Original subtitles

Your boss has given you this factory. What do you think?

So he's the main character in this story?

Hasn't this blocked all chance of a workers' revolution in the future?

Is his act unique, or a general modern world tendency?

A general tendency, I think

Can such acts, as symbols of a new source of power...

herald the transformation of all humanity into the bourgeoisie?

The bourgeoisie will never turn all humanity into bourgeoisie

So the not very original answer is:

No matter what he does, even giving away a factory...

a bourgeois is always wrong

- Is that it? - I don't want to reply

This bourgeoisie is making revolutionary changes...

in our situation

It's identifying all humanity with the bourgeois class

It no longer faces a class struggle...

using the army, the nation or the church

Then it would fail; It would lose its natural allies

You must answer the new questions raised by the bourgeoisie

Of course

What are the answers to these questions?

God led the people about through the way of the wilderness

Arming Tomorrow

Pietro, how about some music?

Well, do you feel better?

It was nothing

Sorry. I'm afraid it's all rather makeshift

It's fine

It's been a real invasion

I used to sleep in this room when I was little

I'm here

Sorry

Your friends are calling you

You're a serious player

These are my friends

What's the time?

I don't know

- What does it matter? - It's six o'clock

It's about a sick man like me

Even in this disagreeable situation Ivan Ilyich found comfort

Gerasim came to wash him. Gerasim was a clean, fresh peasant boy

What are you reading?

His life was his and his alone

It would take longer to duplicate his goodness than to create a star

The godhead which had come without my hoping for it...

has not returned, and will never return again

I like speeding. Now I'll show you what the car can do

I believe you, but I'm not young any more

You're not Gerasim...

it's difficult to face you

There are two reasons I must talk to you

Firstly, there's my moral sense

Then there's a sort of confusion within me...

which maybe I can only clarify by talking about it

You have seduced me, Lord, and I have let myself be seduced

You have violated me and you have prevailed

I have become an object of daily derision, everyone mocks me

For I heard the defaming of many, terror on every side

"Denounce him, and we will denounce him"

All my friends awaited my downfall, saying:

"Perhaps he will let himself be seduced...

"and we shall take our revenge on him"

What did you say? So you do talk!

I must go. Tomorrow

I don't know myself any more

Because what made me the same as others has been destroyed

I was like all the others, maybe with many faults

You've made me different by taking me from the natural order of things

While you were near, I didn't realise it

Now I understand, you're leaving...

and knowing I'm losing you makes me aware of my difference

What will become of me from now on?

The future will be like living with someone nothing to do with myself

Maybe I must probe the depths of this difference you have revealed...

which is the innermost anguish of my being

But whether I desire it or not, won't this set me against everyone?

I realise now that I've never had...

any real interest in anything

I don't mean some special interest

Not even ordinary interests, like my husband's in his work...

or my son's in his studies, or Odetta's domestic cult

I had no interests

I don't know how I could lead such an empty life, but I did...

If there was anything... some instinctive love of life...

it dried up like a garden where nobody goes

That emptiness was filled with false, mean values...

with a hideous load of false ideas

Now I realise it, you've filled my life with a total interest

So, in parting, you're not destroying anything I had before...

except perhaps my chaste bourgeois reputation. What do I care?

But what you yourself gave me...

love in my empty life...

by leaving me you're destroying it completely

By knowing me, you've made me a normal girl

You've made me find the right solution for my life

Before, I didn't know men, but I was afraid of them

I loved only my father

But now, in leaving me, you're making me worse than before

Did you want that? Now the pain of losing you...

will cause a relapse more dangerous than the sickness I had...

before this brief cure that your presence brought

Before, I didn't understand this illness, but now I do

Through the love you gave me I've become aware of my illness

Now how can I replace you? ls there anyone who can?

I don't think I can go on living

You must have come here to destroy

The destruction you've caused in me couldn't be more complete

You've simply destroyed the image I always had of myself

Now I can't see anything at all...

that can rebuild my identity

What do you suggest?

A scandal like death in the eyes of society...

a complete loss of myself

How can this be for a man used to the idea of order...

of the future and, above all, of ownership?

- I'll carry it - No, I'll carry it

Then let's carry it together

- Have you got a tape measure? - At once, miss

Time to eat, miss

I can't help it. It's beyond my expertise. Sorry

Open your fist, miss, please

How pathetic! I'm a real shit!

I'm not eating

You must eat. It's good

I don't want to

Why don't you want to eat? It's good

At least tell us what you want to eat

We must try to invent new techniques, unrecognizable...

which are unlike any previous method...

to avoid childishness, ridicule...

make our world unlike any other...

where previous standards don't apply...

which must be new, like the technique

Nobody must realise that the artist is worthless...

that he's an abnormal, inferior being...

who squirms and twists like a worm to survive

Nobody must ever catch him out as naive

Everything must be presented as perfect...

based on unknown, unquestionable rules...

like a madman, that's it

Pane after pane, because I can't correct anything...

and nobody must notice

A sign painted on a pane...

corrects, without soiling it...

a sign painted earlier on another pane

But everyone must believe...

that it isn't the trick of an untalented artist, impotent artist

Not at all. It must look like a sure decision...

fearless, lofty and almost arrogant

Nobody must know that a sign succeeds by chance... is fragile

That as soon as a sign appears well made, by a miracle...

it must be protected, looked after, as in a shrine

But nobody must realise...

that the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, second-rate...

living by chance and risk, in disgrace like a child...

his life reduced to absurd melancholy...

degraded by the feeling of something lost for ever

Down with all States.

Down with all Churches.

Up with Painters of...

Blue reminds me of him

But obviously blue isn't enough, it's only a part

Who can permit me such mutilation, what ideology can justify it?

Weren't my first miserable attempts at portraits better?

Look at the state she's in, eating nettles

Lord, what a scandal

I don't smoke

Which is the road back to Milan?

Turn left, then straight on

What would happen to me if...

I stripped myself of everything, gave my factory to the workers?

Let's go

Don't be afraid, I didn't come to die, but to weep

Not tears of sorrow

No, they will be a source... but not a source of suffering

Go away now