All language subtitles for The Skin Horse (1983) Nigel Evans, John Samson

I think I'll do the one about the
disabled person that swam the channel.

And he had no arms and legs.

And he had to pack it up about a mile
from the end because he had cramp in his

ears.

I think I'll get him.

Don't put it on me. I'm going to get the
elastic band.

And that lovely one about the coloured
boy in the wheelchair got bit

by a guide dog.

The thing that annoyed him was the guide
dog had to have an injection.

But they could do the one about the
fellow in the wheelchair who was a sex

maniac.

Spent all his time trying to get his
wheel over.

I've got the net. Always gets me off.

Yeah, OK.

Have I done?

Yeah, no, I've done that. I need the,
um... The car.

Oh, that's great.

Well, whatever happens tonight, at least
I won't die on my arse.

I suppose I could do.

I'm already on it.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Thanks for being such a super crowd. I
knew you'd respond nicely.

It's time now for your star cabaret.
Tonight, he is going to entertain you

his most original style of comedy.

So I want you please to put your hands
together and give a very warm welcome to

Mr. Super Wheels himself, Tony Geras.

Thank you very much. Beautiful.

Thanks a lot.

Very nice to be wherever the bloody hell
I am.

It's been a long push from Croydon.

Sit down, sir. Have you seen the jacket?

Lovely when it's clean.

As I say, you've heard of Meals on
Wheels, I'm a muck on trucks.

Everywhere you go, they always say to
me, Tony, why on a wheelchair? I tell

I'm Jewish, was circumcised, and they
threw away the wrong bit.

Also on the show will be Ironside.

I don't like him. He's got a better
wheelchair than me.

A V registration.

He had it under sealed last week, can't
go to the toilet now.

I went to a party with Ironside at
Christmas, got drunk and I walked home.

He spoke to me, Ironside, because I'll
tell you where I met him. I met him at

dancing classes and we were in the
Douglas Bader formation team and

Barry Sheen wanted to join.

We told the bugger to clear off.

Well, he's got better now, isn't he?
He's all right until he passes a magnet.

They reckon when he first had
intercourse, they had to burn him off

bloody blowtorch.

I sometimes feel I'm doing people a
favour.

I mean, look at their faces.

At least they can laugh at someone in a
wheelchair.

I think... Things are changing.

Do you know, I had a bad week
financially last week. I had a bloody

sexually.

Well, I got new brakes.

You can always tell the birds I've been
with have got tar marks on their tummy.

But there is one good thing about being
in a wheelchair.

When you're having intercourse...

You don't have to take any precautions
at all, because when the exciting bit

comes, the wife just sets the handbrake
off, you see, and... The only thing is,

you have to make love uphill all the
time.

That makes my neck ache, that.

Especially in Sainsbury's, and... You
see,

it's not embarrassment, this laughter.

I mean, it's a relief.

They're saying...

God, he's human and he's funny, and yet
he's in a wheelchair.

I wonder if they really think I make
love in a wheelchair.

As I say, my mate had an affair with
this woman, and I can't say what he was

doing.

Well, because, you know, we're on telly.

But he was shaving, and he was making
love.

Of course I can do it, though.

And... Ring up the wife, tell her.

And... Gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen,
if I've offended anyone in my tonight,

soldier. And... I'm bald -headed, Jewish
and in a wheelchair. I think you've got

troubles. And... I mean, I do all the
gags about

race and politics and sex and disability
and...

And they really love it.

I think it's the unmentionable.

I mean, they're saying to themselves,
can he?

Can't he?

Has he got one?

Where is it?

And all those things that go through
their minds.

I read this article in the front page of
a Sunday paper.

And it was all crammed in one big
screaming headline.

Sin, sex and the disabled.

And I thought, what's all this about?

And it turned out to be a dating agency
for disabled people.

But for the newspaper, the thought that
disabled people might be having sex, I

mean, it was bloody unthinkable, wasn't
it?

The Outsiders Club exists simply to give
isolated people a chance of meeting

each other and to give disabled people
the opportunity to meet others, whether

they're able -bodied or not, and to have
a good social life and a nice time.

It's also to help people with their sex
lives if they want that help. They don't

all want that help.

And it's to give people the opportunity
to find exactly what they want. Most

people want to get married.

And some people say they don't and do.

Do you share as much?

Oh, no.

I've never been allowed into this flat.

I've been trying to get an invitation.

Some of the members of our club are
extremely vulnerable, and the attacks

innuendos we have to put up with, like
that newspaper article, just send them

back into their shells.

The thing is, if you've got an
incomplete body, all you have to offer,

is your intellect.

and your capacity to love professionals
spend far too much time talking about

the needs of disabled people and maybe
it's about time to ask them what they

feel their needs are

Catherine, today we're both at the
Outsiders Club lunch.

I guess not many of your fellow patients
are members of the Outsiders Club. Can

you tell me how you find your way here
and what it's done for you?

Yes, I can tell you...

You find a man.

Yes.

Dear Jack, I felt I didn't do that
interview justice on Saturday.

I wanted to do my best, but thought I
did it very badly.

So perhaps I can make amends now.

I thought you might scrap my voice and
have this read out by someone who can

speak properly.

You asked me how I might spend a normal
day.

Well, all my days are much the same
here, and I've been here for 34 years.

At 7 .30 in the morning, I am washed,
dressed, and put in my chair.

I go downstairs, and there I remain with
the other incurables until after

supper, when I am put back to bed by a
nurse.

Can you imagine being trapped here for
34 years?

Sometimes I ache for the human contact
that I've been denied, for a new faith

that isn't a nurse or another incurable.

I suppose it must be hard for you to
imagine how I live.

And that's why, Jack, your questions
were difficult to answer.

I've got some fantasy about living in
the Royal Hospital and home for

and writing a letter to my loved one.

And before I write darling or my dearest
or beloved on the left -hand side, on

the top right -hand side, I have to
write the Royal Hospital and Home for

Incurables.

And I'm not really encouraged very much
by the fact that if I stick it out there

for ten years, they might move me into
the new part of that building.

And there...

Above what I write on the left -hand
side, I have to write the young chronic

sick unit.

And it would seem to me that we should
try and find a name which reflects a

person's ability rather than their
disability.

I think that everything that's wrong in
residential places for disabled people

and in fact maybe everything that's
wrong in the lives of disabled people is

that the nursing and medical profession
have been given their heads and they are

after all trained in what's wrong with
people.

And everyone's got ability and
disability.

And if you have to live your life in
some community which is devoted to your

disability, then there isn't any
opportunity to be a fulfilled person.

It's this sense of waste that I resent
most of all.

It's as if people like me are somehow
supposed to live our lives beyond

frustration.

as if part of accepting our lot should
include the complete denial of any

emotional life at all.

Yours, Kathleen.

P .S. I loved my visit to the outsider's
party and seeing my man again.

I put my arm down. You'll have another
one.

That's it.

Tell me what they're looking for. What
are they doing?

Oh, that's it. Another one.

No, of course not. Okay, let's see
what's in there.

Oh,

you found me that.

Oh, thank you. I've been looking for
ages.

Amen. Oh, thank you.

Oh, thank you.

Will you bring a roll?

The club isn't just a place where boy
meets girl. We've also got a crusade,

we do a lot of campaigning to try and
help able -bodied people realise that

are actually condemning disabled people
to a life without love, simply because

of their attitude.

And we know they're embarrassed to
change their attitude, they've got into

habit of thinking one way, but it really
isn't fair.

If I'd thought about it before I
started, I don't think I ever would have

to do it because I never really thought
it would work. Everybody said it

wouldn't work.

But actually, however disabled you are,
you're still able to, you know, love

somebody and be loved. And so the most
amazing marriages and pairing have taken

place, despite the fact that they might
not only be disabled, but they might

also be homosexual or goodness knows
what, they're just like anybody else.

Thank you.

I think that in the end, the people you
like, the people you love, you almost

love them for their strangenesses and
their differences, and that's very

important to consider when you consider
a disabled person.

Whatever it aspires to, it's the images
that dominate this film.

those images of disability.

And the viewer's eyes will always travel
there.

One gets to see more disabled people on
the bot than one ever sees in real life.

What Dennis Potter calls this parade of
the halt, the lame and the blind.

What we think about them starts from how
they look.

That makes them special.

I want to look.

to see whether I can find them sexually
attractive.

Could I imagine nibbling her ear,
whispering sweet nothings?

When I see them, of course, I like to
compare them with their able -bodied

partners.

Why are they dancing with him, pushing
him about?

That's not real dancing.

How can you smooch with her like that?

When I dance with a woman, I like to
place one hand on her shoulder, my right

hand, and rest my chin on the other
shoulder, glaring down her neck,

nibbling her ear, whispering sweet
nothings, and place my left hand

around her trim waist, firmly grasping
it, and allow my knee

to occasionally...

Gently caress her thigh.

In the world of sexuality, there are
three genders.

Female, male, and disabled.

And what is more, traditionally, in the
disabled group, we are categorized into

monsters or children.

I am Madame Tetralemy.

These children are in my circus.

Children? Oh,

your circus. I understand.

So you see, Monsieur, when I get a
chance, I like to take them into the

and let them play like children.

Children.

Children.

Children, eh?

So we're either monsters or children.

We're either abused or patronized.

We're either a fetish or sexless.

Never in between.

Mind you, we're not the only one.

Enter Mr.

Universe!

Notice we can only take this amount of
beauty, this amount of perfection,

hand, from the TV screen, the pages of a
glossy magazine, a strip show.

Affection becomes an imperfection, a
curiosity, a handicap. And the handicap,

taken to its physical extremes, becomes
an end in itself.

Hence, King's size.

Johnny the what?

Chesley Morgan.

King Dong, Big Bum, and all those freaks
we have learned to love and loathe, and

for some people, lust after.

It's only a short step from this, to, in
the same magazine, this.

And from this, to this.

A book that's gone to three reprintings
within the space of a year.

Looking at these images, what do you
feel?

Astonishment?

Disgust? Pity?

I reckon there's a bit of reassurance in
there.

You may not be Mr. Universe, but you're
certainly not one of those.

Browning in his film Freaks captured the
ultimate horror by turning that idea on

its head.

You are one of us.

We accept her. One of us. We accept her.
One of us. Super gobble. Super gobble.

We accept her. We accept her. Google
gobble. Google gobble. One of us.

One of us.

Google gobble. Google gobble.

They're going to make you one of them.
Bye.

is by no means normal, but a part is
designed to represent the stereotyped

attitudes of so -called normal people to
people like me.

In the real world, it's the normal ones,
Mr Average, who are the perfect people,

but we who exist at either end of the
dimension are public property because of

our curiosity value.

The popularity of the Guinness Book of
Records is a testament to your obsession

with extremes and novelty.

And what do we find in Chapter 1, The
Human Being?

the most, the least, the greatest, the
tallest, the smallest, the fattest, the

thinnest, the longest, the shortest.

And when you're thinking about the
longest and the shortest, and you're

at me, as a curiosity, a freak, and
you're wondering about my sexuality,

what are you really asking yourselves?

Has he got one? And if he has, can he
use it?

Oh, God, now I'm embarrassed,
sermonising like some bloody preacher.

Still, you're probably not surprised. In
a way, you'd expect it.

We're either out and out villains, a la
Richard III.

Or we're pain -suffering angels always
smiling at our misfortune.

You'd think that a person in my position
would know better and not display the

usual prejudices.

Well, you're wrong.

Most disabled or deformed people I met
at special school, sheltered workshop or

crip college couldn't wait to go to bed
with an able -bodied person.

I know that to be true of me.

And if I pretend otherwise, my dreams at
night will always come back with a

forceful reminder.

The problem of exploring one's own
sexuality is a problem that everyone

The problem of being disabled, I think
I'd sorted it out for myself before

But obviously the two are interrelated
in that being disabled

is harder to explore in sexuality.

34 years without any sexual experience
was long enough really so I determined

initiate myself and I had a good mate
there who was one of the care assistants

and sort of spoke to him quite a lot
about this and he said well if you find

yourself anybody a prostitute or
whatever then depend on me I'll take you

and bring you back so I think it was
About four months after I'd moved into

place, I found this prostitute in
Reading, and he gave me a lift

out there about 7 o 'clock at night, I
think it was. It took absolutely ages to

find her.

I thought she'd have gone into bed by
the time we got there.

But anyway, we actually got in there,
and she was really sort of a bit freaked

out by the fact that this guy sort of
carried me up the stairs and sort of

plonked me on the bed, and there he is.

And...

I stayed there for about three or four
hours.

One hears so many terrible things sort
of said about prostitutes, and I believe

it's still illegal and all that. But in
that case, in point, the lady who

I saw fulfilled a very useful purpose,
and I'm eternally grateful to her

I, you know, I don't know, I got the
smile off my face for about three days.

I know the jury, the consentment.

the freedom of spirit, the utter relief
from the

limitations of my body, which comes from
sex.

Just going to sex is a very limiting
word.

It's far more than people just think.

It's just one word.

My body is very limiting.

But in those particular circumstances, I
feel totally free.

When I did actually go to that
prostitute, that didn't immediately

life, but the events leading on from
that did make me much more

relaxed and more self -confident in
myself as a sexual person

to meet other people, to make
relationships.

I suppose over the last two years, that
has been growing and is still growing.

I still don't think I've solved all the
problems. I don't think anybody

does. But at least I have started to
grow.

He was looked after by volunteer nurses,
whose help was somewhat formal and

constrained.

Merrick, no doubt, was conscious that
their service was purely official.

that they were merely doing what they
were told to do, and that they were

rather as automata than as women.

They did not help him to feel that he
was of their kind.

On the contrary, they, without knowing
it, made him aware that the gulf of

separation was immeasurable.

Feeling this, I asked a friend of mine,
a young and pretty widow, if she thought

she could enter Merrick's room with a
smile.

Wish him good morning.

and shake him by the hand she said she
could and she did as he let go her

hand he bent his head on his knees and
sobbed until i thought he would never

cease the interview was over he told me
afterwards that this was the

first woman who had ever smiled at him
and the first woman in the whole of his

life who had shaken hands with him from
this day on The transformation of

Merrick commenced, and he began to
change, little by little, from a hunted

into a man.

Mr. Treves tells me that you're in the
theatre.

Do you live there?

Oh, no, Mr. Merrick, I just work there.

Well, it must be wonderful just to work
there.

It's beautiful.

You've never been?

I'm afraid not.

Oh, Mr. Merrick, you must go. The
theatre's the most beautiful place on

Of course, I am a bit partial.

The theatre is romance.

Which reminds me, I've brought you
something else.

Oh.

Thank you. Have you read it?

No. Oh, but I... Oh, I certainly shall.

Oh. Romeo and Juliet.

Yes, I've heard of them.

Profane with my unworthiest hand this
holy shrine.

The gentle sign is this.

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready
stand

to smooth that rough past.

With a tender kiss.

Good pilgrim.

You do wrong your hand too much.

Which manly devotion shows in this.

For saints have hands that pilgrims'
hands do touch.

And palm to palm is holy palmless kiss.

Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what
hands do. They

pray.

Grant thou that they turn to despair.

Saints do not move.

Though grant for prayer's sake.

Then move not, while my prayer's effect
I take.

Loss from my lips, by thine my sin is
purged.

Yes,

and then it says there it is.

Then have my lips, the sin that they
have took.

Sin from my lips?

Oh, Christmas with the earth.

Give me my sin again.

Oh, Mr. Merrick.

You're not an elephant man at all.

Those tears of Merrick's are two -edged
because they reflect a dawning

realization that at last a door was
being opened to him.

Should he go through it with all the
risks and possible rewards of coming

contact with the outside world?

Or should he remain where he is, a
cosseted curiosity, a pampered prisoner,

like thousands of disabled people still
are at home?

or in hospitals or institutions, never
allowed to take a chance to experience

the joy or liberating effect of sex, to
run the risk of love.

Even for Merrick, insulated in a world
of Victorian charity,

this urge for some degree of normality
becomes irresistible.

For all his life, he has been unable to
lie down, his head being too heavy for

his neck, and to keep it from snapping,
he must always sleep upright.

Yet, on the night of his death, haunted
by an image, he desires at least to do

one thing in his life like other people.

For the medical reductionist, Merrick
died of his gross deformity.

For the romantics among us, his death
depicts a glorious escape.

Yet even in this, he was cheated,
because here he is, with us still,

still being exhibited.

And that's me, Osteogenesis Imperfecta.

In layman's language, brittle bones.

I once did a picture which I considered
to be a self -portrait. I called it The

Nowhere Man.

In it, there's a door.

Out on the street, there's noise because
let loose is a doodle of a man, or half

-man, being pursued by an accusing
finger.

All around this yellow, sexually
ambiguous misconception,

me are references to what he believes
the world is telling him is the point of

life as a responsible member of the
human race go forth find a mate and

multiply but the nowhere man harassed
and paranoid cries out i am a freak i've

allowed my body to oppress me i haven't
the will perhaps if the nowhere man was

not so self -obsessed about his own
freakishness He might notice a door

opened to him, an entrance to a realm
where he has a chance of becoming real.

Some people see me as an ugly thing.

They can't see me as a being and as a
sexual person.

Never.

Christ, I don't mind being seen like
that.

What's the point of militant feminism?

I like men.

I don't want to take refuge in something
that disabled women lose as an excuse

to suppress their sexuality.

I sometimes feel unnerved by a lover's
eyes, even if I know them well.

It's like a cloud passing over someone's
face.

I'm snapped back into the memory of that
mask.

Sometimes I eat in front of the mirror.

to see that mask as other people see me
and try and see their feelings

but this is what they see

it's got nothing to do with me the

real me a lover sees that the real me
but i still never quite

quite believe it

But my God, I'd rather this than some
celibate marketing.

Once the scene is set, Once we can
acknowledge the individual behind the

something else happens, for this
recognition has its origins somewhere

It seems we need freaks, not only to
reassure ourselves of our own normality,

but more importantly, to help us
rediscover something.

Perhaps that's why we create them in
myths, legends, in fairy stories,

literature and films.

Perhaps that's why we impart a certain
humanity into them and allow them to

and be loved.

Of course, only in fiction.

From childhood, we learn there is always
more than meets the eye, that external

appearances are misleading, that what
exists within us all is always greater

than the sum of the parts.

E .T. may be ugly, but he's also love
incarnate.

To admit love is to admit there is more
to appearances.

And to admit that is to admit we all
have to work much harder at being human.

We have to consider not only the body,
but also the soul.

The body and the soul.

The body.

What is real, asked the rabbit one day,
when they were lying side by side near

the nursery fender before Nana came to
tidy the room.

Does it mean having things that buzz
inside you and a stick -out handle?

Real isn't how you're made, said the
skin horse.

It's a thing that happens to you.

When a child loves you for a long, long
time, not just to play with, but really

loves you, Then you become real.

Does it hurt?

asked the rabbit.

Sometimes, said the skin horse, for he
was always truthful.

When you are real, you don't mind being
hurt.

Does it happen all at once?

Like being wound up, he asked, or bit by
bit?

Oh, it doesn't happen all at once, said
the skin horse.

You become.

It takes a long time.

That's why it doesn't often happen to
people who break easily or have sharp

edges.

Generally, by the time you're real, most
of your hair has been loved off and

your eyes drop out and you get loose in
the joints and very shabby.

But these things don't matter at all
because once you are real, you can't be

ugly except to people who don't
understand.

I suppose you are real.

said the rabbit.

And then he wished he had not said it,
for he thought the skin horse might be

sensitive.

But the skin horse only smiled.

The boy's uncle made me real, he said.

And that was a great many years ago.

But once you're real, you can't become
unreal again.

It lasts for always.