All language subtitles for Anatomy Of Hell

A film is an illusion,
not reality-fiction or a happening.

It is a true work of fiction.

For the actress's most intimate scenes,
a body double was used.

It's not her body, it's an extension
of a fictional character.

ANATOMY OF HELL

Why did you do that?

Because I'm a woman.

I don't understand.

You understand very well.

Thanks.

Why did you go back
down to the toilets?

People like you don't look at women.

When you touched me,
on the stairs--

You touched me, right?

So what?

It was touching.

At first I paid no attention to it.

Then I got scared.
I was sure of what you did.

I was sure of what you did, too.

I know why you went to the can!

To get sucked, like all men.

Dumb bitch!

That's what you all do.

You're all alike.

What do you want to do now?

I'll pay you.

To what end?

To find out.

You don't like women.
You can look at me.

I mean, impartially.

What's this about?

Just that.

Watch me where I'm unwatchable.

No need to touch me.

Just say what you see.

It'll cost you a lot.

I'll pay you.

That's how the deal was made.

First night...

Excuse me.

You're early.
I didn't have time to undress.

I'm paid to watch.

That's all you can ask me to do.

You're right.

But I can still hope for more.

You didn't say
it was an isolated house.

I had to take a train, then a cab.

That will cost you extra.

I'll pay for everything.

He'd been tricked into this meeting.

It sickens him to be here.

He hoped for something new,
unexpected,

though he knows it won't be.

At last. It's about time!

Why do you exhibit yourself
this way?

The fragility of female flesh

inspires disgust or brutality.

Women depend on one or the other.

What should we fear more?

Nothingness...

or brutality?

It takes ages
between the offer and the demand.

Between the offer
and when it's taken up.

That's what we call
the first deception.

Thereafter, nothing flows.

It's all fake.

Artificial catching up,

the clumsiness of hasty brutality...

You talk too much.

Your words are inept reproaches.

Should I have shaved my armpits?

It would still show.

However much women shave,

even if you removed
the hair from your crack,

you wouldn't be rid
of your obscene nature.

On the contrary,

the skin stays lumpy

like the neck of a plucked chicken.

Every pore exudes
the irritation of pulled hairs,

like microscopic sexual swellings.

So we can't do a thing about it?

No, you can't.

It's the depth of this obscenity,

its feminine depth,

that men who don't like women
envy in you,

and that those who like you,
hate you for.

It's not what we see,

though when you spread your legs,
we're revolted,

by the overly bright color,

the sloppy, shapeless aspect
of your hidden lips...

the thinness of their skin.

Though...

here and there, it's lumpy,

a skin that sweats, that oozes,

a pestilential skin,

like the skin of frogs.

Frogs, at least,
have the decency of being green,

but their thighs,

symbolically,
can be spread as wide as yours.

It's not what we see.

Your denial of the obscenity
is what frightens us most.

Keep going.

So I wonder if what first
turned me off women

wasn't the deep violence they provoke
from their slumbering depths.

So far, I'd been honest.

But you must have an inkling
of what I inevitably recall,

because thoughts tend to wander.

And you can't channel them forever
in a course that isn't theirs.

You can't deny
what those black tufts remind you of,

with their shiny putrid hairiness.

Ajust-hatched bird,
still wet from the egg,

so touching

in its newborn weakness.

Still today, the child,

who would become all men,

retained his horror
of the slime that mocked him.

Do you understand?

I was learning what I knew,
but refused to hear,

that the body of women
calls for mutilation.

And yet no part of it is excessive.

Men rant against
something that's invisible.

It's late, and you still know nothing
about women.

Why did you go and sit down?

Come take a closer look.

Isn't that what I pay you for?

Know why people drink
when they're together?

Because they have nothing to say.

They hope a bedroom
will make things better.

It's worse.

We drink because
there's no communication.

Nothing.

You speaking for me?

Not at all!

Man or woman, it makes no difference.

When you offer up
your perishable flesh,

when an opening in the flesh
is promised,

I lack words and thoughts.

I need alcohol.

I need to forget that bestiality.

That loneliness.

Aren't you afraid?

No, I control my impatience.

The waiting has become
part of my pleasure.

It's inherent in my demand.

Can you understand that?

It reminds me of a time

when I was still naive
and far-removed from sex.

The silly local boys,
who already went around in a pack,

descended on our garden
behind the house

like a flight of partridges
in the hunting season.

After a short period of hostilities,

since I was the only enemy,
beating me wasn't glorious,

so we agreed to be friends.

To seal the peace, we played doctor.

I was the patient, of course.

A girl is a man's sickness.

So maybe
all these budding young doctors,

were disgusted forever

of the sight
of candid little virgin girls.

I bless the day I was born
immune to you

and of all of your kind.

The elastic resistance
of a boy's anus doesn't lie

about the tightness

of his lower intestine.

The lie about the softness of women
is hateful...

the malevolent triviality,

that turns them into a trap.

The horror of Nothingness
that is the imprescriptible All.

I'm sick of your dallying!

You've hardly looked at me.

Look at me when I can't see myself.

Look at me when I can't see myself!

The ocean,
despite its misleading male image,

rolled in the darkness
like a bitch in heat.

This ocean, like a woman,
could engulf you

and make you vanish into its loins.

So I felt trapped by a kind of sorcery

of the signs
and obscene sounds of nature.

Surrounded by the pleading moans
of the weak,

only I was strong,

helpless against the whole world.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

It's just the first night.

It's the first night.

Second night...

Last night you wanted to kill me.

You fought that urge a long time.

How do you know?

It's an urge all men have.

That's how they are.

That's why they lie beside us.

The veils they adorn us with ritually,

anticipate our shrouds.

But you're not part of that.

You know nothing of it.

You don't know the harm you could do.

Third night...

Anyone could have come in.

Or anything.

That's what men can't stand.

It's why they've tried
to lock women up,

in all eras, all places,
under every latitude.

To protect us from ourselves, they say.

To break the spell of women.

In fact...

they're afraid
women don't belong to them.

They don't believe in basic freedom.

They threaten us with belts, padlocks,

their concept of chastity,

their foolish morals,

since they always need reassurances.

Yet they know one can't ask for proof.

Or else love has no meaning.

I wore it to keep blood off the sheets
in your absence.

But now that you're here...

Pull.

Pull.

It comes out easily.

See, that's all there is to it.

Because of this blood,
they say we're impure.

Sometimes they won't shake our hands.

And no intercourse during the period
they call our period.

In fact,

they're scared of this blood
that flows without the need of a wound.

What they call impurity,

I...

on the contrary...

I can put it in a glass of water,
as the aged do their dentures.

I watch the haze of red blood

spreading in the water...

Don't we drink the blood
of our enemies?

Isn't that what women are to men?

Here, drink!

We make such a big deal of it.

See the space it takes up,
and one can't even feel it?

The same space
as most human penises.

Proof that in intercourse
the act isn't what matters,

but its meaning.

I can push it in just like that,

to the tip...

Without feeling anything,

no sensation of pleasure at all.

A very ordinary gesture.

Look.

There's a whole device
to make it look complex.

So one can insert it

without touching oneself,

keeping one's virginity intact.

Without exploring one's genitals.

You insert the tip of the cardboard,

push on it like a syringe

to inject yourself like...

shooting up into your veins,

only feeling the hygiene
of the absorbent cotton.

As if to staunch a wound

that is painful and highly sensitive.

I don't feel a thing.

Nothing!

Isn't that laughable?

I'd gladly laugh, but it foretells
of something terrifying.

Something terrifying
had to lurk in the brain

of whoever designed,
and put his servile signature

on this infamous thing!

A man, for sure.

Who feels superior and protective.

Who doesn't like us.

In fact, men never understood
who we are.

They fear us, like kids
who are afraid of the dark.

Tell me.

Did I lose all my dignity
doing that in front of you?

Tell me!

Fourth night...

See anything?

You can't see anything, right?

I can hide it inside me,
for as long as I want.

I can also make it come out

when I want.

You don't like us replacing you.

No.

Yes.

Everything you see there
is non-existent.

The only thing that gives me pleasure

is the movement of your hand,

as you put the stone dildo
back inside me.

Because, you see,

you see...

It's beautiful,
you look like you're bleeding.

You're afraid
because you think you're bleeding,

even though you know you're not.

This hemorrhage is from
the fertile blood of women.

You worry that I may have cursed you,

ruined your penis for life.

Right.

When you stick it into a man,
sometimes it must come out soiled.

You're not angry at them.
You're not sad or afraid.

Sometimes it happens.

But fecal matter is inert.

It has been through the life-cycle.

In that, it's like human nature.

Man can't give life.

He takes it.

He gives death.

And so gives eternal life.

As I left,
she slipped me the money I had earned.

By keeping the money,
I exited from the myth. I lost her.

I knew it at once.

But in fact, I'd been caught off guard,

and took the money
when I wanted to refuse it.

Paul!

Same again, please.

Make that two. Another for him, too.

Don't think about it anymore.

Forget it. She was a bitch.

A slut,

like any other.

Yes, but the queen of sluts.

I reamed her pussy so hard,
no one will want her again!

You're right.

You have to hump 'em like goats!
Like goats!

As many as you can!

So you're immunized against them all.

If you let one get under your skin,

you're fucked, you're done for!

But she took everything!

Get it? She took all I had.

You can get drunk.
She can't take that.

They can't take that away.

They can't, get it?

I made her crap her shit
and wallow in her piss...

That slut! She was a pigsty
by the time I left.

A human being wouldn't let
anyone use her as I did.

But she always wanted more!
She wanted more!

She wanted more and more!

I should've ripped her guts out
and made her eat them!

You're right. You're right.

Drink!

I don't even know her name.

I really knew her.

I experienced total intimacy with her.

And I don't even know her name.

I don't need this.

Neither do I.

I refused to believe
that what she gave me, was mine now,

and I could draw on it
for my existence.

I wanted to start all over again,
from the very beginning.

This time fully aware
of what I was doing.

I didn't want to admit
that life isn't like that,

that nothing can be done
all over again.