All language subtitles for Modi.Three.Days.On.The.Wing.Of.Madness.2024.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC-YTS.MX-TP.en

Do you know that young artist?

Unfortunately, yes.

He's not famous...Is he?

Modigliani?
Only in his mind.

It looks famous.

He's just another Left Bank rat.

And he's Jewish too!

A real bohemian.
Very exotic!

- Belgian! Yes!
How did you know?

Because, in Paris, artists
are as exotic as pigeons.

They come in droves,
selling crusts and splashes...

to buy wine and convince themselves
that they are the next Picasso.

What did he say his name was?

Believe me, it's not worth
remembering.

Tell me what you think.

Please, be honest, I insist.

It certainly is...

...unique.

Really?
And what word would you use?

I do not know.

He looks like he has the eyes
of a dead fish.

I find them lovely.

No! The pleasure of his company
is enough.

I insist,
I really do like it.

Thank you.

I will never
forget his generosity.

Goodbye!

Hey, you little Jew!

Come here!

My wife desire as portrait.

I'll give you five francs.

Thank you for your offer,

...but I'm afraid
I have to decline.

Painting his dear wife
would be a battle for me.

...that I fear I cannot win.

I know I could never capture...

...the pain, the suffering
that his poor eyes emanate.

What suffering are
you talking about?

Did he say suffering?
I don't suffer.

I suffer!

It's a matter of principle.

He wants me to show her.

What do I mean by suffering?

I don't understand
how this beautiful women...

can live with someone
so unspeakably,

...inexplicably,

...unbelievable...

...vile?
- How dare you!!!

Come back here, boy!

Do you know who I am?

Don't kill the artist.

He's armed!

Not to mention the suffering
his wife endures...

...for his inability to pollinate
his flower with his limp sausage.

Madam, cover your eyes.

This is what he wants.

I have everything under control,
I cut off his dick.

Those tables are
reserved for members.

Bastard!
Pig!

I correct you, neither bastard nor pig:
Amedeo Modigliani,

Italian artist,
Jewish, I speak French.

Stopped!

I'll take it now!

Don't worry,
everything is under control.

You insecurities it!

Modi, remember me!

Don't look, dear.

Beatrice? Open up.

I know you're there.

Come on, I can smell you.

Please open.

I'm in deep shit.

The police are hunting me.

Beatrice!

Is there a man in there?

I know there's a man. Open up!

No, you're an idiot and
I want to keep it that way.

- Listen, the situation is serious.
- It's always serious.

And it's always a struggle and tonight
I have neither the time nor the desire.

- I'm in deep shit.
- Me too.

I have to deliver an article tomorrow morning
and I haven't written a word.

They're going to throw me in jail,
you have to hide me.

Stop being so dramatic.

Look at my hand!

Oh my God, honey, you're hurt!

That's what I was trying to tell you!

Poor thing! What happened to you?

I smashed the window of the Dôme.

- You don't mean that wonderful...
- Yes!

Destroyed.

Here you are!

What?

Honey, you're a genius!

Am I? I mean, yes, but why?

How can an artist create
in the face of so much destruction?

After all, it has to depict the world
around it! Yours is a statement:

destruction is creation.

"The fear of external annihilation,

which manifests itself in the artist
as conscious iconoclasm".

Or something like that.

- It wasn't a poster, it was an accident.
- Yes, but they don't know that.

You've been a great help!

- Wait...
- What?

Did you hear a single word I said?

I am dying!

I need you, open up, please.

- Come on, I'm dying.
- Honey...

You're a spoiled child.

You want what you want when you want it.

You don't need me.

You want me.

Unfortunately what you need
is a small glass, or rather more than one

and even some stitches.

And I need to write
all this down before I forget it.

But I'll find you when I find you.

- Zbo was looking for you.
- Zbo? Really?

Why?

He stopped by this morning,
babbling about a collector.

- He wants to talk to you right away.
- Which collector?

You know I never listen to it.

Now, please, see you tomorrow morning.

How can you call yourselves defenders of Art?

when the walls of the Louvre are empty,

for fear of German bombs?

You will become my friend...

What the fuck is he doing?

Utrillo enlisted.

It's all good, my friend.

And what the fuck are you doing?

Look, he's my friend Steve.

You know that Napoleon

he was constipated,

completely, for two months?

Yet he continued to fight.

Two months!

It's been nine weeks!

Beautiful brown.

That's what I think too.

"And if you must draw,
draw a line in the sand."

Who's with me?

Leave me alone!

You are not going to war!

You would listen to him
if you knew what I know.

What do you know, asshole?

Asshole?

I know quite a few things, to tell the truth.

For example I know that
the man you carry on your shoulders

has a big problem that could
become yours, at any moment.

This man is sick.

Everyone knows that you urinate on yourself

every three minutes.

So, if I were you...

It's very true, I swear.

- I have to go to the bathroom.
- Shut up!

Nobody going to the pee tonight!

I'm going to... now

urinal, okay?

Right decision.

But you're wrong about one thing:
asshole...

We both know what an asshole is.

- Right?
- How?

I'm not an asshole.

But if you insist,
we can go deeper into the topic.

Guys, it's time to go.

- Fuck you, asshole...
- Damn!

Your hand is bleeding.

- Yes, I'm bleeding.
- You're bleeding.

I heard about the catastrophe
you've caused.

at the Café Le Dôme.

- How did you know?
- The men in blue uniforms.

They came looking for you here.

He means the police.

Fuck you, did they say my name?

- Fuck me?
- Fuck you!

- Fuck me?
- Fuck you!

Sure, they asked for you,
what can I do?

I have to leave Paris, I have to hide.

And where will you go?

Everywhere.

Maybe in Livorno.

- I'm starving.
- Me too.

Is there any pasta?

And another bottle, please.

Fun!

As soon as you pay that...

and the one from last night
and the three o'clock from the evening before.

Three?

A poor one!

Soutine, I hate to ask you...

Me too be...

to red.

To green.

- Why do you have a fly on your face?
- Fly?

Yes.

Which fly are we talking about?

Yes, I see!

A fly!

What's the crazy thing going on in my face?

It doesn't move.

- Why doesn't the fly move?
- It's resting.

She's dead.

What can I do with a dead fly?

Send it away.

- Now?
- No, tomorrow.

Do you want to keep it in the afterlife too?

You do it, please.

Please, you do it.

How disgusting!

Moscow is getting better.

I still have cockroach!

Cockroach!

Rosie?

Is this worth anything?

It's a masterpiece!

Is it enough to pay off our debt?

Not even close!

Come on, Rosie! Come on, Rosie!

I thought you were sympathetic
to artists' problems.

I beg you.

We are thirsty, we need to drink,
we are hungry, we need to eat.

Look, I heard you!

I speak Italian...

Shut up and sit down.

A man cannot die sober
just because his guilt is...

to have empty pockets.

In a few days, another man will come
who will wear those pants.

And then he will die too.

Please, Rosie.

Thank you, you are a saint.

Let's go.

Thank you.

- Make sure you come back.
- Count on it!

Run away pee.

Run away from everyone, Chaïm.

How lucky.

Yes, if it comes out!

I take a piss and go home.

You come with me to Zbo.

What is this bug doing to me?

It looks like a lobster skinning my dick.

I think you have crabs!

No, guard.

Modi, you go, I'll flea the monkey.

Agree.

Where did you get that dick from?

A Montmartre.

- May I?
- Please.

Sorry for the time.

I'm glad you came.
Do you want something to eat?

Hanka went out with her friends,
but there should be some pierogi.

No, Zbo, I can't stop.

Utrillo and Soutine are down here
holding off a cockroach.

I just want to know if you sold anything.

No, but I have something better.

A collector, Beatrice told me.

I thought you would be more excited.

Can you lend me some money?

Enough to leave the city.

- Two hundred francs should be enough.
- Why?

Did you cause another fight?

Damn, you too?

Typical of you!

It wasn't even my fault.

It seems to me...

that this city is upon me.

I'm onto something too.

This time, real money.

Five thousand a canvas, that's what he pays.

Zbo, I don't need that much money.

Just enough to get home.

And the recognition?

You still need that.

This is fashionable.

- Once that...
- Do you mean Maurice Gangnat?

Himself.

From what I know
Gangnat collects Renoir, Cézanne...

- He wouldn't even piss on my canvases.
- Five years ago, not even on Picasso's canvases.

Now he can buy as many as he wants!
I sent him a sketch of yours.

- Do you know what he said?
- What?

He said it was...

interesting.

Interesting? That's it?

I have a good feeling.

He is on his way to Nice.

To see me?

No, to see me,
I will introduce him to your work.

- He'll be here in two days, wait for him.
- I can't wait that long.

Are you leaving right now?

- What if you're wrong?
- So what?

You've been waiting for someone like Gangnat for ten years .

After all the rejections,
what more could there be?

- Easy for you.
- Why?

- They don't reject you.
- You're hurt!

It's the hand you draw with!

It gets worse.

Did you tell Beatrice?

No, he'll find out when I'm dead.

Don't say that.

If you die, I will have nothing to sell.

I can leave you some Soutine,
in my will.

There is a shard of glass.

Wait, I'll be right back.

Hey, this shouldn't be here!

You're not finished yet.

Which sketch did Gangnat like?

The nude of Beatrice.

Carco liked it too,

but he said he doesn't think it's finished.

Actually it's not, I'm still working on it.

Carco will come tomorrow.

If you have something new, bring it.

Maybe he'll write something.

I was right, there was a splinter.

Can you make a fist?

Yes.

Well, then you can keep the brush.

That's already something.

Yeah... that's something.

- Gangnat is coming in two days, then?
- The day after tomorrow.

- What do I do until then?
- Eat something.

Drink, have sex.

If all else fails, you'll have
enough left over for a train ticket.

Two days, my friend, two days!

And the whole world will know...

Modigliani.

- Give it to me!
- It's my Steve.

Release it!

Let it go!

He doesn't like you, he loves me.

- Leave him!
- My friend.

- He's not.
- He doesn't like you.

He wants to be free!

He kissed me...

on the mouth.

Spend?

Zbo.

No!

Yes.

I heard...

every single hair...

of his beard.

How disgusting!

How disgusting!

Hey, don't cheat! Leave him!

- I don't cheat!
- You cheat!

Soutine,

my friend.

You are being spoken to by someone who has truly lived

the experience of being
locked up in a mental asylum.

And I'm talking to someone who should
definitely be locked up.

- That's you! The cockroach.
- Cockroach?

- It's you.
- Me?

That is, it's me,

It's Modigliani, it's all of us!

I do not.

Free the cockroach.

So do we too...

we will be free.

And as your friend, I command you!

Agree.

Now he goes, my friend.

Free.

- That's better.
- Get ready.

- No, not this one!
- One!

- Not again!
- Two!

Three!

Piece of shit!

If you really have to...

You cheated!

You used three fingers on all my ears!

You used three fingers!

- Please.
- Three fingers!

Please.

Please!

Asshole.

I don't feel well.

But I have these.

You have money!

Yes!

- Modì, give me a kiss.
- Fuck you.

I'm hungry.

I'd give my head for a plate of spaghetti.

Give me the pasta!

Give her the money.

Bring us a bottle of Sambuca,
and Utrillo's last evening.

- Yeah!
- And a glass for you too.

Sure.

Until...

you should join up too.

The police would never find you
at the front.

You're right, you're a genius.

They wouldn't find me at the front,

because I would be buried next to you, idiot!

Listen...

- Is everything okay?
- Are you okay?

Everything is fine?

Stop, stop...

Where are we going?

We...

we must tune
into our internal compass.

Over there.

What is this smell I smell?

Do you smell this?

Yes, look in your underwear!

Already done.

Then the teeth.

-Your breath is horrible.
-I wouldn't say so.

Look!

Do you see?

Wonder!

The red, the yellow...

Beautiful, but so...

lonely.

He doesn't deserve it.

The butcher is not sensitive, Modi.

I know.

Let's go.

No.

I want...

stay with cow.

Come on, let's go.

I'll stay with this...

single cow.

I give her a name.

What is his name?

I call her...

Rembrandt.

We need to talk about Soutine.

That crow's foot...

that always made me shit myself,

he held her with an anger
that really surprised me.

There was real threat in his eyes.

Yet he is the least violent person I know.

Yes, he was ready to die.

Yes, for us!

I know.

As soon as I saw it,
I felt like peeing.

It was very strange.

Life is strange, my friend.

Nowadays,
they would piss in your face,

swearing, at the same time,

which is just rain.

But there is something more important
to consider.

My country is dying.

I paint Paris.

But I don't see Paris anymore.

What is more important?

Using my hand to hold the brush

or to protect

the foundations of my blood?

War is everywhere, open your eyes.

Nothing more urges my brush to speak.

Paris is my life purpose.

My muse.

It's my city, but it's dying, my friend.

It's turning to rubble
and I have to protect it.

I understand you, but trust me,

this world will soon be no more.

Paris is not lost.

I have to go, it's late.

For what? What the fuck do you have to do?

The war!

Of course, are you stupid?

Without Paris, I am nothing.

We are nothing.

And I don't do it just for me.

I do it for you,

for all of us.

Do you understand?

- Are you serious?
- Yes.

Come on, you're not really going to war!

- Are you crazy?
- Yes.

You always say you'll do it,
but you never do it.

All the more reason to reveal yourself,

my dear friend,
something you already know very well.

I'm postponing.

So what?

Da Vinci did it too.

And I'm a man of my word.

- Do you understand that this is war?
- Yes.

- They can blow your head off.
- Yes!

I think you've already predicted that.

Don't be an asshole,
I paid you for a bottle.

Don't be an asshole!

You are the best painter I know.

There is no one like you.

Why do you do it?

You're not a soldier, you're an artist.

Can you say hello to Soutine for me?

Sure.

And please, watch your backs.

Do you know what I mean?

Second.

You take.

Sell it, maybe you can buy a drink with it.

Keep those bastards out of the Louvre.

Of course.

Goodbye, my friend.

Do you really think I can't do this?

No.

Really?

I'll let you know.

Modi, wake up!

Hate!

Hate!

Everything is fine.

Everything is fine.

Did you take something?

What did you take?

I do not know.

I saw death.

I thought I was having an epileptic seizure.

How scary!

It was horrible.

This is mine.

I thought you wanted it back.

I found it on my way here.

It was on the bridge, sticking out of your bag.

I felt like I was looking at a ghost.

- It's not over.
- Of course!

I'm not blind, I see it.

Really?

It's over.

It's perfect.

I didn't mean to.

You know I've always liked these things.

Are you sure you want to start sculpting again?

I thought you quit because of the dust.

It will do me good to work outdoors.

When we are in Livorno,

I'll start sculpting again.

Really? And when?

The day after tomorrow.

If it doesn't work out
with Zbo's collector.

Well, I have time to pack.

- I need a coffee.
- You know where it is.

- Why?
- Why?

You can do it yourself.

Don't you want to make me coffee?

- No.
- Why?

No!

Yes!

Perfect.

Wakes up!

Then talk to me about something,
if you want me to stay awake.

- Like?
- I don't know, tell me about Livorno.

Since it looks like I'm going there soon.

You will love it, it's a beautiful city.

The sea, the sun,

no war on the landing.

No collectors or dealers.

Gorgeous!

And what will I do while you chisel away?

Whatever you want.

- You can swim.
- I can't swim.

- I'll teach you.
- You can't swim either!

I will learn.

What will I write about? Fish?

No!

You can write about me.

Modì, my readers want to know about
the great artists of Paris,

not of a single man in the middle of nowhere.

Then they are idiots.

I'm out of red.

And who would it be for?

A collector.

Yes, but what is it called?

Gangnat.

Gangnat?

Christ, is this who Zbo was talking about?

He seems interested in my work.

- And a lot, too.
- Zbo says that?

Then forget it.

Now you don't trust me anymore?

No, I trust you.

It's Zbo who's going to screw it all up.

Sometimes I think you're dating him

just to have someone to blame
when you fail.

When do I fail?

- You know what I mean.
- When I fail...

Look, at least Zbo
doesn't slam the door in my face.

when I'm bleeding to death.

- Bleeding out?
- Yes!

You looked great.

And I was working.

And thanks for the champagne.

I thought you would understand.

You wouldn't drop your paintbrush if a train
was coming at you, let alone me.

- It's different.
- How?

Because I make art,
you only write about it.

Damn bastard!

- Crazy!
- Take it back!

I was joking!

- Fuck you!
- No, please.

Calm down.

Stop.

Guard.

What do you think?

Modì!

It's sublime.

Okay,

it's you.

What will you do with it?

I do not know.

I'm waiting for him to tell me
what he wants to become.

Time does not wait.

Guard!

So sweet,

so simple.

A simple life,

nothing to worry about,

no money, no ego...

no greed or corruption.

Only love.

Only love.

I don't understand why
we can't live like this.

You're a total bastard, am I right?

That's why you're here, huh?

Sleep.

she smells like shit and dead dog!

I'm evicting her! She should go away!

And take that stuff away!

The stench would knock a vulture
over a cart of shit!

I smell this stench every day!

Hate!

I'll take everything away, I promise.

Please don't evict him again.

Please,

our best friend just died.

- No!
- Yes.

- The tall one? Really?
- Yes.

Was...

torn to shreds.

Do you think he suffered?

Yes, but only for a moment.

Just for a moment... and then...

But this horrible stink...

I warn you, both of you!

But I feel sorry for your friend.

Thank you.

Hate!

Thank you, Modi.

That woman is stupid.

Wait...

is it a cow?

Yes, but being dead,
I think that being just beef.

Okay...

Why that cow?

I want to bring her back to life.

I want to bring life back into her.

Modi, what do you think?

It's not finished yet.

You got the point perfectly.

Come, Modigliani, sit with me, there's wine.

I really have to go.

I'm going to the cafe.

Do you have something to sell?

Let me see.

No, nothing.

Do you think that Zbo

to be able to show my paintings...

al signor "Gangnet"?

Sure, why not?

Why don't you ask him
yourself tonight at the party?

What party?

The one at Zbo's house.

You should come.

Good idea.

Remember what I told you
about toothpaste and toothbrush?

Holy shit!

Okay, I'll use this thing...

toothbrush on my teeth.

Yes!

- I will.
- Close the window!

Close it!

Hate!

Did you hear that, Rembrandt?

A party!

Well!

Tell me, should I stop here?

Stopped!

Play something more cheerful.

No thank you.

No, go away!

Friends, I present to you the work of a genius,

one of the most talented artists.

Yes, he said it right,
it is the work of a true genius.

It's a bit melancholic, don't you think?

One paints what one sees.

Then you should watch
something less depressing.

It is the portrait of his mother.

I don't know, I find something
very interesting in it,

but I couldn't say what.

I'll give you ten francs.

That would be a good price,
under normal circumstances,

but I can't give away
an original Modigliani for so little.

Should I know who he is?

No, but I assure you that one day you will know.

He will be remembered as a great artist.

- You mean it's...
- Yeah, last week.

It's a sad story,

but his mother told me

that this is his last work.

It breaks her heart to part with him,
but she has two children to feed,

so I convinced her that Modigliani
would approve.

He looks like a nobleman.

Yes, it was.

Would twenty-five francs be okay?

Well...

Fifty.

You are very generous indeed.

Get her a hot meal.

God bless her and bless France.

- Did she draw them?
- Yes.

They are identical to my nephew's.

He is four years old.

Do you like it?

What exactly do you like?

How does it make you feel?

It doesn't matter, you don't have to know.

- What's your name?
- Lucky.

Lucky?

Okay, Lucky.

It's yours, take it.

I have no money.

Me niether.

Thank you.

See you tomorrow and be on time!

Good morning.

- I would like a room for tomorrow night.
- A particular room?

I was wondering if it would be possible
to have the room...

No. 16, I'll check right away.

A signature, please.

It's twenty francs.

"Of course it's not over, I'm not blind!"

We weren't supposed to meet so soon.

Cutting edge.

Truly cutting edge.

His brush stroke has...

a raw sensuality,
impossible to imitate.

A little presumptuous?

Monsieur Carco,
you have extraordinary taste.

Only Modì

could produce
such a unique and esoteric trait.

Esoteric trait!

I agree,

this boy is on to something.

Anything you'd like to write about?

I'd say we'll see, right,
my shrewd friend?

Did you know that "arte" is the ending
of the word "scraper"?

Zitto!

Interesting.

You don't like authority,
do you, Mr. Modigliani?

I can see it in his eyes,

in his work.

Bravo!

Zbo, what do you know about this Gangnat?

- The collector?
- No, the farmer.

Of course, the collector!

Very rich,

but also a man of great importance.

People listen to him.

What is he doing here?

Hi, Hanka, nice to see you...
it's always a pleasure.

- It stinks.
- Yeah.

- It's dirty.
- Yes.

- I'm sorry.
- I can't believe he's in our house.

In our apartment! Leo?

It's bad enough that I have to look at his portrait
outside your studio, every day.

I want him out of here.

Curse!

Magda!

Ladies and gentlemen...

artist friends,

drunkards and citizens of the night.

There is a prophet among us

and this is his prophecy:

the time of creation is over.

Now there is nothing left but destruction.

So I present to you my latest work,

entitled "Modi's Vision".

Turn it off!

Turn it off!

- Where are you going?
- I'll be right back.

- Don't touch anything.
- All right.

Turn it off!

Modi, Modi...

Turn it off!

- What did I do wrong?
- Those were my words, from my article.

Exactly. Isn't that what you wanted?

You ripped them out of my mouth and made them your own.

Wait, first you say I'm a genius

and now you're scolding me?

It's not fair.

You said it yourself this afternoon:

I don't make art, I just write about it.

I just said that to make you angry,
you know what I think of you!

You are a poet, I love your work.

You are worth a thousand tabloid journalists
and ten thousand artists.

Yet I write about them.

Why do I feel like I'm not
the one they'll remember?

Do you really think that writing
is different from painting?

- It's not the same thing.
- Yes, it is.

We both find ourselves
facing a blank page.

We are committed to every brushstroke,
every letter.

The only difference is that I don't want
to burn everything in the name of art.

I get it, you want to get excited!

Come on, find a match and some gasoline
and set me on fire.

I'll get worked up and then explode.

Who will care about anything
or anyone?

when will death come to clip his wings?

You know the rules.

- More!
- It's very strong.

Inside is an ounce of hashish
and a shitload of mushrooms.

There is a curious beauty in the air.

A strange energy, do you feel it?

I miss the good old days.

Which?

I remember the first time I saw you.

I immediately understood that I had found a diamond
in a sea of glass.

Yes, of course!

The first time, I was dead drunk
in a wheelbarrow,

I sang Rossini and farted.

- You thought I was a pig.
- I never said that.

You wrote it and published it!

- Have you read it?
- Sure.

But that doesn't matter.

I meant the first time I saw you
with a clean shave.

Where was I?

On the terrace, near the Bateau.

You smiled, came to me and said:

It would be an immense honor for my hands

if he would let them draw it."

- Did I say that?
- Yes!

What an idiot!

That's when I realized
you were the Prince of Montparnasse.

Already!

And ten years later,

the Prince has been unmasked

in the jester.

Already...

I haven't sold
a painting properly yet.

It's not your fault,

but of Zbo.

You can't trust that fool
to deal with calibers like Gangnat.

Please don't start again.

- I don't want to fight over Zbo.
- But you're the artist!

All right...

Why do we always end up arguing?

Always.

Be'...

I know I am a very complicated man.

you seem very complicated,
but in reality you are simple.

Me, simple?

No...

No, not that simple!

Don't get me wrong!

I'm saying

that you are simple in a complicated way.

All bullshit.

I'm so hot!

Wait!

It's amazing!

Everything! Everything dances.

The stars, the sky.

Would you take off my shoes?

I feel my feet
want to be free, naked.

Honey, take off my shoes,
I feel very strange.

- One moment!
- Take off my shoes.

How did you do it?

I do not know.

I think my kneecaps are backwards.

Come on, I'll take you.

Take me!

Hate!

- Is everything okay?
- Yes.

Get drunk!

Always! Up!

Here it is...

the great imperative.

Get drunk and stay that way.

Ah... dice Baudelaire:

"Of wine,

of virtue,

of poetry...

as you like,

but get drunk.

And if you sometimes wake up
and wonder what time it is,

the wind, the wave,

the star, the bird, the clock

they will answer you:

It's time to get drunk!"

It's your turn.

I'm already drunk.

No, silly, says a text.

- Do you know him?
- Yes.

Bravo!

- This is Dante, not Baudelaire.
- I know!

But it's right

and you are right too, my love.

If Gangnat wants to see my art,

then the artist will see too.

Yes!

Toro?

Go!

Go!

Yes!

Go!

Yes!

Go!

Go!

Beatrice?

Bea?

Sir, please move away, the building is not safe.

What's up?

It's me you're looking for, right?

You arrest me.

But what does he say?

I am sorry.

- I'm sorry I broke the window.
- Which window?

What is his name?

Amedeo Modigliani.

It's all right, René, he's my friend.

Modì!

Modi, well done!

He's a visionary!

It's modern, well done!

What courage!

Modì, may you be damned!

When you disappeared, where did you go?

I was about to ask you the same question.

It was horrible.

I don't want to see those horrible dreams anymore.

Everything is fine.

Nobody's chasing you.

"I cultivated my hysteria

with pleasure and terror.

Now I have left...

only suffering.

I received

a singular warning:

I felt the wind of the wing of madness

pass over me".

Baudelaire.

My friend,

I'm going to meet my destiny.

What the fuck are you doing?

I hypnotize chicken.

Bravo!

Good luck, my friend.

Look, Modigliani...

Look, my tooth.

I see!

It's better now, huh?

Here I am!

Good evening, my friend.

Modì? What are you doing here?

I come with tea.

This is not a good idea.

Why not? Look at me!

Elegant, clean...

even sober... almost.

I'm happy for you.

That's great, but it doesn't work like that.

- I wasn't honest with you.
- Before I forget...

I promised Soutine that you would
show Gangnat...

even some of his works.

- Where is she?
- Who?

Hanka? She's out with some friends.

No, no, no!

Beatrice, the nude.

The canvas I brought you.

- Where is it?
- Carco probably has it.

Probably?

He wanted to write a piece about it, remember?

- We both wanted him to write...
- No, I wanted to sell it!

There are many of your naked atriums.

- There are quite a few.
- It's not the same thing!

That was the key, I told you.

I know we haven't always gotten along,

but I love you like a brother.

I would sell my shoes for you.

I don't need you to sell me shoes,
I need you to sell me paintings!

It was my last chance.

Where the fuck is the painting?

Where the fuck is my fucking painting?

I look in my study.

He was right.

Beatrice was right.

All right.

Modì?

The door got stuck.

Let me out, please.

Let me out!

Modì, let me out, please!

Let me out!

I'm claustrophobic.

Let me out!

Let me out!

Excuse me.

Scum!

- How?
- Get out!

I have to see Mr. Gangnat,
is he still here?

Not for the likes of you.

I know well that this place is not for me,

but I'm not here
to cause trouble, I swear.

Air!

Dirt!

Fatty!

Signor Gangnat!

- Please take a seat.
- Thank you.

Are you feeling well?

Yes.

Well.

Now I'll make a guess and say

that she is not Leopold Zborowski.

Exact.

Do you mean to tell me who you are?

I feel a bit at a disadvantage.

But yes, of course!

My name is Amedeo Modigliani,
nice to meet you.

My pleasure!

So, is Zborowski joining us tonight?

No.

No?

No.

Not at all?

No.

- No
no.

Is dead?

Dead? No!

- He's not dead.
- That's better.

He's just indisposed, but he'll get better.

She told me she really liked
my sketch, the nude.

Are you joking?

Do you have any idea how many sketches I see?

how many paintings, how many nudes?

How many things and how many people?

How many boobs, vaginas, asses?

They're everywhere.

I understand, I imagine,

but he told me about your conversation,

in which she said it was interesting.

He said.

He never sent it to me

or at least I never received it.

I heard it was interesting.

And I've been told that she has a trait...

distinctive.

Did he show you any of my work?

No.

I am sorry...

We talked about it,

it's the only thing you remember.

Never mind.
Can I show you some?

Do you want to order something?

No thank you.

Something to drink, maybe?

Some wine.

Sure.

Only the wine.

What wine would you like tonight?

Oh, mom!

Do you want to see the wine list?
Should I send the sommelier?

- Wine!
- Right away.

- We were saying...
- What did he do to his hand?

A little disagreement with a shop window.

I don't believe it! Was it her?

Yes!

Holy Christ, I was on the train

and I read the news in the newspaper.

He broke the window, is that it?

Yes, it was me.

So he's famous, almost.

Yes.

What exactly can I do for you,
Mr. Modigliani?

If you don't mind, I'd like to show you

some of my paintings.

That's a very ugly man.

He is my friend Soutine, a great artist.

Did you portray Chaïm Soutine?

- He's very talented.
- Yes, very.

He has an incredible talent!

Who knows, he might introduce us.

Do you want me to introduce you to Soutine?

Yes!

She wants me to introduce her to Soutine.

I would be very grateful.

It's fantastic, fabulous!

Do you want some advice?

Get as many of Soutine's works as possible.

Do it now,

because in a few years,

he will live the good life.

A brand new penthouse,

eating caviar
with a beautiful fat woman.

And mine?

His what?

How much will my works be worth?

In my opinion...

about what they're worth now.

That is to say?

About sixty francs.

Sixty francs?

I wouldn't sell her even my worst painting
for sixty francs.

No, I meant for all three.

If I'm being honest, and I am,

they have no life.

I'm sorry, but they need life.

They're dead.

Death?

I believe there is more life in my works
than in my body.

There is no market for these
depressing paintings.

Who would like to wake up
to these...

dead eyes?

So, we were saying...

sixty francs, right? Or am I wrong?

Five thousand.

My work is good, everyone says so.

Then sell them to them.

I see you are disappointed,

but he must not be discouraged at all.

She has talent.

In a few years,

maybe he will be able to create
something of value.

My friend, she asked me!

Did she ask for it, did she want me to lie to her?

Would you have preferred?

I'm not lying, it's not like me.

I just told her my opinion.

Even though my opinion is worth a lot.

At that time...

what else does he have?

He must have something else
in his magic bag.

What's up?

Please don't touch my bag.

- I'm not breaking it!
- Leave my sculpture.

- Can I at least take a look?
- Yes, but it's not...

- You came, let me see.
- It's not for sale.

Calm.

I'll give you five thousand francs for this,

immediately, in cash.

You are not a painter, Mr. Modigliani,

she is a sculptor.

I want to take her home tonight.

That one is not for sale.

Of course it's for sale.

Everything is for sale.

No, you're wrong.

For example, I am not for sale.

Bullshit!

Above all, she is for sale.

She lives in poverty.

He placed his paintings here

with the intention of selling them to me.

She didn't like the way I reacted to her paintings ...

because she is desperate.

Despair oozes from every pore.

Please, let's not kid ourselves.

It's inappropriate, vulgar, I don't like it.

I'm not making fun of her at all.

That sculpture is not for sale.

Ten thousand francs.

Mr. Gangnat, you don't understand.

Twenty thousand francs,

in his pockets now.

He would settle for life.

This sculpture

it will never belong to her,

because he doesn't have enough money

and never will.

I am sorry

I have to be the one
to give her this news

and teach her a good lesson.

She defines herself as an artist,

because that's what he's always done:

he always defined himself as an artist.

What does it mean?

Who cares?

Maybe it's hard
for a young man like you to understand,

but knowing how to paint on a canvas

It doesn't make her an artist.

It doesn't even make her a fucking painter.

Suffering for his art

it's not the measure of his talent

nor of its value.

The sacrifice

It does not ensure fame.

Every day the dice are rolled.

One day he will understand,

whether he likes it or not.

Coming here tonight,

I was expecting a chubby, rich boy,

fed with golden cutlery.

But I was wrong, I met a man

that to prove something,
he must judge everything.

She doesn't know anything about my life.

And it seems to me that he knows even less than his own.

Money didn't change her at all.

He just revealed his nature.

It can't be hidden

what's behind the eyes,
Mr. Gangnat.

I see her, I know her.

He sets a price, he pays it

and pats himself on the back.

And he says, "See?

I knew exactly what it was worth."

Already...

He looks down on people

and think: "I have more than you and you..."

Of everyone he looks at.

But I am much richer than her.

She just existed.

I, on the other hand, lived.

The power is in his wallet,

but the taste, Mr. Gangnat...

he's got it in his ass.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

How did it go?

It went well.

- I didn't expect to find you here.
- Did you sell anything?

Sure! I sold some stuff.

Do you have any hash left?

Is that all you have to say?
"I want some hash."

Tell me, how did it go?

I told you, I sold some canvases.

How many?

Three.

That's awesome! For how long?

Exactly what I'm worth.

What are they? That's not all!

Didn't you say five thousand per canvas?

Treasure...

I know you expected more,

but these are still enough
for the room and some champagne.

Nothing stops us from having fun, let's go!

Let's take back the night
and make it ours.

I've had enough.

I'm tired of all these judgments,
of being neither fish nor fowl,

of being a maybe, I'm not a maybe,
that's all I know.

You're always so dramatic!

Gangnat didn't understand your value.

So what? Do you want to give up?

I refuse to be examined,
dissected,

judged by those rich assholes.

Fuck their money,
they don't understand anything about it.

Let them go to hell!

We know very well that those people
don't know how much your works are worth.

Come on!

How much longer must we
run after those who don't want us?

- As long as it is necessary.
- Then it is a problem.

You have no idea what it feels like,
you can't understand it.

Collectors, merchants,

one rejection after another, after another.

Wait, I don't know what rejection is?

Christ, I wake up every morning
with a tightness in my chest,

thinking that I have failed and that I will never
achieve my goal.

Do you think I never thought
I would never succeed?

- What if that's the case?
- What alternatives do I have?

Life, real life, damn it!

Do you even remember what it feels like
to feel the tightness in your chest?

Honey, I know you think
you're running towards life,

but it's not like that.

You're just running from death.

If you want to run away, I can't stop you.

I will not write all my life
for anyone in particular,

while you carve sculptures
that no one will ever see

and paint canvases that you will then destroy.

I won't stand by and watch you die.

We're done.

No, it's not over, not for me and not for you.

When that cough gets worse
and you can't hold the brush anymore,

let alone hammer and chisel,

that will be the point of no return.

Look around.

Look how much beauty you have created.

If you stop doing what you love,

Do you know how much you will break my heart?

You don't know anything about me.

You are obsessed with success,

I don't care!

I don't give a damn about these people,

I don't care about these
fucking sculptures!

Stopped!

- I don't give a damn about the paintings, about anything!
- Stop!

Fuck you!

I can't take it anymore.

- Who cares!
- I can't live like this.

Go! Go! Go.

Holy shit!

Oh!

But what are you doing?

What the fuck are you doing?

- You hadn't gone to war?
- What war?

Be'...

You know, those people are so serious.

They tried to lock me up,
those bastards.

They insisted

that I have to go back to the sanatorium.

What nonsense! And so I left.

Here I am!

Modi, come here.

- I missed you.
- How happy I am to see you.

- Do you have anything to drink?
- No.

- I want to be alone.
- Alone?

Yes.

And you, Modigliani...

Let's drink...

Damn scum!

Damn!

Damn!

That's not the normal Modigliani.

Trust me.

I heard everything.

I saw Beatrice leave, no good.

It's terrible for my nerves.

I just got back from the war!

So bad.

I want to go there,

but no one can help him.

I can't heal his pain
until he's ready.

I've never seen him so lost.

Lost, yes.

If lost, we can find it.

I love him.

We have to give him time.

So long.

- Yes.
- Yes.

You are right.

Let's go now.

Why do you want me sad?

Who are you?

You.

Who are you, Modigliani?

What do you feel?

Do you feel better now?

You are a small and stupid man.

You... you... fuck...

you create and destroy.

How to make a great war!

You want to spit on your own grave.

Failed.

Failed.

But I won't spit

on Modigliani's tomb.

We need him to live.

We need him to be…

vivo.

Yes.

Wait!

Bravo.

There is nothing left to judge.

subtitles Valérie Giardini
Reel One Subtitles