Original subtitles

What is your name?

Aureo

Aureo…

Yes.

What's yours?

Aurea

The difference is only one letter.

Good, very good.

I saw you. I noticed you were looking at me.

Like the Moon did with Endymion.

Who?

Endymion.

Endymion…

A young shepherd of rare beauty,

who one day after hunting,

went to rest in a cave.

There, he fell asleep.

The moon...

a contemplative and observant Goddess,

of an androgynous nature,

became enamoured with him

and took advantage of his sleepy state

to give him a kiss.

Love between a goddess and a mortal is forbidden.

The handsome Endymion was turned immortal by Zeus,

but imprisoned in an endless sleep.

Eternal sleep for having dared aspired for the love of a Goddess

However, every night

the moon,

interpreter between mortals and immortals,

would descend from heaven

to reflect upon her beloved Endymion.

It took you a long time to get out of the water.

Wasn't the water cold?

Very cold.

Do you like cold water?

Not always.

So why did it take you so long to get out of the water?

I had a hard-on.

Before us is the infinite.

Life is there.

Here, it's a long paroxysm

on a short day.

A love

joined with another love, is to be costly.

No, that's not right.

A love

joined with another love,

is to be forgotten!

It's porcelain, French

eighteenth century…

eighteenth century…

Porcelain.

Porcelain... French.

I write with my left hand.

In me...

my left hand has primacy over my right hand.

After my mother died...

I never wrote again.

I don't know…

don't know what happened,

my desire was gone.

I lost my anger.

First comes the anger…

which unfolds into hatred,

which unfolds into delirium

and with a final blow

overflows into madness.

Madness, anger...

Did you feel anger towards your mother?

A lot.

That's why I wrote…

I wanted to die young, very young.

That's the second novel I wrote,

the last one.

You wrote two books?

Two novels.

I wrote a few essays, studies…

wrote a poem.

I never published anything,

and I won't.

I don't want to...

it's in the past..

This book...

It's a novel

that I didn't finish.

It was fate that didn't want for me to finish it.

That's a reading I did of some poets

and Brazilian artists of the nineteenth century.

Poets that died very young,

before the age twenty five.

As if poetry and talent were a curse.

I would like to have known

some of these poets

Ghost poets,

mystical ghosts,

some, ghosts of camphor.

The ghost,

the theme of the ghost,

crosses through the history of eroticism

since long ago.

Laurindo Rabelo, Junqueira Freire

Alvares da Azevedo, Casimiro de Abreu

Franco Sá,

and the most unfortunately famous of them all,

Castro Alves.

Cases like that of... Noel Rosa.

There are others

even younger and more obscure.

I didn't study them.

I didn't have the time.

They died young…

they never had the time.

No..

they never had the time.

The tyranny of economic policy has hardened men's hearts.

There is no longer a place for sensitivity.

These days...

obscenity is sensitivity.

Many people are very ill informed about the human heart.

Sentimental Education

It's a unique text,

written in 1740.

Its uniqueness is by having been anonymously published by the author,

with the purpose of drawing attention to the importance of the original

from the very same author.

He summarized the text

to make it more accessible to

its few readers.

To him,

in human nature

man is

habit, resemblance, contingent, cause

Habit…

It isn't reason that leads life, but habit.

The reasons for which the body acts, are unknown.

Resemblance

When we see a portrait, we think of that which is portrayed.

Contingent

Saying that, Saint Denis

occurs naturally, Paris.

Cause…

When we think of the child,

we are able to transfer our attention

to the father.

Inner diversity is a source of enrichment.

Philology doesn't rely only on scholars for its disciples.

There are many men full of imagination in this field.

Sometimes with a great deal of imagination...

which for me is a virtue.

One of these

suggests that the five vowels

are the language of laughter.

Men laugh in A,

women laugh in E,

devotees laugh in I,

peasants laugh in O,

and finally, old women

laugh in... U

Expanding the method,

In 1662

the Italian Astrologer, Abade Damaceno

said that doctors could notice differences

of temperament in their patients

by tickling their bodies.

If they laughed in A,

they were phlegmatic.

If they laughed in E,

they were unemotional.

If they laughed in I,

they were sickly.

If they laughed in O,

they were vibrant.

And if they laughed in

U,

they were something

that he didn't define, he left it blank

for each doctor to interpret in their own way.

Very good.

The old world is unordinary.

It's the same age as me.

It was born to live life

like its great-great grandparents,

the formally abundant chelonian turtles.

Nowadays, men work seriously

to live as much,

or more...

than a turtle.

Living two, three, four...

five times...

more than a turtle

and then finally...

die.

Curious mirror,

life is ironic, isn't it...

Those who are familiar with animals

insist that they are

intelligent

and have language.

This is old.

Plato,

Flávio Josefo,

Saint Basil,

believe this.

Saint Basil wrote that in heaven,

animals talked to each other

and understood each other… in a sane way.

A wise Italian,

the Jesuit Mario Bettini,

author of a pastoral entitled “Rubenus”,

he was the first author to translate it to human language.

The nightingale's singing,

that should be pronounced according to him...

in the Italian language.

A movie,

a...

film.

It has today an archaeological value.

It will soon be at the “Museum of lost sensibilities”.

Do you like cinema?

Yes…

Very much...

I have always gone to the movies.

In my youth I attended a place, that at the time was called,

cineclub,

It passed on,

the movie passed on...

the cineclub closed.

I kept this film

this tape

as a feeling,

as a sweet memory.

Transparent.

Cast by the light

that it projects.

In this long list of Brazilian poets and artists

that died while still very young,

there is a singer

called Vassourinha.

Do you know him?

No.

He died at the age of nineteen,

of a horrible disease

in his bones.

Listen to it.

It's modern,

it anticipates...

his voice is composed of many voices,

he paints with his voice.

I suffered from a kidney inflammation,

and stayed two days in a coma.

I had a kind of Kekule dream.

I saw a serpent bite its own tail.

I never felt so good as I when I thought I was going to die.

My life has always been sad.

An image that tortures me...

that haunts me...

has all my life. Always.

A wound with no scab

that hasn't healed.

My father was a free thinker,

a methodical man,

liberal.

He wanted to take his self-investigation to the ultimate consequence

of untangling the human roots trapped in the

mineral, plant and animal kingdom.

A noble

and difficult task.

He distanced himself from those,

who by laziness and fear of others,

behave in accordance with the conventions

and follow like a herd of cattle.

One day, on a holiday,

a rainy day

in the afternoon,

a peaceful afternoon,

too peaceful

he...

He suffocated himself with gas

in the kitchen oven.

In the depths of his connection,

there was a misunderstanding,

something unsaid.

It just came to light

and his connection was broken.

What came from the light was part of a shadow that reigns within all of us,

an odd feeling,

a dryness in our hearts.

When we are afraid of being afraid, we do some scary things.

He left me, and my mother.

I never understood that,

I still don't understand.

But depriving is also a way of having.

Some years after my mother died,

I faced the world.

Your mother was a writer?

A writer no,

But she wrote, yes.

She had her doctorate in Philosophy.

Never gave a class.

She didn't want to.

She didn't feel attracted to it, didn't like it…

She considered its popularity an insult.

She only liked to read.

She loved reading.

Always read.

She would make handwritten notes,

usually within the book itself,

in doing this she would breathe.

She would read without stopping.

The space that held her books and notations was sacred to her.

She took more care of it

than anything else in the world.

She told me more than once:

Living without philosophy is living with your eyes closed.

Over months, she would examine some of the pages.

She wasn't a cold woman,

quite the opposite.

In certain situations

she showed a lot of energy and warmth.

She found herself too subtle,

too intelligent,

too perverse to be accepted.

She died reading.

Three years after my father's death.

Strength from another time.

Another world.

To contemplate,

is to participate.

Sensitive souls are like Jacob’s ladder,

wanting to know

Reading for the mere love of reading

is something incomprehensible,

unacceptable in a world whose main character

is marked by practical interests.

After the deaths of my parents, when I saw myself alone,

I needed a lot of illusion

to handle the dark hours of life,

on the days where everything seems so very

sad and gloomy.

I wrote a poem over a few years.

I wouldn't call it an epic poem from my spirit, but almost.

The souls vicissitudes

in stellar spaces,

and in intimate abysses

A type of Primero Sueno

much more modest than that from the Mexican nun,

much more.

But even so, a thorough piece of work

of sonorities and rhythms.

Nobody writes like that.

No one.

Above all, these poets are of the male sex

that largely dominate today's world.

I wanted to save the freedom of the female spirit from the shipwreck.

My breathing was my seismograph,

the seismograph of my unconscious.

In my own way, I made a pyramidal shadow!

I imposed freedom upon my soul.

It's a dream of a dream.

The poem ends in a fall,

encountering the abyss,

the emptiness,

and the consciousness of nothing...

This piece of organized matter that we call I,

deteriorating,

and decomposing,

until re-entering and losing itself in the infinite of the universe..

A manual of our cultural twilight.

I love you.

Moon means the luminous one

that expands its light over all,

illuminating with its rays.

The moon, the other celestial sphere,

receives the light from the sun,

and reflects it onto the earth.

The sexual nature of the moon is twofold,

androgynous,

Luna and lunus together.

Feminine in relation to the sun,

masculine in relation to the earth,

but above all feminine

and only as a secondary masculine form

that represents and interprets between mortals and immortals.

Can I come in?

Come in.

I don't want you to deny it.

I only want to tell you who my son is,

and who we are.

We're not much of an ordinary family.

There is nothing immoral about our friendship.

Friendship?

Yes, a friendship.

Many chords of the heart know to vibrate by the hand of a friend.

Leave this teacher's prudence aside.

You're a cynic.

You don't know anything.

I'm going to tell you who my son is,

and who we are.

Everything you say to my son,

everything you do to him,

I myself have already said and done.

We had a delightful period.

From the bosom I prepared him.

Kissing,

caressing,

penetration.

I taught him everything,

he received pleasure with me.

If you like, I'll give you the details... scandalous secret.

Did he ever tell you about his sister?

No.

He had a sister.

She died.

He never touched on this subject.

How did she die?

Killed herself.

Suicide.

She jumped off a high rise terrace.

She was a year older than him,

in love with him.

It brought the end of her life,

her love for her brother.

Carnal love.

But they...

They were lovers since they were children,

They drank, smoked,

spoke in obscenities,

took off their clothes to sleep together.

And under the influence of alcohol,

they opened themselves to all types of things,

drunk, naked.

They urinated throughout the house

and had orgies

with the 70 year old housekeeper.

They liked it. They said that senile sex was good.

At night, the both of them would go out to the street.

Him dressed as a woman, and her as a male prostitute.

When their father died in a car accident,

they threw a party at a friend's house.

It was more than a party,

because when a volcano spews its red-hot lava,

it devours everything in its path.

The orgy went on for more than a week.

Don't say anymore!

Shut-up.

When something smells bad, keep your nose clean.

You're an impostor.

I'm witness to a farce.

Even masked,

even hidden,

what you don't say

appears from inside.

Your lips say it,

your heart denies it.

Orgy,

incest,

fellatio,

troilism.

Everything passes through a pornographic mind,

depraved,

puerile,

ignorant!

I'm going to call an ambulance.

You should be admitted.

Seductress, wanton!

Old porn hag!

Camera

Jose…

Cut.

Did you hurt yourself?

No, no.

Fall to the side, just like that. Go.

It doesn't work, because here...

No, no, it was great.

It was difficult.

That's right, this is it then.

Adorable pose…

Now do it.

Stop!

Did you hurt yourself?

No, no.

Fall to the side, just like that. Go.

It doesn't work, because here...

It's good.

It was pretty difficult…

Cauldron roll 13/15 and first

Silence guys there on the broom! We're rolling!

Rolling here, look at the sound of the broom! Vassourinha.

Attention guys. Sound.

Sound, go.

14 and first.

Recording.

I'll give action.

Great. Did something happen Fabio?

Shit... there was a voice.

Ok. Rolled.

Going back to roll 20

Camera

And... rolling.

Cut, thank you.

Perfect. Great.

This little plane doesn't stick

but the other one, was a little better.

No... I think.

Stop.

Good... Camera there. Clapboard.

Good, for me it came out perfect.

Clapboard five.

Thank you.

Come on.

Come on filming her in this piece

There, stop there.

Go, go, go close-up go.

Go… go, Bernardo.

Go, you can go.

Stop.

Clapboard. End. Thank you.

Sorry Claudio, but I'm going to have some of her sound.

Ok.

Another in the sequence.

Sorry, I'm going to cut here…

The battery is going to run out here in the middle

of the plane, It's going to create a problem.

No. Perfect.

Ok, cut. Excellent.

Very good, ok.

Cut.

Was there a problem Fabio?

No.

Great. That was excellent, Very good.

Just concentrate.

Rolling.

This here is very good. If the camera was...

I had to go at this movement. The entrance...

What you did with her, was spectacular.

If it weren't, I would see the head again,

So you have to go to really compensate.

Camera. Two.

There… There's time.

Did you feel it?

Adorable pose.

Now do it. Recording.

Cut.

Did you hurt yourself?

No, no.

Fall to the side.

It doesn't work, because here....

No, no, it was fine. It was difficult.

All right, we're here.

Clapboard and end. Oh... okay.

Go.