All language subtitles for La vie sexuelle des Belges 1950-1978 (1994) Jan Bucquoy.eng

The Sexual Life Of The Belgians
1950 - 1978

My mother had nice tits.

I remember them well.
I sucked them for two years.

Better and cheaper
than powdered milk.

Then came chips and lentils.

They're filling
with lots of vitamins.

Cheap.
- My God, he talks!

At 13, I always wore shorts.

Everyone laughs at me.

But they show
your nice thighs off.

And your trousers
won't wear out so quick.

Yeah, and they're cheap.

On his days off,
my dad looked after his pigeons.

There are three kinds of pigeons:

Those that win races,
those we cook

and my dad's, that fly away
and never come back.

No.

When she was 18 my sister Ariane
dressed like my mother.

No!
I won't wear that dress!

I look ridiculous!

No, no!

On Sundays, after the mass,
we went to the country.

We could buy a car.

Everyone's got one now.

But bikes are healthy.

And they're cheap.

Bed and no dinner for you
when we get home.

One day Ariane
found a stray dog.

She named it Marouf.

It's moulting again!

Jerome, do something
with that dog.

It moults and scratches.

Dogs like that ruin sofas.

Sofas have to be replaced
and they cost a lot.

Jerome, please.

Come on, boy,
we're going for a walk.

Wait, I'll come too.

He hit it on the head with a hammer
and threw it in a pit.

Marouf!

... to take the hand

of Fabiola de Mora y Aragon

before you.
- Yes.

It's dead.

Fabiola de Mora y Aragon,
did you come of your own free will

to join in holy matrimony
with Baudouin, King of the Belgians?

You killed it.

A few weeks later
she met a man

and called him "darling".

Before, she used to go
to the market with mum.

Ah, Noella.
- The cherries are dear.

She didn't use to like it.
- 10 francs for the oranges, OK?

No, 12 francs.

Me neither.
- 11 francs, the market's closing.

They cost me 12 francs.

The market's over.
You won't sell them.

OK, 11 francs.
You want a kilo?

No, half.

Noella, why me?

Here you are.

Let's go, Martha.

Aunt Martha was beautiful,
but she always did what she pleased.

She always dressed the same,

and never wore knickers.

I liked Aunt Martha a lot.

She didn't have any kids.

She said the world was too horrible,
but she liked life.

Aunt Martha,
why aren't things as we want them?

It's because of that poof up there.

She liked the cinema best.

She took me there all the time.

The first film she took me to
was "Johnny Guitar".

It was magic.

How many men have you forgotten?

How many women do you remember?

Are they real?

Yes, but they live over the ocean.

Is it far?

They're going to kiss.

Lie to me.

Tell me you waited for me
all these years.

I waited for you all these years.

Look, little love...

I bet they end up
getting married.

She's going to steal his money?
- What do you think, eh?

I didn't stop loving you one second.

I waited for you so long, Johnny.

Why did you wait so long?

I never saw my parents kiss.

I wondered how
they could have made a baby.

Me, for example.

It must have been on a special day.

My father was a worker
at the Lano textile factory.

He worked 8 hours a day,
with overtime some Saturdays,

and came home at 5pm every day.

I think it was that day the boss
asked him to become foreman

and he refused.

"Foreman", that means
look after the stock,

orders, invoices,
things to read and write.

That was a problem for him,
reading I mean.

He was posing when he flicked
through his newspaper.

My father couldn't read or write.

Hi!

What you drinking, Noella?

Six beers, please.

Help me, goddamned!

Not like that,
you're fucking hurting me!

What a wanker!

You're a pain in the neck.
- Shut up!

Go on, help me!

Not so hard, sucker!

God, what did I do to get
such a stupid husband?

Once in front of the ovary,

I must have hesitated.

But because others
were pushing me up

I had to give in.

They always get you.

You should never
be ashamed of your body.

When you grow up,
you'll be a famous author.

You'll surprise them all.

Aunt Martha died
this side of the ocean.

For once, she wore knickers.

Get away from there.

Put a jumper on,
you'll get fucking ill again.

Look at this lazy slob.

Jerome, wake up.

Come on!

For God's sake, Jerome!

I think he's dead, Mum.

The fool.

It's hardly the right moment.

Just before he gets
his seniority bonus.

Noella,

I got you the cheapest one.

You did well, Gilbert.
The dead don't know.

Go on, 15,000.

15,000? Go away!

I had to go to the quarry
to get it.

I brought it all the way
back here, cut it...

Cut what?
- In all, it cost me 15,000.

12,000, not a penny more.
Or he won't get a tombstone.

We can't bury Jerome
without a tombstone.

13,500 then.

12,000, and I'll pay cash.

OK, 12,000.

I was fond of Jerome.

OK.

Come on, let's go.

My first sexual experience
happened at Blankenberg.

It was with Eddy.

Do you want more?

Blankenberg is cheaper than Knokke.

Come and see my films, Jan.

You've got Laurel and Hardy?
- Of course.

Always going inside.
With all this fresh air.

Kids today
don't understand anything.

They're too spoilt,
they've got everything.

They didn't live through the war.

Do you want more?

Suddenly,
Eddy put his hand on my knee,

then my buttock,

and he grabbed my willy.

It started to get hard,

I quite liked it.

Eddy wasn't a girl,

but when he put
my hand in his pants,

I was sure.

Suddenly, a white liquid
spurted out of my hands,

and then I came.

One?

I needed to compare
my experience with Eddy.

Two.

Here you are.
Thank you.

Take your places,
for the next ride.

She's easy,
she kisses all the boys.

I know.

At school there was
the most beautiful girl in the world.

They say she came to school one day
with dirty knickers.

Everyone called her "Dirty knickers".

I didn't care, I loved her.

But I didn't tell her.

One afternoon,
the first warm winds from the Azores

blew over Harelbeek.

Ginger Leon
pulled her knickers off.

Here you are.
- My name's Christine.

Bucquoy loves Dirty Knickers.

Everyone at school
says we're engaged.

Well, if that's what they say.

They call me Christine now.

I never had dirty knickers.

Ginger made it up, because
I didn't want to be his girlfriend.

Wait.

Look.

It's true they're not dirty.
- They're for you.

Thanks.

Look.

I've never shown anyone before.

We'll stay together for ever.

How are you?
- Alright.

I brought you a book.
- That's kind of you.

Do you like it?
- It's not really my sort of book.

You know what?

My family's taking me
to the Belgian Congo.

When?

In three days' time.

But we're not supposed to part?

When I get back,
we'll get married.

I will have a houseboy,

and monkeys, giraffes
and even elephants in the garden.

When will you come back?
- I've a lot to do.

I'm going.
Promise to come and say goodbye?

Dirty knickers!

Dirty knickers!

For the holidays,

we predicted the anticyclone
centred round the Isle of Wight

would influence our region favourably.

They forecast a dry and hot summer.

I give up,

you're too strong for me.

Do you want
to watch Laurel and Hardy?

No, I've seen them all.

It's no better with girls,
if that's what you think.

I'll see next summer.

The following summer,
they built on the campsite

and I never saw Eddy again.

I saw Dirty Knickers
again in May '68.

It's been so long,
Dirty Knick... sorry,

Christine.
- Nearly ten years.

You haven't changed.

You, yes. Well no, I mean...

Is it true I haven't changed?

Remember Leon?

Yes, Ginger.

The sun took its time to rise,

and a cold wind from the Shetlands
rustled my face.

Nothing wakes you up
better than that.

Now for the results:
Moretti, 6,5/20.

Your notion of the ideal woman
is really out of time.

Pirana, seven.

A true lump of meat.

You'll always be a butcher's son.

Brusselmans, desperate five.
I wonder what you've learnt.

Mia, 16.

A slight tedious, but not bad.

You've already the questions,
the answers will follow soon.

Bucquoy,

19.

Very good.

Come and see me after class.

When I passed my exams,

I wanted to continue
studying in Brussels.

You'll start in the offices
at Lano tomorrow.

Everything's arranged.
- But...

It's a good job at Lano.
Your father never suffered there.

But no...

On Saturdays, we went out
with Pirana and Moretti.

It was Mia's birthday,

the school swot type, a bit shy,

stiff, badly dressed.

She was in love with Pirana
but he had other ideas.

You're not dancing?

Why?
- I don't like the music.

What turns you up?

Jazz, bebop, Miles Davis...

Oh, niggers' music!

You don't seem to like girls.
You're not gay by any chance?

If they're all like you,
it's no wonder, isn't it?

Charming.

You know your mum
still has credit at the butcher's?

Bye.

If you're bored,
why don't you scram?

I'm waiting for Pirana.
- Me too.

You haven't done with it!

Pirana likes girls
with big tits not like yours...

Bastard!

I'm sorry.

Come on, we'll wipe it off.
- OK.

Come on.
- No, it's alright.

It won't take a minute.

My mother...

Andre!

God damn it!
You'll get it later.

And you Bucquoy,
don't come here ever again!

Get out of here,
dirty little bastard!

Joyce, Miller, Camus, Steinbeck...

You could become a writer...

Who knows,
win a Pulitzer prize.

You'll never be anything.

You know nothing of life.

Above all, you don't know
the value of money.

Life is so expensive.

It was summer
when I arrived in Brussels.

A warm wind blew in from the Balearics
over Harelbeek

caressing my face.

I wandered around.

What are you drinking?

It's on the house.

A Palm.

You've a nice face, you know?

My name's Greta.

Herman J. Claes, writer.

Jan Bucquoy, from Harelbeek...

I write too.

What do you write?

It's the story of two bulls.
One old, one young.

They're climbing a hill,
and at the top,

the young one notices
a field with thousands of cows.

The young one, all excited,
says to the old one:

"Let's run over and screw one. "

Wait, wait...
The old one says:

"Let's go slowly,

and screw all of them. "

Where will you sleep?

I don't know, I've just arrived.

I've a bedroom upstairs.

You coming?

The "Dolle Mol" was
the cafe that initiated me.

Greta taught me the kamasutra.
It took a few months.

Her friend, Esther, introduced me
to the revolutionary theories.

She was a hardline Marxist Leninist
and libertarian activist.

I liked Esther a lot.

Children, Santa Claus
and Father Christmas don't exist.

They are your parents
or any other adults in disguise

who give you presents
if you're good.

Accuse your parents
of pretending to be Father Christmas

and they will admit it's true and
that they never stopped lying to you.

"Support the Vietnamese People"

I enrolled at the University in both
political science and history of arts.

But I didn't take exams.

I was a member
of the revolutionary avant-garde.

My job was to educate
the reactionary masses

and whittle away at
the moral basis of the imperialist state.

Politics, it's all humbug.

You can study
thanks to workers' sweat.

Understand, the Vietnam war,

the exploitation of the third world
only profit the big capital.

If we don't oppose them,
we become their objective allies, see?

It's all Greek to me.
I don't give a damn about politics.

"La Chinoise" is showing
at the Arenberg. Fancy going?

Yes, I would.

As the bourgeoisie develops,
- i. e. The capital -

so does the proletariat:
The modern working class,

who only live if they find work

and don't find any as soon as
the work stops feeding the capital.

Workers, forced
to sell themselves every day

are a merchandise
like any other commercial product.

Consequently they suffer all
the vicissitudes of competition,

all the ups and downs of the market.

With machines,
and the division of labour,

the worker's labour is stripped
of its individual characteristics

and its usefulness.
The capitalist...

As a result,
workers' wages are just enough

to live and propagate their race.

So, the more work becomes

repugnant
the more salaries decline.

Allow me to ask
your daughter's hand, Madam.

Therese is too young.

Allow me to insist.

There's nothing to insist.
She's too young.

Mother...
- Shut up!

You could have found better than that.

She's pregnant.

Get out!
Never come back here.

I was ready to live openly
my petit bourgeois contradictions.

But as Lenin said,

"revolution is a daily practice".

You want more?
- No.

Marriage is expensive.

You're still young.

And you.
Have you thought long and hard?

Mum, stop.

Listen, it's me or your mother.

We married on October 17.

I forgot my wallet in Harelbeek.

It doesn't matter, Mum. I'll pay.

It lasted three years.

Then came the first oil shock.

Same as usual?

Jan Bucquoy, choose.
Me or the Dolle Mol.

And the need to feel good,
to totally control oneself,

and in a suitable way,

that all paves the way
to the most severe forbidding

of the next stage,

the forbidding of masturbating.

Children's sexual inhibitions
form the basis

of the fixation on the parental
environment: The family.

It's at the basis
of the lack of independence

in thought and deed.

I want to know the truth:
Where were you last night?

You're not my mother,
I don't have to tell you.

Naughty.

Jan Bucquoy, I hate you!

A breeze from Scandinavia,
licked my face.

Nothing better for meditating.

I took an apartment in Anderlecht.

Therese, it's me.
- You disgust me.

He wanted to live together.

I didn't feel ready.

But he promised eternal love.

He'd only love me.

What a bastard.

I got it all, the big game:

Lies, infidelity.

Always dragged in the shit.

Monsieur was preparing
the permanent revolution.

You know the type,
a century too late.

The only work he did
was to try and write a book.

A masterpiece.

My foot!

Monsieur didn't want
to be the watchdog of the bourgeoisie.

What a joke.

All he left me, was two kids.

What a son of a bitch.

Who are you with?
Young and pretty?

No, Therese, I'm alone.

I warn you,
you'll never see the kids again.

I swear I'm alone.
It's the heater you can hear.

It's that little slut you met
working on the porn mag.

That so-called model.
What happened to the romantic poet?

Poet, my ass!
Pornographer, yes!

I can't live without,

I can't live with.

Without it, everything's wrong.

No skin without head.
No hot without dog.

No woman, no love.

It's hard with,
but everything stops without.

The heart beats slower,
the neck stiffens without women.

Legs would be paralyzed.

Without a woman, we are blunted.

Without a woman,
we stay in the cupboard.

It's hard with,
impossible without.

It's the story of a frog,
with a big, big mouth.

She goes off
to discover the universe

and suddenly meets a big beast
with large brown spots:

"Good day. Who are you?
- I'm a cow. "

"And what are you eating?
- I'm eating grass. "

"That's interesting. "

And she goes on...
and meets lots of animals...

and then, flap, flap,
the flap of huge wings.

A huge animal sits down
at the edge of a lake

with a long beak and neck,
perched on one leg.

"Good day. Who are you?"

"I'm a heron and I eat frogs

with big mouths... "

"That's interesting. "

Listen, Therese,
I'm with two great chicks.

One is called Cathy,
the other I don't know.

I'm making love to both of them.
It's great.

Cathy's got her legs wide open,

her fanny all wet,

and she comes
sitting on my penis.

And the other one
just sat on my mouth.

Therese didn't call again.

Look who it is. JB.

Jan Bucquoy.

Haven't seen you for ages.

Come on, don't be shy.

I liked Cecile a lot,

but her new false teeth
had torn my foreskin.

What you doing there?
- None of your business.

Is she nearly finished?

Who?
- My mother.

Who's your mother?
- Cecile.

In my opinion, yes.

I'm going then.

Will you walk me home?

How old are you?

Don't worry.
I've got French letters.

Good, let's go.

You remind me of Sterling Hyden

in "Johnny Guitar".

What did he say to Joan Crawford?

"How many men have you forgotten?"

"How many women do you remember?"

Shit, it's Tony's gang.

They're after me.
About a leather jacket...

Less proud now, eh?
Where is it?

I don't know.
I know nothing about a leather jacket.

What? A leather jacket?

It could have been a love story
like in the movies.

But, as Magritte said:

"Art isn't life. "

You know what?

You don't know nothing.
Nothing at all.

Wanker. Let's go.

Can you change the music?

Leave if you don't like it.

Come on, don't start.
Looking for trouble?

Calm down, Jan. That's enough.

What's the matter? You want a fight?

Watch it, mate.

I'll do you right in.

They weren't too expensive?

Don't worry, Mum,
there was a sale at the florist.

You coming again Sunday?

I don't know. I'm very busy.

You know,

the flowers, you shouldn't have.

Don't waste your money.

It would be cheaper
to come back and live with me.

Sure, I was angry.

Angry that she never held me
in her arms.

In any case,
I went for the most expensive.

FOR SALE

With the money from the house,
I paid 8-years living allowances.

See you next week.

This is how
you make a Molotov cocktail:

Take a glass bottle,

fill it with an inflammable liquid,

like petrol stolen from a car.

You must add a drop of soap or oil

to make the liquid greasy.

You can also add
some nails, some gravel,

to strengthen the impact.

Then,

mix it all up.

Take a bit of cloth,
dipped in petrol

which we'll fix to the bottle
with a piece of cork.

Light the cloth
and throw the bottle at the target.

When the bottle hits a hard surface,
it will explode.

Is that clear? Any questions?

And now, the nitroglycerine formula.

When Franco died,
I spat on his tomb in Madrid.

In Stammheim,
Ulrike, Andreas, Gudrun

and Ingrid were murdered in their cell.

I became a hardcore vegetarian.

Oh yes, Jan Bucquoy,
what a mess, that bloke.

It was unreal.

I remember when I met him,
he was depressed...

He was heavy, heavy...
He didn't stop, this, that.

He'd just left his wife,
Therese, and it was bad.

I just wanted to fuck.
That's all.

He went on and on
about sexual freedom.

But if I wanted to go
and party on my own, no way.

He caused a scene,
shouted, the whole works!

And then one day,
he left and went to Germany.

I saw him a year later.

He was much better.

Less depressed, more sure of himself.

He was alright.

I think then we could
have got something together.

But it was too late.

I had become more sure
of myself with women.

Hello.
I want to make love to you.

You know why
I wanted to make love with you?

I don't know.
My charm, my intelligence?

No.

My eyes, my body?

No.

Having savoured the artist,
you fell in love with the man.

No.

You realized immediately
I was the man of your life?

No, you're the first man
I've met with no telly.

To be loved for what I was
I bought a TV - a Grundig

colour, with a big screen
and remote control.

On credit, of course.

Why do you like making love to me?

Because you're the nicest man
I've ever met.

"Everything Is Alright"

I liked Daisy a lot.

But one day she met a man,
and they opened a snack bar together.

And I started meat again.
- Closing time!

I liked them all...

Women...

Fat ones, thin ones,

small ones, tall ones,

brunettes, black-haired,

yellow ones, red ones,
blue ones,

rainbows...

Whales, tramways,

seals, teddy bears,

the killers...

The Midnight Express.

Apples, bloody marys,
walkie-talkies,

summer festivals,
sofas, secrets, pears,

untouchable long-necks,
parasites,

milk shakes.
I forgot loads,

cargoes...

Mezzanines, the ones who came
from the cold, I loved them all. Kisses,

sleepwalkers...
I found that...

sorbets... nothing is
more beautiful than a woman.

Then I met Melanie,
through the small ads.

"Independent and dynamic woman,
likes sport, reading, cinema,

Lacan, and men who want
something other than a mother or maid. "

She said man was
a biological accident,

a woman gone wrong,
a moving foetus.

That to be male was a handicap

and manhood an illness.

And that I was emotionally paralysed.

Bar always full,
always in a good mood.

Women had changed, and so had I.

I got into art,
pure art, in a big way.

What are you reading?

"The Immortal"
by Robbe-Grillet.

Oh I know it. It's a bore.

I heard it's over with Melanie?
- Yes, I got rid of her.

I'm available too.
- And Sylvain?

We had nothing to say to each other.

What are you doing tonight?

Why, you want a fuck?

I'm not interested in men
who only think about fucking.

Do you still have
your radio show?

Yes, literature, novels...
And you?

I write every night.

Still that famous novel?

Yes, I went back to it.

Who have you invited
on your programme?

What?

Who did you invite
on your last programme?

Pierre Mertens.

Why do we write, Pierre Mertens?

Like Michaux said,
to get out of the chaos,

to be loved like Genet,

or as Nabokov said,
to drive back the beast?

Do you write to please women?

I think of my female readers,

but I also think

of Kafka,

who knew a book
should be like an axe

to chop through
frozen sea in August.

I also think of Borges
who dreamed there was one book

that all writers shared,

like one bread and wine
at the last supper.

And others like Simone Weil,

saying we need poetry
like we need bread,

or Ingeborg Backman who retorted:

"Yes, but a bread that grates,
and is sometimes between the teeth. "

You never felt like writing
about homosexuality?

No, because...

Into the mike, please.

Because every literary work

is more or less autobiographical.

Even "Madame Bovary", which
we all know is about the author,

even Poe's short stories,
or Borges' fiction...

If we read Flaubert's letters
or those of Kafka,

they're all the letters of a writer.

Pierre Mertens and Marlene
married on July 21 at Knokke.

The wedding was intimate,
in the presence of the Brussels gentry.

Pierre Mertens was given
the Order of Leopold II,

in front of a Court Guard.

I've thought about it,
and I want to live with you.

There's been a misunderstanding,
Melanie.

You're a really nice girl,
rich, young, full of life,

I'm just a nobody,
I'm not the man for you.

That's for me to decide, no?

You know, I'm polygamous,

I live in bars,
I can't do housework,

I've got no money,

I'm not the bloke for you.

Don't you love me?

It's not that, but...

I have to finish my book.

Pirana, hi.
- Alright?

What you doing here? On your own?
- You can see that.

And you?
- Me too, I'm alone.

Fancy a walk?
- Well, yes.

I think it's stopped raining.
I can close the umbrella.

Can I go with you?
- Of course.

I'll follow you.
- OK. This way.

It was Christmas.

An icy wind from
Bering rose over Harelbeek.

She sat in front of me.

Her half-open blouse disclosed
her firm and pointed tits,

- ivory-coloured -
ready for my greedy mouth.

She took off
her white gloves first,

and I watched her hungrily.

Peter Benoit's requiem.
I like it.

But Mozart's is the best of all.

His spirit is close to
the Christian concept of death.

I know nothing
about classical music.

It's people who interest me.

I want to live in an equal world,
where we can all be happy.

Mozart spoke of that too.
He wrote to his father:

"Death is man's true happiness"

and he thanked God for
enabling him to recognize death

as the key to our beatitude.

God doesn't exist
and Mozart worked for the elite,

whilst most people
have to earn a living,

with stupid, inhumane work.

Men are exploited as merchandise.

You have to contest that.
Mozart didn't.

I'm writing a book.

To earn my living,
I write for porn mags.

No, the book I want to write is...

Sex.

No... sex, reality,
feelings, day to day things...

Mozart talked about that too
when he spoke of death.

Yes, but I'm interested in life.

I'm finishing my book.

It's nice to finish and start love.

Yeah.

It was Christmas.

An icy wind from the Bering straits
blew over Harelbeek.

She sat in front of me.

I was cold.

She took me in her arms

and squeezed me hard.

Her half-open blouse disclosed
her firm, pointed, ivory tits.

Ready for my greedy mouth.

I liked her tits a lot.

End Of Part One