Original subtitles

There is a place far up in the north of Russia called Kropkinsk, where in the

winter the earth freezes so hard it is impossible to dig a grave when a man

dies.

So the clever Russians, do you know what they do?

They simply sharpen his legs and knock him into the ground with a sledgehammer.

This has absolutely nothing to do with what you're going to see now, except

we also have a Russian in our story.

A Russian painter called Soutine who went to live in France.

where he died in poverty in 1943.

I didn't invent Soutine. He was real.

He was a very great painter, and today his pictures fetch enormous sums all

the world.

That year 1946, winter was a long time going.

Although it was April, a freezing wind blew through the streets of Paris.

The old man was cold and miserable.

When did we last taste chicken, eh?

Hey! Clear off!

You! Clear off!

Oh, I'm dark.

Are you deaf or something? I said clear off, you dirty, filthy beast.

Crazy. It's this picture that's crazy.

Yes, strange and crazy.

But I like it. I always did.

Do you like Soutine?

My dear, one cannot afford to like him. The prices he fetches, five million

francs. Now, don't tell me it's a good investment, but even I can't afford to

spend that amount of money.

It is.

My God.

My little Soutine.

That's who it is. It's Soutine.

What? What?

Nearly jumped out of my skin.

Poor Tristan.

I'm Soutine.

With a painting in the finest gallery in Paris.

Imagine.

Exactly his style.

My little Russian.

After all these years.

I loved him because he could paint.

How he worked in those days.

Next time you'll be new.

Will I?

You couldn't afford it.

I charge 25 francimes an hour extra.

And I want the stove on.

Besides, what would Trioli say?

Your husband loves my work. He'd say it was a tremendous idea.

We are rich!

You see, we are stinking rich!

So, I have a tremendous idea. Tonight we celebrate.

What are we celebrating, Mr. Corkscrew? You're always celebrating.

Anything, everything will never be rich.

Have you decided to divorce your wife?

Is that what we're celebrating?

So if you can marry me.

Can I move?

No.

Tonight we are celebrating money.

Money. When I haven't got a soul. My money.

The money I made today.

With my work.

My art.

You call what you do art.

Tattooing. Art.

I agree, my friend.

I'm not on the same level as you.

But a tattoo can be art.

Art, Josie.

Josie?

Stop it, Trioli.

Has Josie got a tattoo? Where?

Your eyes are red. You look tired.

Nine tattoos today.

Arms, chest, backs of hands.

Soldiers, boozy soldiers.

But nine in one day.

And seven paid in cash.

And a new coat. That is a bargain. That will last for years.

Done! How can I work with all this? Oh, you don't work. Now you stop work and

you drink.

Can I see now?

No.

It's wonderful.

It's terrible.

My friend, next time, you must paint my wife in the nude.

That would be a magnificent idea.

Didn't I say, Josie?

As a husband, you make a very good pimp. Josie, we're talking about art.

Don't you understand?

But I can't eat my own. No, but we can drink mine.

Come on.

Drink. Go be happy.

Josie, look at him.

He's so gloomy.

So Russian.

Hey, my little Tata.

My Kalmuk from Minsk.

From Smilovic. So what's the difference?

He's close to Minsk.

I used to walk there when I was a boy.

Happy. Drink.

Right.

More. If we're going to drink, let's drink.

We need some more wine. I shall get some more.

How many bottles?

Six more.

Three bottles each. No, you'll fall asleep, both of you. See, we won't.

Russian. A real Russian celebration, Josie.

While you're gone, I'll take care of your wife.

Of course, I trust my wife.

And I trust you, my little clown. Of course.

So, friendship.

We three.

Chaim is an artist.

We trust one another.

But he's making love to me in front of you.

Of course.

He's an artist.

No! No!

I won't. I refuse.

Oh, don't say you must.

Chaim must see my art. He doesn't believe a tattoo can be art.

Chaim, make her show you. Show me it.

Come on.

No, I can't.

No.

Where is it?

Where? Is it your thigh?

No. I'll show you where it is.

Stop it, really.

Is that your stomach? Is that where it is? No, but you're warmer.

I don't think you can show him. He's an artist.

It's your breast.

Stop it, really. Stop it. I want you to see.

I want to blow my blood.

Both of you. Yeah, of course. We're celebrating.

All right.

You want to see art? His art?

All right. All right.

Since my husband insists.

My pimp insists.

Tell her, look, artist.

Beautiful.

He is an artist.

You see?

Amanda's idea.

Again?

The study of my wife.

Yes.

Are you listening? Sit by me, Joseph.

My friend, you are such an artist. I must have a picture.

Take them all.

In exchange, I'll have your wife.

No, no, no, no.

I'm serious now. I want a specialty.

One that will stay with me always.

Wherever I go.

Forever. Now, listen.

Listen, my little clown book. I want you to paint a picture on me.

On my skin.

On my back.

You're crazy.

No. No. First you paint it. Then you tattoo over it. You tattoo so that it

always be there.

I think it was easy a child could do it. You're drunk.

No. I was, but I'm not now.

I'll go to the tattoo in five minutes.

Josie will be the master.

I'll go and get my equipment.

Yes, why don't you go?

I won't be long. I'll be half an hour.

Yes, go.

It's a tremendous idea.

Don't you think?

Josie.

No, keep the needle upright.

That's it.

Now move it lightly over the surface of the skin.

Now the electricity, you see, is making it jump up and down, and there is

puncturing your skin, and the ink is going in.

Does it hurt?

No, it prickles.

It's simple, I told you.

It's like doing with pen and ink.

Shall we begin?

At once.

Josie, wake up!

There, with a hair like this.

You're brushing it.

Brushing a hair, wonderful.

Where do you want me?

On the chair.

This way.

You rest your head on the back of the seat.

First I shall paint.

And if I like it, I'll tattoo over it.

How do I look?

Not in here.

There's plenty of people on my back.

Still!

Painting is done.

Do you need me anymore?

No, darling.

You can go to sleep again.

I feel so...

Terrible. It's really hurting.

It's bad.

Is it any better?

Still?

What time is it?

Morning.

It's finished.

I want to see it.

Let me see.

Doesn't really look like me.

It's an impression.

A mood.

My feelings about you.

Now, it's a masterpiece.

I quite like it.

In fact, I think it's good enough for me to sign.

Famous.

Excuse me.

What is it that you want?

If you don't mind.

We don't want any trouble here. Come along.

Get your hands off me. Come along.

I was as much right as you to be here. More.

I asked you to leave. No, no, no.

I've got a picture.

I've got a picture by this painter. He was my friend. He gave it to me.

No, don't touch me. I'll show you.

Look, you see?

Yes, you see? Look, there. There, on my back.

Look.

Look. Look there. My God,

it's true.

It's extraordinary.

When was this done?

1913.

Who taught Soutine to tattoo?

I did.

You were a professional tattooist. I was.

Nowadays, nobody wants tattoos.

I wouldn't say that.

My dear Claire, we must have a little chat, you and I.

This woman, who was she?

My wife.

She was killed by a bomb in 1940.

I'm sorry to hear it.

But now to business.

I will buy your picture.

I'm perfectly serious.

I'll give you 200 ,000 francs for it. But how? How could I sell it?

Nothing easier.

I'll get the best surgeon in Paris to remove the skin from your back.

That's impossible. That would kill him.

With respect, my dear sir, it would not.

Don't listen to him, my friend. You would never survive a major skin

operation. How old are you?

Sixty -one.

There you are, then. Far too dangerous.

If you don't mind.

Please, I also have a proposal to make.

You have a masterpiece on your back worth far more than 200 ,000 francs.

Very well, then.

I'll offer you 500 ,000 francs.

Do you like to swim, to lie in the sun?

I don't understand.

Fine food, great wines, beautiful women.

They look cute, sir.

Your wardrobe does seem a little run down.

Tell me, have you ever had a shoe made for your own foot?

Would you like someone to save you in the morning?

A pretty girl to manicure your nails?

A bell by your bedside to summon a maid?

who can bring you anything you desire.

Does that appeal to you at all?

Well, yes.

Yes. Good.

Good.

750 ,000 francs.

I happen to be the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes.

I'm inviting you to come down and live in luxury for the rest of your life.

Your only duty would be to spend your time on my private beach, in your

trunks, swimming, sunning yourself, drinking cocktails.

Meanwhile, my guest will be able to look at this fascinating picture by Houtine.

You'd be famous.

People will say, there goes the man with ten million francs on his back.

Is this a joke? Not at all.

This is a mere promise.

I'm offering you cash and an operation.

Look, why don't you and I discuss this over a meal?

Are you hungry?

Yes, I am hungry.

Roast duck in Chambartin?

Perhaps a soufflé au marron?

How do you like your duck?

Roast duck crisp on the outside.

Oh, anyway, anyway at all. Good, good.

Not long afterwards, a portrait by Soutine of an unusual nature

turned up for sale in Buenos Aires.

That, and the fact that there is no Hotel Bristol in Cannes, causes one to

wonder.