Original subtitles

Rain! A blessing from God!

It'll be a boy, for sure!

Yes, Monsieur le Comte!

Deus lo Vult: God wills it!

Our beautiful motto.

Deus lo Vult! Deus lo Vult!

Be brave, Madame la Comtesse!

Be brave, Madame la Comtesse!

- My dear, a male… - Monsieur Le Comte!

I promise you.

Come now, Monsieur le Comte!

- A boy, or I'll break your nose. - Monsieur le Comte, you must leave.

You must continue the family lineage.

It's a boy, I can feel it! My blood is boiling! My toes are tingling!

Why this panic, then?

Remember, you must provide us with an heir.

Be brave, Madame la Comtesse!

Do you hear that? It is time.

- Be brave, Madame la Comtesse! - Be brave!

Thank you.

You don't have anything to drink.

God is taking his time.

He's in no hurry. He has all of eternity.

Monsieur le Comte!

It's a boy!

An heir! He is perfect!

He's a handsome baby.

Congratulations, Monsieur le Comte!

Sound the trumpets!

What's going on?

Close the window! The baby!

Close that window!

He is giving thanks to God.

You must protect yourself from this freezing rain!

I don't care about the rain! No one cares about the rain!

Thank you, God! I have an heir!

Sound the trumpets!

Bravo!

My God, what a beautiful world…

My brave boy,

God loves you. He will cure you.

- I don't understand. Bones can be healed. - Yes.

But for my little Henri's legs, you are powerless.

I can't stand powerless people.

The doctors cannot do anything for him, it's true. And why?

Madame la Comtesse, why?

When you married, you knew the risk you were taking.

You are related to your husband.

- Our mothers were sisters. - Yes.

You cannot create life however you like.

Don't lower your eyes.

Go home.

Staying won't help your son accept his hardship.

What hardship?

Look for the well-off men who are here on their own.

Petite Pomme. Petite Pomme, look.

A pear?

Catch his eye, Miss Catch-All.

- Alphonse, Count of Toulouse. - La Môme Crevette.

- Would you do me the honor… - Without hesitation, sir!

A gentleman, my goodness!

She will send him packing soon enough.

How nice it is to send French nobility packing.

It's so elegant here. Do you come to this little place often?

Pink champagne! Two bottles, to start.

Have a seat on the velvet, Alphonse.

- Count, what should we talk about? - About my seed, of course.

About its uselessness in my marriage,

and how I will give it to you later.

Well, colonel…

He talks about it as if it were a gift.

You have hit the nail on the head, Alphonse. It is a refined drink, indeed.

Madame la Comtesse…

There must be suffering in the world, to redeem us all.

Let God strike me down, not my son!

God isn't dumb. He won't listen to you.

I'll make you some warm milk.

Let God strike me down! Let God strike me down!

Give me the suffering you intended for him.

Mr. Hoppity…

Hello, dwarf.

For Madame la Comtesse.

Gabriel and Henri's cousins will distract him.

They arrive on Saturday.

Mr. Henri! All your cousins are coming on Saturday!

Is Jeanne d'Armagnac coming, too?

Jeanne? Where is Jeanne?

- Jeanne? - She is over there, with Henri.

Jeanne?

- It's Gabriel. - Jeanne!

These idiots have challenged us!

Jeanne.

What?

- I'm listening to you, my bearded man. - Ouch!

My father says you should learn about life before letting your beard grow.

What is life, for him?

Hunting and women.

"Hunting and women"….

What is life, for you?

Painting.

And…

You.

Jeanne d'Armagnac, my life is yours.

Henri, if I fall in love with you, I could marry you.

The boys have challenged us, they want to play ball.

No. Not now. This afternoon, after our walk.

- Why? - Because I said so,

and because I'm in charge, here.

What an incredible woman.

Her compassion amazes me.

I think about her

while touching myself three times a day.

And you, who do you think about when you touch yourself?

Who?

- Gabriel? - Pardon?

You're deaf.

I'm not surprised. Masturbation makes you deaf.

We're going for a walk!

No, we're playing ball, first.

- No. First, a walk. - Give me the ball!

Yes! There!

You paint your mother like a queen in exile.

She is a queen, a goddess.

A goddess, and I trample all over her.

I trample all over her.

I am very hard on you.

Why criticize yourself in front of Henri?

Henri, the reality is even worse.

I am a pig.

Dear friend, I grow bored, in this castle.

Tuesday at dawn, I am going to Paris to deliver some mare's milk to my friends.

Female friends?

Why do you put up with my father's mistresses?

May as well try to stop the sun shining.

That's not an answer.

Yes, it is.

Ask your heart.

Henri, painting is an experience. So is life, my dear.

You should study painting in Paris, Henri.

Oh! Gingerbread, cinnamon, and honey.

Once you have had your fill, we will hold a sack race.

Very good!

I got some flour sacks from the farmers.

Jeanne, I love you.

- Answer me, or I'll faint. - Don't be so sentimental, please.

That's in poor taste.

No!

A dwarf asking someone to marry him

and falling into despair is funny, not dramatic.

You can't force love.

Henri, let's stay friends.

Friends until we die!

- Look, a walrus in love! - I'm going to die of it…

Henri, your destiny is already written:

the circus.

So, you're eating paint, now, my friend?

Newly baptized man, do you want to join Cormon's studio?

It's a lofty goal for a short person.

A lofty goal, indeed, judging by your scribbles.

Here are the daubings,

or rather the droppings, of Monsieur de Toulouse!

Ugh!

But, to help us forget his painted diarrhea,

our provincial painter has offered us…

Foie gras from Albi, local ham, and candy!

Yeah!

- Toulouse is one of us! - Yes!

Arise, children of painting

Our day of glory will come

To hell with our ancestors

Our paintbrushes stand at the ready

Our paintbrushes stand at the ready

Oh! It's beautiful. It looks very good.

The first redcurrants of the season arrived from Albi today.

To arms, apprentice painters

Embrace your convictions

March on, march on!

Until we have sent our ancestors to hell

To hell!

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, eminent French painter.

Enjoy your bath, Henri.

Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen.

Goodbye, ladies and gentlemen.

Mother…

"Behold your son", as it is said in the Gospel.

Henri, you mock the Bible.

Don't worry, Monseigneur. Blasphemers are fools.

Foolishness is no excuse for blasphemy.

I will make sure my son does not forget God.

Cheers!

Mr. Lautrec, idealize the model.

An ass is an ass,

but give it perfect, rounded curves.

- Greek statues have dreamlike bottoms. - So do I, I hope.

Your bottom is the tropics!

Yeah!

Your lines are nervous.

Virgins are always nervous.

- Are you a virgin? - Yes, sir.

How sad! Oh, my!

- Poor boy. - It's to be expected.

Virginity is the tragedy of dwarves.

Marie Charlet, for the good of the country, take care of this boy.

Marie, make him a man.

When, Monsieur de Toulouse?

This morning, this evening, tonight, or tomorrow afternoon?

I'd like all four, miss.

Well, bravo!

Go on, out you go!

Too much curiosity could distract the model!

- Get out! - That's enough…

You weren't so fierce when you lost your virginity.

Go on, get out!

Are you afraid?

Wait. Don't be in such a rush.

Was it the helmet and buskins that got you excited?

No, your eyes.

I like your smile and the two dimples on your lower back.

I have to get back to my painting.

- They aren't coming back until tomorrow. - I must paint.

Stay, little lamb. My feet are freezing, you can keep them warm.

My mother will worry.

Oh…

Every morning, before she leaves for mass,

she gives me a kiss.

I must paint.

Sorry.

- You can't go without sleep. - Of course I can.

With a little bit of white.

My Michelangelo, rest.

You are mad!

You must be, my dear mother, to become Michelangelo.

Mother, a maid as sweet as you took my virginity.

An earthquake, a cyclone over the ocean.

Oh, Mother. Your son is going to become an unrepentant libertine.

That's not the kind of thing you tell your mother.

He was born near the canal In the Arsenal district

His mother, who had no husband Called him her little Henri

But he was known as La Filoche The cutpurse, at the Bastille

One evening when he hadn't eaten He was prowling like a madman

To find something to eat He stabbed a bus driver

In the belly and the satchel At the Bastille

Disgusting peasant!

You must present yourself before entering this hallowed hall!

My favorite little lover: Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.

Oh, my!

How to know how to die on a skewer At La Bastille

Silence!

Silence! Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec,

old nobility, my children.

One thousand years ago, the counts of Toulouse

went on the first crusade.

I can't believe it.

You can sit down.

Okay, if Monsieur le Comte buys us a drink.

The last squirt of the illustrious line

is paying this round!

Well, aristocrat, are you looking for votes in the Montmertre elections?

Who is that?

- How provincial! - He is from Toulouse.

Aristide Bruant.

Montmertre doesn't like aristocrats or nobility.

On this inspired hill, Monsieur de Toulouse,

we like red wine and raw meat. It gives you strength.

Here, we get politely drunk.

And we sing the poetry of the street.

Poxed jerks,

this is Nini Peau de Chien!

At the Bastille

Everyone likes Nini Peau de Chien

She is so pretty and so sweet

- Everyone likes her - Who?

- Nini Peau de Chien - Where?

At the Bastille!

My dear, the Sologne is superb in fall, but the hunting has become very poor,

and the hunters have become terrifyingly vulgar.

Thank God the marshes are so magical in the evening light.

Berthe, tell the cooks,

there are some woodcocks in the back of the car.

Where is my dear boy?

Where is Mr. Leonardo da Vinci?

My dear, where is Henri?

Answer me.

Henri has left home. He is living in a studio in Montmartre.

Ah! They are beautiful.

Henri works like a madman.

He stays out all night, and at dawn, without sleep, he resumes painting.

He paints and he drinks.

Maybe we should start drinking absinthe, ourselves.

During a night of debauchery, Catherine the Great,

mounted by her honor guard, drank absinthe the whole time.

What a lesson, my dear!

What is the point of your dirty jokes? Are you trying to shock me?

Or make me cry?

Stay for lunch, please.

Is it that hard to look me in the eye?

I love you, but I don't want to see you cry or to live with my head hung in shame.

How do you say "sadness" in the language of Shakespeare?

Degas will see your paintings.

It is going to work, Henri!

Degas is God the father.

If he hates my work, I won't be able to bear his disdain.

Why would Degas hate your work?

- I am going to die. - Look!

Look!

Is this an ambush?

I received a kind invitation and I find myself in a trap.

What are you waiting for, Lautrec? Praise?

Perhaps.

- Are you the doctor? - Yes. I am a friend of Henri's.

Medicine is worthless.

Doctors can't cure old age.

Are you in good health, Lautrec?

One…

two.

- His order of preference. - Three, four…etc.

No praise among colleagues. Good God, Lautrec, welcome to the club.

Welcome to the club!

You're very handy with a paintbrush, you bastard!

Long live Degas!

Degas is the master of the century!

On a hot summer evening,

She met Jules who was so sweet

That she stayed the whole night

Stop moving, giraffe.

I have the hiccups.

I can't paint you with your Adam's apple dancing about!

You dirty bitch, you asked for it!

Asshole!

What do you want?

To tear my eyes out?

This madman wants to kill me!

- Mr. Bruant, did you see that? - Give me that!

Don't touch that box or I'll hit you!

It's shit!

You will pay me back!

Your father wants to crack your head open.

He wants to turn your brain into paté. I'll settle things with your father.

- I'll break his balls! - Go fight outside!

This isn't a show for the Chat Noir!

You're wrong, Aristide! It's an attraction!

- You asked for it! - Get that pimp out of here!

Come on, out!

La Valadon, who poses for Renoir.

- You'll see! - A nice girl for a man from the south.

And Renoir knows his way around women.

Damn! Ah!

That's enough!

- Hey, hey! - You dirty rat!

Get out!

Nice sketch, Madame Valadon.

There is life and strength in your pencil strokes.

She had, under her sable hat On Montmartre hill

An innocent look

La Valadon was beautiful

She smelled like new flowers

Rue Saint-Vincent

She never knew her father She had lost her mother

And for a long time

She had been living with her old grandmother

Who raised her all alone

Rue Saint-Vincent

Is it love at first sight, Mr. Lautrec?

Is it love at first sight?

I have good reason not to trust men.

But you, you little brat…

I've been waiting for you my whole life.

A roll in the hay on a kitchen table, how poetic.

Yes.

Only someone born with a silver spoon would say something like that!

But those of us who come from squalor enjoy a bit of comfort.

Let's do this again tomorrow, but in a comfortable bed.

I have to take Maurice back to his grandmother.

He's sleeping.

"Nature is a temple where living columns

sometimes give voice to confused words. Men pass through forests of symbols…"

Isn't the French countryside beautiful?

I prefer your smile.

A smile that stings me like a riding crop.

Henri, look at these colors! They are explosive!

- I don't paint landscapes! - You're wrong!

Nature hates me.

You're wrong.

Doing portraits of officials is sad shit.

Not these colors; they hit you like a bullet to the heart.

Long live the light of the impressionists!

Long live light! Long live color!

Henri…

In love, like in painting, there are frauds.

I am tired of men, cheating, soppiness, and sentiment.

We'll love each other but not fall in love, eyes wide open.

And close them to go underground.

Hey!

Long live the dwarf that nature hates!

Faced with this masterpiece, all I can say is, "Let us admire it."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, let us admire it.

I especially like the clouds…

How sad!

It's not a painting, it's an anecdote.

You are in a temple. Take your foolishness elsewhere.

Yes, old lady, you're right, you are old.

And I would also like to praise The Death of Ravana,

Fernand Cormon's masterpiece.

A horde of men and women artistically draped in cloth,

revealing what nature gave them.

This nudity is historic, and will serve to educate the youth of France.

Thank you, my boy.

Ladies, gentlemen,

a combat of titans has begun in modern-day painting.

Some call for tradition, while others call for novelty.

I will let you guess what side I am on.

Citizens, you are being lied to.

You are being lied to.

This.

This, that, and that- that's not painting.

No. And that is not a real woman. It's an image to pleasure yourself to.

- That's enough! - Gentlemen, unzip your flies.

The painters of society want you to consume.

Rise up, children of painting

Our day of glory will arrive

Anarchists!

Bastards!

- Liars! - Iconoclasts!

Please!

Mediocrity!

Learn to paint before you criticize, children!

Anarchists!

Old garbage!

- Assholes! - Assholes!

Pipsqueaks!

- Little cowards! - Impressionists.

FINE ARTS MUSEUM NATIONAL COMPETITION

So, young men,

you are inviting civil servants to masturbate to my paintings, now?

Mr. Bernard, Mr. Lautrec,

for some time now, in your work, I have noticed the deplorable influence

of the impressionists.

All the geniuses of painting look down on impressionism.

Look at them.

They are judging you.

They are judging the imbeciles who ignore perspective, anatomy,

and good sense.

I prophesy that Degas, Seurat, and Monet

will be forgotten by history!

And with good reason.

How can you compare the science of a Raphael

with the scribbles of Mr. Monet?

This has no place here!

And what about freedom?

The freedom of impressionism? I spit in its face!

How refreshing.

Émile Bernard, you are no longer welcome here!

Thank you. I'd rather leave than belong to a tribe of idiots

who look down on novelty.

Silence!

- Long live freedom! - You're kicked out!

Shut up!

Long live art without constraint! Long live freedom!

The freedom to plant your easel in the middle of a cow pasture.

You're the cow, Mr. Cormon, kicking him out of this competition.

Lautrec, when I see the colors you use,

I know what you think of my paintings.

"I am not reviving French art.

I am struggling with a piece of paper that did nothing to me

and on which I can do nothing worthwhile. Send 300 francs as soon as you can.

In February, I am showing my work in Belgium.

Kiss my mother and other decorations on our family tree.

Goodbye, my dear.

Poor son that I am, I miss you.

Yours, Henri."

Here. Mail for you.

Oh! It's from your mother.

When your mother comes to Paris, will you introduce us?

Oh! It's beautiful.

It's swell!

Henri? Suzanne?

- This isn't your mother's home. - Kiss me.

Excuse me.

One shouldn't kiss on the stairs.

I want you! I want you!

I want you! I want you!

That's enough kissing now.

- My dear Léontine is shocked. - Léontine is shocked?

- Léontine is shocked. - Yes.

Suzanne, undress.

In your studio,

but not in my dining room, Suzanne.

Léontine is Catholic, she will leave me.

A doctor without a maid cannot work.

- My underwear, too? - Yes!

Léontine, La Valadon's skin is softer than cotton underwear.

Lustful people go to hell. Let them go quickly.

Your lower back is a scandal, it's shameful.

- My bottom is shameful? - Léontine, you see?

I can't serve with my eyes shut.

Alas…

You, a virgin, Léontine,

did you know that Auguste Renoir

becomes young again when he sees this back?

Léontine!

Dessert is served!

Careful, it's fragile, it's a collector's piece.

He is jealous of Renoir, because I am posing for him this afternoon.

Ah, competition is rough!

Renoir isn't La Valadon, he is solid.

Yes, but there is too much sentimentality in his portraits. You need spice in life.

You want spice in your life? Marry me.

- They aren't married? - Léontine, don't cry.

They will be married soon.

Léontine, a beautiful woman who joins a family of degenerates-

that improves the pedigree, doesn't it?

Don't you agree? Let's get married, then.

Léontine, don't stretch your neck like an ostrich.

What am I to you?

A back?

A model you bang in a studio?

When will I see you again?

When can I see you?

When you introduce me to your parents.

Lautrec…

I am not a doormat.

Neither am I, sir.

Mr. Renoir, my kid is with my mother.

Can I sleep in your attic tonight?

Did your lover kick you out?

Things with Lautrec are complicated.

You are good at making simple things complicated.

Shit, Renoir!

Hello, Mr. Renoir.

How is your health?

I am really in love with Lautrec.

But his painting makes me die of jealousy.

Do you understand?

Even with one foot in the grave, I understand, girl.

No teasing, Auguste.

You are as fresh as a daisy.

Oh, shit! The little one waited for me all night.

I posed until dawn, I am dead tired.

Old Renoir paints by candlelight?

He has a gas lamp.

And he has enough gas to stay up all night?

Painting has preserved him well.

You're suffering, so you accuse me!

What a clown!

You think I am cheating on you because you know you deserve it!

When you come back, I will be gone!

You are very quiet.

A lady in my life has become indispensable to me.

And?

Sometimes, she vanishes into thin air like a soap bubble.

I remember, when I was young,

I used to cry when soap bubbles burst.

Join me in the south this summer.

Promise?

Berthe told me that you cry a lot.

That is what mothers do. It's how they keep themselves busy.

Oh, Mother…

Mother…

Shinpu wa arimasen, family!

Hello, Alexandre.

Long live Japan!

Henri is here, too! Hello, Henri!

I am glad you could come.

Hello, Adèle.

Hello, Aunt!

Hello, Henri.

Ah! Mr. Henri!

Keep hold of him!

- Get down, stop being stupid! - Jeanne!

Jeanne!

My bearded man.

My husband.

Your husband.

Long live the army!

Shinpu wa arimasen, Mother, Mother…

What are you saying?

My angel.

- Is Papa awake? - No.

Papa is sleeping.

But he can still whistle at a pretty girl.

Your painting doesn't bother me.

I always want to copy Lautrec's work.

I can't stand it.

Oh! Artistic jealousy is a sad thing.

- What? - Huh? No, nothing.

Sleep. Come on, time to sleep!

Sleep, sleep…

Oh!

What a handsome man,

sleeping like a baby…

It's the great Renoir, who paints plump girls with big bottoms.

Bad girl.

- When are you going back to Lautrec? - There is no rush.

He accused me of cheating; I'm punishing him.

Girls are as complicated as painting.

Auguste, be nice.

Is there any reason to make sex complicated?

- Yeah. - Stop!

This old master knew how to capture real life.

Real life is living with a model who has slept with all the painters of Paris?

Do you like disreputable women? They are helpless.

What's wrong?

Does the truth hurt your ears?

There is only one truth, yours. Isn't that right?

Shut up, string bean.

What is God, for you?

A stupid being like your mother.

Henri, tell your mother you love her.

Does she have a fairytale princess to offer me?

Do you want little ankle biters as monstrous

as your dwarf?

You have never been bitter, don't start now.

Life is a gift from God.

Life… I don't understand anything about it.

Everything is clearer when I draw.

Mother, I want to cry.

If that young woman is waiting for you in Paris,

you must go back to her.

Mother…

It's silly, but I was in a hurry to get back to you.

I am going to Limoges.

Do you want money for the trip?

You won't need any, my friend.

Go curl your mustache, Gaston.

My fiancé owns vineyards, and his wine is selling very well.

- Grandmother is sick. - Oh!

You've already buried her three times.

Perhaps, my sweet. So what?

So nothing.

Suzanne, when I don't understand something, I paint it.

The Gauls were afraid the sky would fall on their heads.

Painting is a way to say that the sky is falling on our heads.

Ah, so this is what a genius is like?

Knee-high to a grasshopper, and he still manages to look down on you.

Come, my dear friend. Come, get in.

Let's go, coachman!

What's wrong with Limoges?

People in Limoges make chamber pots.

Don't be stupid, Lautrec!

- Limoges is closer than Tahiti! - That's just geography.

On the way to Charenton You won't fondle my breasts

On the road to Charenton…

Henri!

What are we doing at a laundry?

Painting needs kicks in the ass and natural beauty.

This is natural beauty.

Miss, you are beauty incarnate. I want you.

I want you. Pose for me. You cannot refuse.

We know what happens in the studios.

You pose naked, and end up knocked up.

Come along, little grasshoppers, break is over.

Pose for me.

We have collars to starch and shirts to deliver.

Come on, grasshoppers, get moving!

- She must pose for me. - Goodbye.

Come on, Hélène.

I want the little flame the young lady has in her eyes.

Hélène.

Pose for me.

You won't fondle my breasts I met La Jeanneton

You will not, you won't You will not touch me!

Give me your answer tomorrow! Come to dinner with me tonight!

- Who, us? - I'll buy you dinner at Maxim's tonight!

Goodbye, sir!

You are invited, too, ladies.

Only princes can invite the queens of Montmartre.

Step aside, clown.

That is La Goulue, who dances at the Moulin Rouge.

Want to come see me at the Moulin, shorty?

I'm very honored by your invitation.

Dirty-mouthed, divine legs,

and tone deaf. Marvelous!

You will not fondle my breasts, old man

You will not fondle my breasts, old man

The Cancan! The Cancan!

What are all these flowers?

Bouquets for your princesses.

What a lunatic.

They aren't princesses, they are maids.

Ah! Lautrec.

Come on!

What are you doing? You're leaving before the Cancan?

We three are going to go piss. Isn't that a good idea?

- Is that Suzanne, over there? - It can't be. She's in Limoges.

Hide your mustache.

Silence, silence!

And now, it's time for some high kicks!

The Cancan!

Psst! The little dwarf is looking for you.

Me, too. Why do you think I am on my hands and knees?

- Suzanne is here. - What?

Over there!

- Weren't you in Limoges? - I just got back.

On your hands and knees?

Didn't anyone ever tell you the taller the boy, the stupider he is?

Ow!

Anatole, follow me.

The flower of Montmartre: the quadrille!

La Môme Fromage!

Nini-Pattes-en-l'Air, Grille d'Égout.

WE REMIND THE DANCERS TO WEAR THEIR UNDERWEAR

La Goulue!

And the phenomenon of Montmartre:

Valentin le Désossé!

Valadon, your little brat is looking for you.

- Over here? - Over there.

We'll go this way, then.

Oh…

- Gabriel, is Suzanne here, or not? - If she is here, we'll find her.

- Has anyone seen Suzanne? - Which Suzanne?

Suzanne?

Suzanne?

- Look at those pipes! - Yes, but still no Valadon.

- I saw her on all fours over there. - Valadon?

Get your rump over here!

Valadon! Miss Valadon?

La Valadon's isn't the only bottom in the world!

- Isn't that right, girls? - Yes!

So, was Suzanne there or not?

It was someone who looked like her.

You're lying.

Put down your paintbrush.

I want you, little dwarf.

Valadon,

our love story is rather disappointing.

It is time to put an end to it.

End.

E-N-D.

I missed you.

Limoges is too far.

Hey… little rascal.

Did you have a good time while I was away? Did you get up to mischief?

See, Henri?

Your little lady isn't jealous.

How is your grandmother?

What grandmother?

Ah, Granny? With the mustache?

She gave me this dress.

I killed her.

Now, there is no more grandmother between us.

I love you, my little goat.

Says the little goat.

Well… I'm not going to be the third wheel.

Why are you afraid to pose for me?

I didn't want to make you cry.

I'm not crying.

Let's go.

Say yes, I beg of you.

- Say yes. - He's a funny little aristocrat.

We'll have fun, and eat truffles and ice cream with Madeira.

We'll stuff ourselves.

Expect nothing of me. You're wasting your time.

Girls like me aren't interesting.

You go eat truffles.

Who are you, Sarah Bernhardt? Or a czarina?

If you weren't my sister, I'd make you into a pie!

Théo! Théo!

She is afraid of mirrors and lights. That's what shy girls are like.

Are you crying, Vincent? What's wrong?

Who painted that?

Who painted that canvas?

It's impossible.

Impossible to gather in peace to look at drawings and reproductions.

And especially…

to encourage one another.

What beautiful shoes.

What beautiful clay.

Beautiful shoes.

My brother,

are you sincere?

Are you being honest?

Your canvas speaks of poor people and pain.

Mr. Vincent, thank you.

Yippee!

Yoohoo!

Yippee!

Ow!

- An honest woman! - That's right.

- Do that again, and I'll stab you! - No knives!

Leave him alone, he's drunk on red wine. Red wine is too strong.

Love is complicated, don't you think, Mr. Henri?

Get the cows off the floor! We want to dance! Music!

Music!

Kill him!

No! None of that! None of that!

- He's drunk! - He's a dog! Let him die!

No!

Go on, bleed him! Bleed him!

Bastard!

Hey, you. That is evidence. Thank you.

With sweet pink, blood red, and wine dregs,

I will show on the canvas that you can ruin your life at the café.

Go crazy and commit crimes,

under the guise of Japanese joy and camaraderie like that of Tartarin!

Dirty cops!

He's a dog! Let him die!

- Get out! - Don't send me to Guyana, please!

- He's a dog! - Please!

One fight at an open-air café, and…

…the guillotine cuts off a head.

- It's beautiful. - Yes, it is.

Henri.

We could paint the same piece, together.

Oh!

That's risky.

But why not?

Why not.

Do you want to try?

Look. These old Japanese masters show us the way.

Colors that are refined, but as vivid as a flag.

Yes.

Different combinations of colors to express joy,

serenity, and pain.

Serenity. Pain.

Pain and serenity?

It's fire and water together. Like the two of us.

Like the two of us.

Fire and water is… beauty.

Vincent said so.

Joy, serenity, pain!

- No yelling in here. - Please leave.

Don't touch me!

- Who served these loudmouths! - Don't touch me!

We don't want the dregs of the earth here.

Ladies, gentlemen,

if painting and poetry are as enjoyable as a good dish to you,

you are pigs.

Enjoy your meals, ladies and gentlemen.

This is a bourgeois restaurant.

It's atrocious.

- Atrocious. - Vincent.

Only the poor can understand.

Poetry is made for them.

What is this life?

Come into my arms.

What is our life?

Come into my arms. You, too.

We must be humble.

We paint with our hands,

but it is more than just the product of our hands.

It comes from somewhere deeper.

There is a spring.

I am far from that spring.

Henri, my hands are heavy.

My head is too weak.

Don't be afraid.

Things are changing. Everything will change.

The century will end with a colossal revolution.

We won't be here after the storm to see better times,

when society will be bathed in pure air and freshness.

Hey, my sister, look.

It's the little apprentice who wanted to paint the fire in your eyes.

Hello, Mr. Lautrec.

Hey… Hélène!

- And bright colors. - Yes.

Very good work.

Good work.

It's beautiful!

Bravo, dwarf.

In ten years, the critics of society

and the speculating pigs will understand you are a genius.

In ten years, will you still greet me in the street?

I will end up in the gutter.

And you will walk by… proud.

With little wings on your back, as the Genius of the Bastille.

Mr. Lautrec, should we start the machines?

Go on! Start them up!

Henri, you are the one who will end up in the gutter.

One day, I will go tickle your toes at the morgue.

As Pascal said, "The last act is always bloody."

Oh, what a little brat!

You'll be buried in the Pantheon.

What a clown!

One day, a poor working woman

Lived near to her dear treasure

She was his little Gisèle

A pure child, a heart of gold

Who worked as an apprentice seamstress

At the top of the Rue des Martyrs

And on Saturdays, at La Galette

She danced for fun

The ferocious sparrowhawk

Is watching you, look out

He has a hungry look

He has already set his sights on you

He takes you in his arms and dances

A waltz with an odd lilt to it

But the rascal is already plotting

Your downfall, poor child

The pose.

Indeed, after a week

The little girl was at home

And in that unwholesome ambiance

Had been disillusioned

She took a knife from the table

And stabbed herself in the heart

While cursing the damned man

Who fled, cynical and teasing

Why don't I break his jaw?

Stop drinking. You have to dance.

I can do whatever I want. I'm La Goulue.

- Have you seen it? - It's beautiful.

Every soul in Paris is talking about this shit.

And you know what they are saying? "La Goulue is a fat cow."

I'll make you eat your painting.

Attacking an invalid, how could you?

How could you?

If you carry on like this, I'll break your nose. Yours, too!

You, again?

Are you really that stupid?

This poster made La Goulue world-famous.

She demolished you, little one.

- I love her. - Here we go.

The Prince of Wales came to see you dance- why? Because of this poster, floozy!

In your fragile nests

Mothers, keep your children

Because the greedy vultures

Have a big appetite!

Bravo!

Mr. Lautrec.

Mr. Zidler, did you see that?

If you carry on like this, you'll be out of a job.

The poster is Art Nouveau, it's advertising.

Museum art is coming into the streets,

and it brings in a lot of money.

Advertising is powerful.

Here we go, my pretties. It's time to dance!

Your Art Nouveau isn't worth my ass.

Show us your ass, La Goulue!

Don't cry, sir.

It's too sad.

Little genius. The official salons have turned their backs on you,

but your poster has made you more famous than the rest of them.

That's something, little dwarf.

Why are you sad?

Why such sadness?

Van Gogh killed himself.

I want to kill! I want to kill…

Get off me.

You're crazy, Henri. You can't fight him.

Henri, we aren't at home. You're in Belgium.

- There are jerks everywhere. - Calm down.

There are jerks everywhere!

Is he talking about me?

I must be dreaming.

The ass is threatening me.

I can barely see him, he's so small.

Monsieur de Groux.

Monsieur de Groux, please, let us keep France and Belgium's friendship alive.

Does your dwarf know that I practice with my pistol regularly?

It wouldn't be a fair fight.

Monsieur de Groux!

In God's name, there is going to be trouble…

The French are fleas.

Monsieur de Groux.

Do you maintain

that Mr. Van Gogh had an unstable mind

and that his paintings are…

the expression of a sick man?

I defend authentic painting against delirious works painted by madmen.

You know nothing of art, you bag of shit.

That's right, my friend.

- Asshole. - Monsieur de Toulouse!

- Ignorant asshole. - You go too far.

You mudpuddle.

- You fat Belgian asshole. - Henri…

Tomorrow,

I will put a bullet in your head.

And every year,

I will come piss on your grave.

Monsieur de Toulouse!

- You are not a gentleman. - Hey, that's enough!

If you had died in a duel in Brussels, what would have become of me?

You would be yourself, the great Valadon.

No…

Another meter of wine to chug, and everything will be perfect.

Painting is a monster.

Your brother knew that.

You see, Vincent? We are consoling ourselves by eating omelets.

Poor Vincent…

The dogs got to you.

What a dwarf.

Suzanne…

Back off, it's hot.

Where are you going, little boy, with your tails and your top hat?

To see the whores.

Are you alone?

- No more than anyone else. - Ah.

Come to me if you like tall women. You could get lost between my breasts.

- Come on, come on! - There is nothing like experience.

No thank you, ladies.

I'm not a common whore.

My father was a civil servant. I put my heart into my work.

And I do crazy things.

You seem stunned.

- An anvil fell on my head. - A what?

An anvil. It could have been worse. An anvil is funny.

What a funny little dwarf. Has your wife left you?

Rosa la Rouge will make you feel better.

Ah! I will never do it again!

He is going to kill her!

He is killing her, the bastard!

- You dyke! - No hitting, Mr. Théodule.

I'm carrying your baby! Bastard! Ah!

That's Mireille.

Her pimp hits her. Nothing unusual.

When you do that…

That dog is worse than a rich boy.

Rich boys are already worth less than dog shit.

I love him,

but I don't want him to hit me.

I am a sensitive woman. I have fragile joints.

Your pimp hits you? Don't you earn him enough money?

I bring in the most money on Place Blanche.

Why, then?

- Théodule caught us cuddling. - Your Théodule is a good-for-nothing.

Nice to see two girls pleasuring one another.

Ah, finally!

A man who knows that between women, sex is always an affair of the heart. Ah!

Cover him in kisses, my darlings.

- Long live the outcasts! - Come here, you!

Long live lesbians! Champagne!

Théodule beating her is one thing, but he sold her.

Gentle Mimi is going to live in a brothel!

- A labor camp. - Sweetness.

Champagne! Champagne!

He has strayed from God. I couldn't stop him.

I am ashamed. I am awkward with him.

A useless old woman.

It's not the wrinkles that torment me,

but my poor character.

My soul is dried up and useless.

It's horrible.

The greatest saints and mystics

all said the same thing: "My soul is dried up."

Did you know that?

Henri's paintings are starting to worry me.

He has a monster in his heart.

I don't want to believe he is lost.

He has such a big soul.

I'm afraid.

And your loves?

Valadon? She is gone.

Where is the Prince of Albi?

- Miss Valadon. - Where is my darling fiancé?

Henri? Henri!

You won't escape a wedding at La Madeleine,

with organs and choirs!

You know, you don't need a man to have fun. A tongue is all you need.

Oh, sweetheart…

Henri!

She'll get her wedding at La Madeleine, but she exhausts me.

Tonight is my bachelor party.

Where is the little Prince of Albi?

Come on!

Answer me, dykes.

She's insatiable.

Lautrec!

Are we getting married, or should I kill myself?

- I bought arsenic! - Blackmail? That's not very civilized.

- All this for a willy. - Yes, but this one is priceless.

I don't like dykes, they scare me.

That's a vulgar thing to say, dear.

- You are marrying him to get rich. - No, I'm not a whore.

It's shameful, using your pussy to make money.

It's a well of love, not a cash drawer.

Don't insult these poor women.

The downtrodden are worth more than either of us.

All the dregs of the Earth get your love.

And what does your love get?

I have had my fill of universal love.

Suzanne, I love you. We will get married.

Goodbye, Countess.

Goodbye, Countess!

Come on, Suzanne.

Get up!

Let's go buy you a wedding dress.

And then we can go see the priest at La Madeleine.

In Montmartre, not that long ago,

there were cows and sheep beneath the windmills.

There was manure flowing down the streets.

Henri…

I'm going to throw myself into a ditch full of manure.

Suzanne, I love you.

We'll get married.

Are you sure you love me?

Really sure?

No.

I love your painting.

They threw stones

at La Soûlarde

Struck by their brutal attack

Blood flowing down her forehead

She turned around and looked at them

La Soûlarde

They all stopped their taunting

Their hearts seized with fear

Before the look given to them By La Soûlarde

Among the surprised passersby

A gray-haired embodiment of vice

What an old nag she is, La Soûlarde

Yet, whether you be worker or child Let her go on her way

Who knows what dark secret she is hiding,

La Soûlarde

Maybe, while crying over her son

Or dreaming of past happiness

One evening she finds

Stop, Henri!

That her end is tarrying La Soûlarde

When the death she calls out for in vain

Breaks her glass of wine

She will bless Death at last

La Soûlarde

Shh!

La Soûlarde is me.

The old bag full of porto, that's me!

Hey, a turd!

It's my friend, who's taking a nap.

The show is over, Mr. Henri.

Everything is over, dear woman. Valadon has left me.

It's the end of everything. She is moving out.

- It will kill me. - No.

We'll make you feel better, little one.

Girls!

Girls!

It's Mr. Henri!

Before he entered hell, Dante said paradise was nearby:

just through the door at the back!

Oh, look at that.

When you go back to the whorehouse, remember Dante and the giraffe.

In this house, we offer our clients pleasure and happiness.

Our little tarts are very healthy.

And you know that there is nothing like a roll in the hay

with no risk of catching gonorrhea.

Joy and pleasure!

This will be fun.

We have a mortuary,

severe nurses, and a nursery.

Mr. Henri! Mr. Henri!

I'll tell Mireille.

Let me introduce you to my girlfriend.

It's nice of you to visit.

Gentlemen, get out your money.

It's time to break your piggybanks. Come on, little piggies!

We have redheads, blondes,

and northern girls who smell like fresh sea air.

Henri, is this what brothels in Paris are like?

Oh, holy mother!

Come on, gentlemen, hand over your cash!

Come on, get up here!

What do you want? Do you want me to pose for you, or to fuck?

Serious painters do both at once.

Little sparrow, get out your paintbrush.

Miss Valadon.

Rosa la Rouge.

I don't need to present Gaston. You know my grandmother with the mustache.

Please, dear.

No, I'm not coming back. I'm moving out. Yes, madame.

I need Gaston to carry my boxes.

Gaston, are you strong enough to carry Valadon?

He's jealous. He wanted me to marry him.

And become his slave.

Cook nice meals for him, and clean his paintbrushes.

Excuse me.

Please, madame.

Pick up the boxes, Gaston.

When she talks, it is nonsense.

Hurry, my dear.

But when she paints, it is very deep.

She paints souls.

Battered souls.

Don't mind him, Gaston.

Lautrec is no Plato or Bergson.

Bergson!

His philosophizing stinks of absinthe.

Dirty brat, I need something you cannot give me.

What do you need?

What do you need?

How am I supposed to know?

Poor little cat.

What do you think? Swan Lake.

Quite the elegant décor for a brothel.

Ah, handsome soldier.

My son is a soldier like you.

The joys of love and Parisian elegance.

Gentlemen, the choice is yours.

All our girls speak English…

I don't know all the women in Paris, but I can vouch for this one.

Very clean.

Gentlemen, it is even hotter on the second floor.

Of course, I had forgotten.

Gentlemen, come. Quickly.

Come along, men.

Come quick!

You are cute.

Come in.

Here we are.

- Henri? - Father.

Wait. These ladies are consoling one another.

I'm sorry. Excuse me.

No, sir. We are available.

Mr. Henri is confusing pleasure with work.

Come in, lovers.

A delicate family affair.

They're two shy friends who wanted to form a party of four.

Well, let's get to it.

Come in, my men in skirts!

This way, Englishmen!

The review of your show broke your mother's heart.

The dogs attacked your handicap.

Father, you can't argue with critics.

Their reviews are above us.

They live on our heads… like lice.

Listen to the ending of the article: "Lautrec's gifts are the depraved gifts

of a deformed man who sees ugliness in all."

Poor Father.

It's scandalous.

What's going on?

The critics are dragging the Lautrec name through the mud.

The critics are such bastards! Whores would never mock the aristocracy.

Thank you, miss.

We know how to live. At the brothel, we see princes,

priests, and the general staff of the French army.

And Englishmen.

So my heroes, do you play the bagpipes?

It's an entente cordiale!

Is your pilgrim's staff standing up under your skirts?

Don't shake that article at me like Moses and the Tablets of the Law. It's too much.

This makes it sound as though you chose to be deformed.

Who knows…

God is a tricky one.

Honestly, I preferred when you drew horses.

We had two Scotsmen who stunk of garlic.

Forget about it, my angel.

Let's not talk of sad things.

I'm worn out.

- My mouth is as dry as paper. - Don't talk of sad things at dinner.

It's forbidden.

Why would you paint this scene?

The women are so destroyed, so grand.

The beauty.

Mr. Henri, will you eat potatoes with us?

Honestly, I preferred when you drew horses.

Papa. Poor Papa!

For those who know how to look,

your nobility takes their breath away.

You are beautiful, my loves.

No, no! That one has the pox.

187.

Rosa la Rouge, of course.

Send in the second batch.

Move!

Go on!

Come on, girls! Let's go!

Keep moving!

That's enough! Will you get moving? Move, damn it!

No, no. I told you: with the contaminated ones.

I am writing to you from prison My poor Polyte

I don't know What came over me this morning

During the visit

These diseases cannot be seen

When they appear

But nevertheless, now I am working

At Saint-Lazare

A girl has given you an unfortunate gift, Henri.

You will have it for the rest of your life.

The pox. The pox, without a doubt.

- Will you cut me up? - No.

Ointments.

We'll enrich your blood with mercury, and hope that it works.

Madame!

Madame! Madame!

Madame, the police!

Madame, the police!

- Madame, the police! - The police?

The police? Why? Henri isn't a murderer.

Oh, my God. Poor little one.

Mother, the police, like the post office, delivers packages to your home.

You can't stop progress.

Just a bit more.

You'll drink yourself to death.

To keep me awake.

So I can put reality down on my canvases.

A small glass…

Mother, it isn't easy to see reality.

Where is reality?

In brothels?

Your friends tell me you shut yourself up in them for weeks at a time.

- Why? - Because I'm happy there.

Mother, at the brothels, my painting improves by leaps and bounds.

I beg of you.

I must paint.

I beg of you.

Henri?

I just left Saint-Lazare.

We can't fuck anymore. No more having fun with Rosa, I have the pox.

Why are you smiling?

If we keep going, I'll ruin your life.

Rosa, you gave me the most beautiful gift.

Not you…

I contaminated you. Shit.

Shit…

The most beautiful gift… your hair.

The marvelous red of the Renaissance Italian masters.

I have loved painting your hair.

All angels on earth come from Albi,

on crooked legs.

I'm scared. Ten times a night, I wake up in a sweat.

FAREWELL MY DEARS

That doesn't prove that Henri is dead.

That little man was a salve for my heart.

You men tear me apart.

I'm tired of listening to you grizzle and complain in bed.

You know what you are, you men?

Endless sources of shit.

Henri's friends searched the brothels, the hospitals, and the morgue.

Suffering, destroyed, sick…

Henri wants to die far away from me, Monseigneur.

Is the weight of world distributed fairly?

Is God fair?

I don't know, Countess.

I don't know.

That question has plagued the mystics for centuries.

Some prostitutes have seen Henri.

Music.

Feeling a little frisky?

These boys need to dream!

Look at this, young people.

This is high-quality meat.

Nice contraband meat, a body like something out of a dream.

And inside, you can ogle the luscious curves of La Goulue,

who made the Prince of Wales' head spin!

Yeah!

Give us your money, young men!

There he is.

Henri.

Your mother isn't sleeping or eating anymore.

- The Countess is crying. - That's what mothers do.

It is killing her.

You must go to her in the Midi.

What does she want?

For me to die in Albi?

To watch Riri's death throes in her sitting room?

Come on.

Those aren't hands, they're hooks!

Get your hooks out of me! I am a sperm whale!

I need the open sea.

Go on!

His lunacy devours him.

You can't do anything for him. Protect yourself against yourself!

Your despair has become madness!

Henri, one day, we will need to have a serious talk about madness.

About madness, Henri.

Why is she talking to me of madness?

Leave Paris.

Leave him alone, Countess.

The little sperm whale needs vino.

Leave him alone, madame.

You say you love your mother, and you chase her away.

My mother is gone, and the flies have come to devour me.

Why did you tell her she couldn't do anything for you? It's shameful…

But when it comes to mothers…

little Henri goes bam! Bam!

Oh, Mr. Henri…

I am meditating on a product of the earth:

petrol.

Oh, Mr. Henri!

Cheers, old tree.

At the foot of this tree, Van Gogh kissed me.

- What is he doing? - What is he saying?

I am saying that the soil where Van Gogh stood cannot…

be damned.

Miss Amélie!

Miss Hélène!

Beauty flourishes in Montmartre.

My respects, Miss Hélène.

I am unable to put your gravity…

your nobility on canvas.

Where does your sadness come from?

I didn't want to pose. I don't want to tell you my story.

I don't know how to paint anymore.

Maybe I have never known.

There is money on the table. Take what you want.

His mother, who had no husband

Called him her little Henri

But he was known as La Filoche The cutpurse, at the Bastille…

Dirty brat, you cannot ruin this painting.

One day,

the boy I loved asked me to commit suicide with him.

He did it.

I didn't follow him.

Ever since then, I have had dark thoughts.

That's my story.

I am ashamed.

I didn't see the death eating away at you from inside.

Shall we get back to it?

Mr. Lautrec…

how do people do it, living?

For the betterment of scientific knowledge,

Professor Péan is opening his classes on dissection to a selected audience.

But we remind those of the fairer sex

that shouts and emotional outbursts

disturb our surgical work.

Shh! Silence…

But, it's…

Last night, Hélène told me, "I love a dead man; I must join him."

I told her, "Committing suicide is stupid."

At dawn, the washerwoman hanged herself.

Admirable and tragically stupid.

Look at her poor neck.

Shouts and emotional outbursts disturb…

What fascinates you about this butchery?

Do you want to paint a picture of this violence?

There is no sentimentality in painting.

Everyday cruelty is enough.

"Everyday cruelty"?

He was born near the canal

In the Arsenal district

His mother, who had no husband

Called him her little Henri

But we called him La Filoche the cutpurse

At La Bastille

We are helping Henri by locking him up.

You must sign it.

We should have sent him to England. Drinking is seen as a good thing, there.

- The lords all drink. Henri will fit in. - You won't sign?

No, fuck the laws of the Republic.

Berthe wrote to me that Henri sets fire to his studio regularly. Read.

He's a Lautrec, he can end his days however he likes.

What are you thinking about, O virtuous one?

About the statues on Easter Island.

They look like they know that women give birth in pain.

You will sign it alone.

Countess, it is your lot in life to be lonely.

I'll set you to rights, Henri.

I don't need help! I draw my strength from myself!

Like the great Van Gogh who cut off his ear and gave it to a whore!

What on earth have we done?

What have we done?

Halloo! Halloo!

The time of the Toulouse family has come to an end, like the time of the crusades.

- Alphonse! - It's over.

It's over.

You are drunk, Uncle.

- Alphonse is drunk. - No.

I have seen the shipwreck of a great family with my own eyes. It's over!

The aristocracy has sunk, body and soul…

in pee.

You are drunk.

Over!

Yes, my little dogs. Here is your sugar.

For you, for you.

And the most beautiful for a saint:

Madame de Toulouse.

It's a ruby.

- It's gorgeous! - So gorgeous I could cry!

Even in the Republic, you must be a countess to wear jewels.

- Then the Republic is sad? - Like rain in a cemetery.

Republican equality- I don't give a fuck about equality.

The ring is yours.

I'll keep the case.

An empty case, the story of my life.

Wait. Don't go.

She and I will lick you all night.

Okay?

My family line has ended.

The last descendent is in a madhouse.

For the Wagnerian final, the Toulouse family has found its badge.

An empty case.

Monsieur le Comte. Your cane.

Watch your head.

Lautrec wants pencils and paper. He wants to prove he is in his right mind.

- Is he in his right mind? - Don't panic.

We'll cure him.

Manager,

your brothel is too antiseptic, too clean.

Brothel clients like things to be a bit tawdry!

And colorful!

A very particular sense of humor. It is if he is dancing above the void.

Very dangerous.

Suzanne!

He is hallucinating.

You know nothing!

- Are you married? - Married.

To a rich foreign exchange broker. La Valadon has become respectable.

Old ladies call her "madame" and she has thousands of lovers.

Lovers are health. The honey of life.

You are hallucinating, it's to be expected. We'll treat you with ice water.

An ancient therapeutic tradition.

Henri, I have thousands of clowns in my life.

But at night, I miss you.

During the day, too.

With Suzanne, I was in hell.

But at the bottom of hell, was a blue sky.

A blue sky.

My rabbit,

your pencils will get you out of this prison.

Pencils are not just wood and lead.

They are a way of thinking with your fingers.

I don't recognize my Henri.

He sits there, speechless, as if he had been struck by lightning.

As if he had suddenly seen the emptiness inside his own head.

As if, in the peak of anguish, he had found a kind of peace.

What could he have found?

The secret of painting, or a snobbish way to draw?

I don't know.

Will you let him go?

Yes.

His drawings are beautiful.

Terrified pencil strokes as he teeters on the edge.

Art Nouveau draws inspiration from madness.

His inspiration is no longer God, the prince, or the motherland.

- It is insanity. - Yes.

If artists are prophets,

the next century is going to be terrifying.

- What have the judges decided? - Henri, you are free.

Under what conditions? Viaud has to keep an eye on me.

Henri, you are fragile.

- I am your friend. Your nurse. - My nurse. My lady-in-waiting.

My hairy Madame Pompadour.

What's wrong, Henri? Excuse me.

You will be free tomorrow.

Henri, the birds are singing.

The sky is blue, and the birds are singing "tweet tweet".

Tweet tweet.

Tweet tweet.

- Tweet tweet. - Tweet tweet.

- Tweet tweet. - Tweet tweet.

Tweet tweet.

Tweet tweet.

Tweet tweet.

Tweet tweet…

Coachman: 24, Rue des Moulins.

Rue des Moulins? But that's a brothel!

It's Madame Denise's, it has a very good reputation.

You are looking for death, Mr. Lautrec.

Henri, you are fragile, you know you are.

Are you trying to kill yourself?

This dwarf needs a pick-me-up.

In the name of God, where is he? Henri!

Henri!

- You bumped into me. - Have you lost something?

Henri!

Viaud, what have you lost?

Henri!

Henri!

What an idiot, what an idiot, what an idiot…

Henri!

Henri!

Gentlemen!

Gentlemen!

Come on, men, get a move on!

Have you seen an unfortunate little man, with a beard?

Hurry up!

- Go! - He was seen nearby!

Your brush hook is very sinister, dear sir.

Is that what you will use to cut our balls off on Judgment Day?

I know you, sir.

I know your posters. You are famous.

I'm the opposite of famous, but I have faith.

In this rickety old body,

the heart of an adolescent beats for Shakespeare and Molière.

Ah, our dear Molière!

I played Molière.

Yes. Badly, but I tried very hard.

Mr. Lautrec, applaud the happy fool who played Molière.

And is now cutting grass

- for his rabbits. - Henri!

Is everything okay, sir?

No.

- Ah? - I'm not serious enough.

A serious painter should…

grab himself by the hair and lift himself up from the floor.

Up from the…

And what else, sir?

We laugh, we get bored, and we wait for judgment.

Judgment?

The Last Judement?

The one in the Albi cathedral has always taken my breath away.

Judgment…

Times have changed, old man.

God doesn't judge, anymore.

Serious painters should be the ones judging God.

Sir, judging God is…

isn't that putting on airs?

It has to be done.

Van Gogh was the first to realize.

Oh, Pompadour has found the baby!

You must be happy!

Sir! Sir!

Look!

Suzanne!

Suzanne!

To our nettle-flavored love.

Your little frog drinks only apple juice now.

My nurse is looking after my health.

Henri!

I love you, you love me.

My heart is bleeding.

When people who loved one another meet again, they finish it.

Don't play with words when your heart is bleeding.

It's beautiful.

It's beautiful.

I'm glad I left you.

If we had lived together, you would have

corrected my drawings and made me draw like you.

I never corrected your drawings.

No, it was more insidious than that.

Your eyes smiled when my drawing looked like yours.

I loved your eyes.

And I would have aped your art just to see them smile.

What a joke!

Did you hear that?

The genius is as dumb as a doornail.

And your foreign exchange broker?

Forget about him. He was a louse.

Don't put down your pencils, my girl.

Pencils are a good lifeline.

May God protect you from yourself.

Henri! Where is the romance of our younger years?

Does the past end up in the gutter?

No.

- In your heart, nice and warm. - Ah? Yes…

The dwarf is dog-tired.

He needs the sea to gather his strength.

Henri, we must go home! The wind is icy cold!

Damn it, Viaud!

Please, my dear friend.

The sea, sir.

The sea, which Homer held so dear.

When the blind old man heard the waves, he yelled,

"Yo! Yo!" to greet them.

All dreamers love the coast!

Faced with the sea,

Homer, too, had to declaim!

A poem, please.

When I hear my heart beating It's my mother, over there, calling to me

They laugh at me in the streets With my odd face

The drunkard who hates everything

But each step I take I choke, and stagger!

When I hear my heart beating

It's my mother, over there

Calling to me!

Mother!

Mother!

Is the Countess here?

Excuse me, Monseigneur.

What is going on?

- What is happening, children? - We don't know, we're waiting.

Madame, you must get out.

Henri.

Henri!

We are here.

Can I take a nap before we get out?

I am exhausted.

Yes.

Perhaps we should all pray.

Little boy, I knew

that in spring, the sap rises up into the trees.

Yes.

On an afternoon like this,

I ran into the fields to check.

Back then, the trees were my friends.

I ran happily on my little legs.

It was the last time.

The next day, I was put in a cast.

Trees are beautiful.

Go on.

You have never painted landscapes.

Bodies and faces

are hard enough to capture.

So landscapes…

I will tell you a secret.

I love secrets.

The most wonderful smell in the world is a woman's navel.

When I smell them, I feel the divine.

Henri…

What could be hiding there if it isn't God?

Madame la Comtesse, look who is here from Paris!

Henri!

Your father in a gas-powered car.

The chickens had better hide, or that thing will grind them up.

Those things have no future, too noisy.

Monsieur le Comte, what a beautiful cart.

Henri! Relaxing in the sun like a Tuareg.

Henri, Flaubert, the great Flaubert, loved the Tuaregs.

Especially their beautiful women, with hips like amphorae.

Do you want the two of us to go to the Sahara or the Middle East?

Are you here for the hunt?

- Excuse me? - Nothing.

Are you here for the hunt?

Yes, I am going to kill a boar,

and with its good black meat,

I'll get you back on your feet, your three or four feet,

if we count your canes.

Look out. Look out.

Van Gogh, Raphaël, and Watteau, all three left this world at 37.

Shut up.

That doesn't leave me long, if God knows how to count.

You are talking nonsense.

Nonsense…

Nonsense…

You little dummy.

I am reduced to killing flies.

Praise God that in the Republic, ridicule cannot kill.

Henri, I don't want these beasts to bite you.

Why not, if God wills it. Deus lo Vult.

That is the family motto.

Ah, poor Papa.

Beauty is mysterious.

A dirty trick.

A painter dreams of a painting, and God trips him up.

Are you done teasing Monseigneur? You like starting trouble.

A footnote, Mother. In the history of painting,

an insignificant footnote.

Admiral!

Everything has meaning, Henri.

Everything fits together.

Thank you, Admiral.

Thank you.

What are you dreaming about?

The waves on the coast.

The sea, as Homer said.

Mother.

You.

You alone, Mother.

God will help you.

He is good, He is fair.

Is he?

That's perfect, then.

Because you would have to be as dumb as your dwarf to ask God for justice.

Henri!

They are from the piles and heaps Sons of different races and rastas

Like something from an old painting Ah, the bastards!

They are almost all badly formed They have limbs that are too short

And bellies like hay bales Ah, the bastards!

When we bring them back in the morning They smell like wine and whores

They drank in the cabarets Ah, the bastards!

Coachman, is your name Henri?

Henri?

Like the kings of France.

Like my little king.

Goodbye, Henri! Goodbye, Henri!

Let's go! Faster!

Goodbye, Henri!

Goodbye, Henri!

Subtitle translation by: Melanie Kathan