All language subtitles for 2.H.i.t.L.o.a.C.1.1.B.x.85998

24 HOURS IN THE LIFE
OF A CLOWN

“'Tis a strange profession
to make respectable people laugh.”

J.B. Poquelin,
known as Molière

Montmartre.

Twenty to midnight.

Why not leave the fairgrounds
for the circus?

From carousel horses that spin

to another sort of ring:

the circus

with its acrobats,
music and clowns.

For one night more,

Maïss and Béby enraptured
an audience

of children of all ages.

For one night more,

Maïss takes off
his sequined costume...

and Béby stretches
his tired old muscles.

For one night more,

the same gestures repeated
for the millionth time.

They scrub off the greasepaint
of white,

vermilion,
blue and black,

necessary artifices
of clownish illusion.

Scrub hard.
Clowns are thick-skinned.

Béby says tonight's bottle concert
was a big hit.

Maïss agrees.
They'll keep it in the act.

Quitting time at the factory.

“Good evening, Doorman.”

At least they don't
have to clock out.

At home, Mrs. Béby darns socks
while awaiting her husband.

Only in the ring
do clowns wear socks full of holes.

“Finally! You're half-frozen.
Come eat. I made you something tasty.”

"Hello, darling.

Yes, it's cold out.

Spaghetti?

Again?
I've been eating it for 50 years!

Can't you ever vary the menu?”

“Actually, I love spaghetti,
but I won't tell her that.

You have to keep women
in their place.”

Speaking of “place,”

did you know that in China,

the birthplace of spaghetti,

they eat it with chopsticks?

I'd like to see Béby try that!

Time for bed.

Tomorrow is a new day.
Good night, old friends.

Medrano,
of the famous “Boom Boom!”,

said to have saved a dying child
solely by his presence.

Good night, Mistinguett,
Préjean.

Good night, companions
of the sawdust ring,

now almost all gone.

Good night, dear old Jules.

Before going to sleep,
a look at some favorite books...

THE CIRCUS ROAD

which speak of our home,
whether it be of canvas,

wood or stone.

TO BÉBY - IN FRIENDSHIP

CIRCUS AND MUSIC HALL

TO ANTONET AND BÉBY

WITH GREAT ADMIRATION
AND WARMEST REGARDS

Especially this one about clowns.

THE CLOWNS

A signed copy
for “the Admirable Béby.”

TO ARISTODEMO FREDIANI,
AKA “THE ADMIRABLE BÉBY"

WHOSE STAGE NAME IS THE EPITOME
OF THE ART OF CLOWNING

Isn't that a wonderful nickname?

The souvenir trunk.

All jumbled together:

Jean Rigaux, Georgius.

Raymond Cordy.

Raymond Cordy again.

Deniaud dressed as a fireman.

Marguerite fleeing
in this magnificent touring car.

Rastelli, the greatest juggler,

and Antonet, the greatest clown,
with his student Grock.

Antonet, Béby's longtime
friend and partner.

Not always a friend,
for Antonet had a terrible temper.

Béby forgave him
when Antonet fell ill.

He's on the right,
a few months prior to his death.

In the middle,
a few days prior to his death.

With Antonet gone,
Maïss took up the torch.

This is the house in Castres

where Ma and Pa Frediani died,
surrounded by their children.

Here's Willy's circus,
a long time ago.

The Nouveau Cirque de Paris,
now forgotten.

Father Frediani,
the fiercest ringmaster of all.

Béby in Berlin,
in front of Café König, now gone,

like all the rest.

A friendly note
from an overseas admirer.

Negus.

Gentleman.

Detective.

Turn-of-the-century dandy.

Equestrian acrobat.

The three Fredianis
performed an act

since abandoned
for being too dangerous.

It caused Béby
17 leg fractures.

Béby at 18
as an acrobat.

“Good old Béby,” the photo seems
to say, “how we've changed.”

Yes, how we've changed.

Oh, well.

Slumber beckons.

But before going to sleep,
my dog and I, good Christians,

always say a prayer,

because in the circus,
beasts and clowns share the same god.

“Dear God, allow me to continue
to serve young and old,

give me a long career
in the sawdust ring,

as necessary to me
as spaghetti.

In God's name, amen.

Come on, Swing,
time for bed.

Good night, my son.

Your mom sleeps
in the next room.

Keep women in their place,
I always say.”

Now we'll let them
get some sleep.

What a short night!
It's already morning.

Get up, little doggy!

Yes, Béby, it's morning.

Check your alarm, buddy.
Time to get up.

Please note Béby's wonderful
electrical system,

practical and aesthetic,
using invisible buttons.

Here's the guardian angel
with piping-hot coffee.

A bit too hot, in fact.

Poor Mrs. Béby.
It's always her fault.

“Mail? Let's open it.”

Swing finds his master's mail
quite interesting.

“My glasses.”

“Sir, Please tell me
how to become a clown.

I'm eight-and-a-half years old
and I'm sick of school.”

Béby receives thousands
of such letters.

“Hello, Madam Concierge.
Fine morning, isn't it?

Hello, sir.

Darn, I forgot my hat.”

Luckily,
the guardian angel is watching.

There you go.
Fast delivery.

It's never too late
to be polite.

Béby feels quite perky.

The apartment is tiny, so Béby
keeps the bathtub across the street.

Béby has many friends
in the neighborhood

ready to lend a hand,
or at least, a strong grip.

BATHS & SHOWERS

Don't forget Swing.

Here's our pinup.

This is where Béby
really shines.

Squeaky clean
and fresh as a daisy.

“What a beautiful world!
It's good to be alive.

Good Lord,
what a pretty girl.

Let's pour on the charm.”

It seems to be working!

Careful, Béby,
you'll get in trouble!

Luckily, the guardian angel
keeps an eye on him.

Béby is back
on the straight and narrow.

And a bit embarrassed too.

Watch out!
His tailor often frequents this café.

“That lamppost should
look where it's going.

I'll knock its lights out.”

“Is the tailor here?”
“No, come on in!”

“Hi, everybody!
How are you?

Hello, boss.

You wouldn't happen
to have a pack of cigarettes,

under the counter?

Sorry!

The usual: an Alexandra
with lots of cream.

Want to see
something amazing?

Did you see that?

Even better:

And best of all:

There!”

Wouldn't Béby have had
a brilliant career in the cavalry?

When we need a laugh,
we go to the circus,

but Maïss and Béby
go to a café terrace.

“The circus in the street
is just as funny,” they think,

“and it gives us ideas.”

A street peddler hawking something
for 25 francs a pound.

Not very interesting.

An absentminded man
reading as he walks,

who falls

right in front of her.

“We might be able to use that.
We'll see.”

Some men love animals.

What a tender gesture!

A new scene.

Is she a student, dancer
or post office clerk?

In any case,
that's a gorgeous sweater.

This young man is in his element.

He has a discerning eye...

and an even finer
sense of touch.

The innocent takes the fall.
It's the law of the circus.

That's just the way it is.

The slap is never
for the one who deserves it.

Life on rue Lepic
isn't always funny.

A dropped piece of bread
won't be there long.

It's time.

Some go the circus
to be entertained,

others go there to work.

Maïss swears this street
was named rue des Martyrs

after all the clowns
who still frequent it.

The antitheft system
you're about to see

is of Béby's own invention.

No one can take the car
without the lamppost

and vice versa.

Don't forget Swing.

Back to the factory.

“Good evening, Doorman.
Mail?

Maybe a Hollywood contract.
Who knows?”

Maïss is not a typical clown.

Usually a clown
is an ex-acrobat,

the son of a clown,
himself an ex-acrobat,

who is the son of a clown,
also an ex-acrobat.

Not Maïss.

Once there was a ballerina
in Toulon.

One night in 1905,

a fire at the ballet caused
part of the set to fall on her.

They asked the doctor on duty,
in the audience, to treat her.

His name was Dr. Maïss.

He found the ballerina so lovely

that he asked to marry her
while he treated her leg.

And the result

is here before you,

powdering his face.

“Good evening, Madame Moon.

Your friend Pierrot
has come to say hello.”

A white-powdered clown and a Pierrot
are one and the same, aren't they?

As children,
we confused them in our dreams.

Like every night,

greasepaint of white,
vermilion, blue and black

coats the skin
of Maïss-Pierrot.

Miss Maïss is her father's
official dresser.

As punishment, she's threatened with,
“No circus for you tonight!”

“We're agreed.

We'll do the peddler on rue Lepic
with the man who falls, right?”

Before going onstage,

our friends rehearse one last time
the jokes they invented this afternoon.

Elegant, noble Maïss
in his glittering costume.

Stocky, clumsy Béby.

The juggler.

The acrobatic dancer.

The clowns.

The odor of horses.

Music.

Backstage at
a most extraordinary circus.

And now,

they're on.

What were you up to earlier,
on rue Lepic?

I was watching
a street paddler.

What?
You mean a street peddler.

No, a street paddler.

A “peddler” is someone
who sells on the street.

Well, she said she'd paddle me
if I touched her apples!

As I passed,

the street peddler was
hawking her wares. Out loud.

I understand. So?

Twenty-five francs a pound.

With the special 10% discount,
it's only 35 francs.

A man walking by hears that
and suddenly drops dead.

Dead?

We immediately called
for the midwife.

- The midwife came -
- What?

I mean, the doctor,

and he said the deceased's demise
was due to death.

Then a woman came running up,
shouting:

He's dead as a doornail.

I asked the woman,
“Do you know him?”

“Yes, he's my husband.

He's English, you see.

So when he heard her yell,
'Twenty-five francs per pound' -

Yes?

He thought the pound sterling
had fallen to 25 francs,

my poor husband,

and it killed him.”

For a slap
to get a laugh in the street,

it can't be aimed
at the one who receives it.

It's an old law
that Bergson has analyzed

and an old tradition
still respected in the circus.

Good-bye, Béby,

and thanks for all the slaps
you took in your life as a clown.

Twenty-four hours have passed.

It's 10 to midnight.

From the sawdust ring...

to the carousel horses,
asleep for the night.