by vineyards.

There was a time
when he had wild parties.

He was
a ladies' man.

And?

And...
something happened.

Something horrible.

A neighboring farmer one day
looked out his window

and saw his cypress
tree burning.

The collector's car,
an old Bentley,

had crashed into it
and exploded into flames.

The farmer pulled him out,
but he was badly wounded.

Now he's crippled,
and his face is scarred.

He stays inside.
He doesn't go out.

He reads, he yearns,

and he dreams.

I'll do it.

Elena went to a dance

at a seaside pavilion
in Saint-Tropez.

All anyone could hear
was a woman's moan

rising in ecstasy
above the sudden silence.

Flesh.

Flesh.

It was hunger and flesh.

''Dear anonymous,

I was intrigued

when Marcel suggested
you write erotica for me.

What man
wouldn't want access

to a woman's
innermost thoughts,

to be permitted entry
to that secret place

where fantasies are born?

Imagine then my disappointment
when I read your story,

which was trite

and revealed nothing profound
about a woman's desires.

Obviously you are
so frightened of intimacy,

you neglected
to sign your name.''

Look...

I want to prove
that I can do this,

even if it's
only to myself.

He paid me
for a story,

so I'll deliver
a story.

If he likes it,
I'll do more, and if not,

at least I'll feel better
about having taken his money.

Okay?

I had forgotten
how young you are.

Monsieur.

Forget about books.

I am what you want.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay!

What do you want?

- I wanted to talk.
- I'm listening.

I'm a writer.

You want to know
if I feel anything...

if I still
take pleasure.

Yes.

I remember you now...

that night
in the street.

Have you been wondering
all this time?

Wondering what?

Why Lawrence spent
his last night with me.

I'm sure
you made him nervous.

Are you in love
with him?

I thought I was.

And so Bijou,

feeling a growing
compassion for Elena,

took her with her
to see a clairvoyant...

a big man from West Africa.

Except for his everyday
gray suit...

the man looked
like a magician.

He gave Bijou
a heavy stare...

then stepped away
to take off his overcoat.

You are in love with a man
that makes you suffer.

Yes.

He has peculiar habits.

Yes.

You are unhappy...

and compensate
by being unfaithful.

Go to sleep.

He never touched her,

but she could feel his hands
inches away--

warm and dry,

heavy and electric.

He never touched her.

Naked, he towered over her,

magnificent and tall,
like some African king.

He took her over completely,

and she surrendered.

Flesh.

She was hunger and flesh.

She was hunger and flesh.

''I was impressed
with your story

of the red-headed whore
and the clairvoyant.

So much so,
that I am enclosing

payment in advance for
your next literary effort.

I must, however,
caution you on one point.

Leave out the poetry.
Concentrate on sex...

only sex.''

Does anyone
experience pleasure

from reading
clinical description?

Don't you know that words
carry colors and sounds

into the flesh?

The language of sex
has yet to be invented.

The language of the senses
has yet to be explored.

Concentrate,
don't drift.

Dare to take it further.

I have given you a voice,
a rich voice,

an extraordinary voice.

I have given you
a background.

I have sat for hours
and wondered how you look.

If you have closed
your senses upon silk,

light, color, character,

you must be by now
completely shriveled up.

Who I am is of no concern.

Concentrate on the people
who live in your mind.

I want
graphic description,

hard-edged, unadorned.

No less, no more.

I think
it would be best

if we didn't pose
together anymore.

Did I do
something wrong?

No, no.

It's just that
you excite me,

and it shows.

It's embarrassing
to me.

Pierre was a dangerous man--

selfish and all-consuming.

He liked to meet Elena
in dark places

so that before they could
see each other's face,

their hands became aware
of each other's presence,

lingering
in the warmest curves,

knowing by touch the places
where the skin was softest.

His passion
was so intimate,

Elena sometimes wondered
if he was real

or a figment
of her imagination.

Your imagination
is real to me.

Don't be frightened.

His desire was
imperative and unexpected.

He could not wait.

With him, she learned hasty
departures from restaurants,

wild drives
in curtained taxicabs.

Her breasts undulated
like waves under his hands,

painfully awake,

sensitive, aware.

And her body
began to tremble,

and so did his.

And his semen
came inside of her

and mixed with hers

like little waves
breaking over sand,

one rolling in
after the other.

Moaning,
breathing heavily,

she awakes having
experienced a little death,

a dazzling little death

that no drug
or alcohol could give.

First there was the word,

and the word
was made flesh.

I feel a growing immediacy
in your work.

Take me inside.

Let me become part of you.

I live in perpetual
expectancy.

You have broken down
the veils of flesh

and all the cushions
that protect the nerves.

The effect is delirium,

brief and stolen.

I come away with pieces of you
sticking to me.

Late at night...

when I can't sleep

and my skin tingles
at the thought of you,

I lie in bed

and feel you pressing
your weight against me,

entering me.

Sometimes the image
is so powerful,

I wake with your scent
all over me.

I see...

a wealthy woman...

who has a lust
for the unknown.

She's interested only in men
that she's never seen before

and will never see again.

Her husband devotes his life
to satisfying her caprices.

His pleasure comes
from watching her.

Her pleasure comes from knowing
she's being watched.

There you are.

We were about to report you
as a missing person.

- Where have you been?
- I've been working.

I can't seem to stop,
it's just pouring out of me.

I'm writing the way
I've always wanted to.

It's so addictive,
I can't get enough of it.

Breath of night comes
with no warning

Devouring
the twilight air

Prowling, the shadows
are calling

To the girl...

Elena, you, too,
have invaded my sleep.

I see myself as the men
in your stories.

I look for you in all the faces
of the women I pass.

I feel your excitement.

Dare to take it further.

You have given me the world.

For the first time,
I can hear my own voice.

I'm consumed with emotion,
fear, and excitement,

white heat and hunger.

The fascist wore
a heavy worn belt

that came undone
with a snap.

Using it as an instrument
of submission,

he wrapped it
around Elena's wrist

and drew her to him.

He dared her to run.

Elena stood her ground.

A great sadness
washed over Elena

as if all the despair
she ever felt

was rolling itself
into the core of her being,

gathering force,
waiting to explode.

I was both alarmed
and delighted

to discover the darkness that lurks
inside your imagination.

Another surprise for me,

another layer revealed.

What's happened?

Hitler has invaded
Belgium and Holland.

They are massing
at our borders.

The world around her
was turning dark,

The world around her
was turning dark,

but Elena
could not see it.

but Elena
could not see it.

Instead,
she allowed herself

to be led still deeper
into the unknown...

to a secret place

where opium smokers
went to seek release...

to indulge in their desire
for dreams.

Leila sings
in a different way.

She tears your serenity
to shreds.

She spreads
anxiety and regret

and nostalgia
everywhere.

Shh.

They kissed until the kissing
became a torture

and the body grew restless.

Time stretched,
elongated.

She could only
see things in parts.

Nothing was whole.

As Elena felt herself
drifting off to sleep,

the last thing
she can remember thinking

was that locked
inside all women

was the same secret place
where fantasies are born.

She understood then

that her quest to find
her own secret place,

her Delta of Venus,
was the quest for permanence,

the desire to be forever linked
to that hidden part of herself.

Here.

It's good.

Believe me,
he'll be pleased.

He's worried about you.

He wants you
to leave Paris.

No.

What if he stops
paying for the stories?

I'll write them
anyway.

What if I refuse to be
the go-between?

Who is he,
Marcel?

Is it you?

No, it isn't me.

Marcel refuses
to reveal your identity--

you, who knows my secrets,
my darkness.

It hurts too much to know
that we can never meet,

never touch.

I want you
to leave Paris, Elena.

Hitler is advancing.

The fall of France
is inevitable.

If I leave, the link
between us will be broken.

You'll be lost
to me forever.

Then you will leave me
no other choice

but to stop
buying your work.

Last night, German bombers
targeted Lille airport,

causing air-raid sirens
to be sounded in Paris.

French air force pursuit planes
were successful

in bringing down
one of the bombers.

Both French and RAF planes

are already fully engaged in
air battles with enemy aircraft...

I just keep thinking what's
going on is just a bad dream.

Don't be fooled.
Get out while you can.

Don't be fooled.
Get out while you can.

What are you
going to do?

We've made arrangements
to go to Mexico.

I have family there.

Maybe we can
join you.

I can see it now.

An entire country

filled with nothing
but exquisite deviants

from around the world.

To the only family
I've ever known.

Amen.

- Lawrence.
- Elena.

- Donald.
- Stranger.

Miguel, guapo.

Leila.

Ariel.

I missed you all...

very much.

It's only
a question of when

We'll be together again

For, my love,
it's our destiny

For you to belong

To me.

I'm worried
about you.

Me...

or that girl who used to watch you
row each morning on the Seine?

Are they
that much different?

You have no idea.

With the rapid advance
of the Third Reich

towards
the French borders,

and the increasing threat of
bombing raids on the capital,

we are receiving reports that
there is considerable panic

in the streets of Paris,

and the beginnings of a mass
exodus from the city.

Restaurants and markets
are closing.

Food is becoming scarce.

French Nazi sympathizers

are becoming
increasingly militant.

Violence is increasing rapidly.

The police appear to be unable
to control the situation.

It has been reported
by Reuters

that French aerodromes
and military bases

have been the targets of escalating
air attacks by the German Luftwaffe.

The French government has ordered
all French officers on leave

to return to their posts
immediately,

and a general mobilization

of all French army reserves
and enlisted men

has been put into effect.

Lawrence asked me
to talk to you

on his behalf
before I left.

He thinks he can just
walk back into my life?

Not a letter,
not a post card.

The whole time
he was gone, Marcel.

What does he expect?

He cares about you.
That's why he came back.

Do you really
believe that?

I believe
we should always try

and retain
at least a little hope.

Take care of yourself,
Marcel.

I hope
you don't mind

my asking Marcel
to talk to you on my behalf.

It broke my heart
to see him go.

Before he left,

he stopped
by my hotel

and delivered
your last story to me.

''They kissed...

until kissing
became a torture.

And the body
grew restless.

Time stretched,
elongated.

She could only see
things in parts.

Nothing was whole.''

You've turned into
an amazing writer, Elena.

How could I have been
so stupid?!

Elena,
I can explain.

Listen to me.

Elena!

Please.

Elena.

Please,
let me explain.

It wasn't until I left that
I knew how much you meant to me.

- Marcel said you were desperate--
- Desperate?!

I'm not desperate!
I've never been desperate!

Money, money is
what I'm talking about!

I knew you'd never accept a loan,
so I had to come up with something.

Bullshit!

Bullshit?
Bullshit?!

You want to talk about bullshit?
What about your first piece?

- That was your story!
- My story?

Saint-Tropez,
the orgasm that wouldn't end?

That doesn't matter. Every story
you wrote after that was wonderful.

Who the hell are you
to judge me?!

Look at me.
Look at my eyes.

You turned me into a crazy man--
you want to know why?

I can't deny it
anymore.

I'm not only in love
with your work,

I love you.

I love you.

Let go of me.

For you,

my American
beauty...

to wear next time
we're together.

- You don't like my present?
- I don't think she does.

Hey...

I don't think
I like you.

That's your prerogative,
my friend.

Friend?

Did you say ''friend''?
Did you say ''friend''?

- Yes.
- Did you?

- Yeah.
- Did you? I'm not your friend!

Get him!
Get him!

Get him!
Get him!

Get him!

Bastards.

Your stories were all real,
weren't they?

It was all real,
wasn't it?

Everything I write
is real.

I'm the woman
in all my stories.

Why him?
Why the fascist?

Because I loved
the smell of his sweat.

Because like my mentor,
the collector,

I wanted to know
what it was like

to feel passion
without love...

to take what I wanted.

Is that
what you want?

Is it?

You really do love me,
don't you?

He was condemned
to lose her.

They would not
stay together...

but he was
in her being for good.

Elena had once
written to him,

''You have given me
the world.''

It's true. He did.

He opened up
her eyes and ears,

her mind and heart.

From now on, nothing could
keep her from creating.

From now on,
good or bad,

she knew she was capable
of many loves.

There it is.
It's a heart beating.

If I move,
this person knows it.

If I drop away,

this person feels it.

I exist in him.
That is life.

There's something
happening there.

I am the words
you dare not speak

I am the need
that keeps you weak

The salvation
that you seek

I am

I am the wound
that will not heal

I am those scars
you can't reveal

A holy shrine
at which you kneel

I am

And after
each disaster strikes

The tragic
yet polite goodbyes

I'm left with
all the bitter tears

That crucify

In every hopeful
lover's breath

Ascending
from each little death

I rise to find
that I am left alone

Leave me your darkness,
I'll make it light

And all your wrongs,
I'll set them right

I'm your candle
in the night

I am.

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