All language subtitles for Marcel.Et.Monsieur.Pagnol.2025.FRENCH.VOF.WITH.AD.1080p.BluRay.x264.AAC5.1-[YTS.BZ].english

♪ Yes, you're right,
it's impossible.

♪ We must accept our lot in life.

♪ Life isn't beautiful,
but it can be pretty.

♪ Great passions only last one night,

♪ the nicest breasts
only come in pairs

♪ and the most charming
are the least known.

♪ The bells are ringing,

♪ the lamps are lit...

♪ Here comes the music,

♪ and the party will begin again.

Bravo!

Bravo!

Bravo!

Don't leave your seats.
We have a surprise for you.

Mr. Pagnol.

Mr. Pagnol!

Where is he?

Oh! He is here!

This way, monsieur.

They're expecting you.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the author of Fabien,

Mr. Marcel Pagnol!

- Bravo!
- Bravo!

The Suez Canal crisis,
people are struggling to find petrol.

We'll do better tomorrow.

You can't blame everything
on the oil crisis.

I guess this old Pagnol doesn't
interest people anymore.

How dare you even say such a thing?

It's the youth
that drive the world, Pierre.

Leave your father alone, Frédéric.
Come. Fernandel has a surprise for you.

By the time you finished
smoking that pipe,

the youth will have swept us

- under the carpet.
- Hmm.

And who could blame them?

We did the same in our time.

Gone are the times of accordion waltzes,
amusement parks,

mahogany pipes.

Mr. Lazareff,
one has to know when to bow out.

Never!
I will not let you give up writing.

My dear Hélène,

what's the point of writing things
that people no longer wish to read?

Marcel, you do know the ladies magazine
I'm in charge of, don't you?

The magazine Elle.

Elle?

As it happens, my readers love your work.
And they want to know all about you.

Your childhood, early romances...

So, for instance, we could imagine
somehow serializing it in episodes.

Possibly, say,

on a monthly basis?

Just a suggestion.

Elle...

Marcel?

Still on that machine of yours?

The Academy called again.
I'm out of excuses.

Well, my darling, you can tell them

that one of their members is on the brink
of inventing perpetual motion.

It's freezing in here.
You'd be warmer in your study.

My study is full of paper
thirsting for ink.

At least here, French literature
bloody well leaves me in peace.

I have to go.

I told the maid you'd be up here.

What is it?

Sir, there's a young man outside,
who's here to pick up a manuscript.

A manuscript?

For the magazine Elle.

What should I say to him?

You can say, uh...
don't know.

Tell him he'll have chapter one
in half an hour.

I wasn't aware, sir,
you'd started writing your memoirs.

- Memoirs? You'd need memory for that.
- Oh.

Wait a minute.

His wheel is buckled.

You'll bring him tea,
and biscuits, and these pliers.

I'll have at least three hours
before he gets his wheel straightened out.

Three hours is a bit long to fix a wheel.

For most people, I would agree.

But this young lad doesn't seem
very good with his hands.

If I'm right, in three hours,
his wheel will be square.

Pencil case

Pagnol!

Pagnol! Pagnol!

Pagnol!

Quicker!

Easy for you to say.

I'm sorry, my friends.
That doesn't help much.

Pagnol, quicker!

"I was born..."

"I was born..."

Well, yes, I was born.

But they'll likely want to know more.

What came over me
to commit to this?

You've never been able
to say no to a woman.

Frédéric?

Why are you not in school?

What? Son?

Is that you?

Whoa! Easy now!

Marcel?

Marcel?

What are you playing at?

Why have you come back, Marcel?

I must have changed, eh?

So, how old are we now?

Sixty-one.

Crikey, that's a shedload!

What are you here for, Marcel?

Well, with stirring up our memories,

you've only gone
and knocked me off the shelf.

And I don't just want you
rambling on about us,

because everywhere you've been,
I've been too.

I'll have to invent some of it.

My memory is like some very old
tape recording that has been half erased.

Do you still believe it's possible,
a machine that will never stop?

I don't know.

But it helps me get up in the morning.

You don't sound too well.

You don't understand.

Old folks are like chimpanzees,

swinging from branch to branch
in constant pursuit of their memories.

What are you doing?

Giving you a leg up.

- Grandpa?
- Hmm?

What's it like to be old?

That's some question to ask, my lad.

When I grow up, I want to be old like you,

and carve stones like you do.

It's not your trade that'll matter.

What matters is that you work well,
and that your craft is beautiful.

Because all that is beautiful is true.

And all that is true
has earned the respect of the divine.

Your grandfather hated preachers
with a passion,

and here he is,
sounding like a prophet.

I opine that respect is a very good thing,

but it needn't come from the divine.

Our Republic respects its children
just as much as any god

whose existence
has yet to be proven by science.

You can tell that to people

who are educated, like you.

But those less clever,
well, God is enough for them.

Furthermore, this Republic of yours

has never been proven by science either.

Well, you don't say!

What does Marcel want to be
when he grows up?

I don't know.

You do know, Joseph.

He told you he wanted to become
a millionaire and that made you angry.

Augustine, I became angry

because I do not know
a single honest millionaire.

That's because you don't know
any millionaires in the first place.

My dear Jules,
for a tiny minority to get rich,

a huge majority
must be pushed into poverty.

It's one of the basic laws of nature.

Marcel can be whatever he wants.

He told me
he wanted to become an engineer.

In that case,
he'll never step out of his workshop,

his complexion will be pallid,
he'll have large bags under his eyes,

and he'll die a poor man,
addled with consumption.

A poor man, but an honest man.

Exactly my point, Jules.

A poor man, but an honest man.

I promise you, Mum,
one day I shall make you proud.

I am already proud of you.

You write me such lovely poems.

They're nothing.
You don't know all the things I can do.

And I can't wait to discover them.

My poor, dear Joseph.

Life is but a tragedy.

Why doesn't Mum come
and say goodnight anymore?

We have to wait for her to get better.

When will she be better?

Papa?

Did she like my latest poem?

My dear sweet boy,

pay no mind to the naysayers.

Life is not a tragedy at all.

Life is full of beauty,
full of light and color.

Like your poems, that make me so happy.

Once I've read them,
I spread them around me on the bed.

Promise you'll write me thousands more.

They'll be like a field of flowers to me.

To our Mama

- When will Mummy come back?
- She'll never come back.

Marcel, what a dreadful thing
to say to your sister!

Well, I'm angry!

But with whom?

With God, who made her so delicate.

With science,
which failed to give her strength.

What is happening to Marcel, Mum?

He's growing up.

He no longer needs you around.

What of the promise I made you?
Who'll keep it now?

What matters is that you made it.

That's not good enough for me.

Believe me, he will keep that promise!

"The nanny-goat heard
a rustling of leaves behind her.

"She spun around,

"and made out a pair of short,
pointy ears in the shadows,

"eyes that shone in the dark."

"It was a wolf!"

- Paul.
- What?

Must you read it out loud?

What about you,
how long will you keep writing?

Mum always said you'd wear your eyes out.

Well, you're not Mum.

What good are your poems,
if she's not here to read them?

Go to sleep,
you're talking nonsense.

Just as Our Lady
watches over the city of Marseille,

I know Augustine watches over us.

Madeleine is right.
Poetry is not a profession.

- Why on earth not?
- I just know, and that is final!

You always know better than everyone!

Marcel, at age 16,
one knows nothing of life.

Adult-sized feet notwithstanding!

My feet are big enough
to kick your Madeleine's arse!

Marcel!

Marcel!

Oh, easy now, boyo.

Leave the anger in the locker room,
I told ya.

Ya don't enter a ring
to settle your scores.

I told you already.

You have to leave your anger
in the locker room.

I shall be your schoolmaster

until the summer holidays of 1922.

Please note,
for those whom I haven't met yet,

my name is...

Mr. Pagnol.

And I shall be your Latin teacher.

Now...
What is my wife's name?

- Sir?
- Yes?

Schubert.

The question is,
"What is my wife's name?"

Me, sir, I know!

Her name is Simone.

Correct.

Great.

Oh, boy! There's no getting famous
at this rate.

Answer the door, darling.

Simone!

At last, I got my Paris transfer!

- You'll turn it down though, won't you?
- Why would I?

All of your colleagues have.

Paris, Simone!

We're off to Paris,
where everything is possible!

That'll be all for today, Jeannette.

Have you thought
what your father will have to say?

Who cares what he has to say!

He hasn't even spoken to me
since our wedding.

You can still give lessons
in Paris.

Paris!

Paris, here we come!

Its chic and friendly society.

Its warm and attentive waiters.

Its artists,

restrained and sophisticated.

Paris is a charm.

Paris is a party.

Paris is love.

Paris will always be Paree!

A mere 15 hours from Marseille,

thanks to the new
Paris-Lyon-Marseille express train.

Paris awaits you!

So, Paris awaits us?

For the time being,
it's rather us waiting for Paris.

Excuse me.

The train's been stopped in Lyon
for two hours.

When will it leave for Paris?

Quite the comedian, eh?

What's written on that wall?

Uh, "Lyon Station."

And where's Lyon Station situated?

Well, Lyon Station is in Lyon.

Ah! No, it ain't, my dear sir.

Lyon Station is situated in Paris.

Peasants!

Well done, Pagnol!

No vacancies!

Outta the way, you mop!

- Beg your pardon, sir.
- Bloody bumpkins!

We're fully booked.

This place too?

How 'bout that?
We can't be sleeping under a bridge.

"How 'bout that?"

What do you want me to do about it?

"Fully booked" means fully booked.

What possessed you
to come to Paris anyway?

What with the housing crisis and all,
you're better off down South.

Paris, Marcel, Paris.

"Where everything's possible"! Hmm?

Oh. Go on, luv, don't be a misery guts.

Give them room 67.

What about Bertha?

Off to the countryside,
to nurse herself back to health.

Not bloody likely to be back soon,
the state she's in.

Top floor,

all the way down the hall.

Thank you, madame.

Welcome to Paree, you couple of lovebirds!

This Paris of yours is just shit.

But there's an energy here.

It's hard to describe, really.

Like a force
that swells up from the ground.

Good job something
comes from the ground.

'Cause from the sky, it's all water!

Look at this. Look!

You'd never see that in Marseille.

Things are gonna get better.

That's a promise.

My wife

Impromptu No. 3 with Variations,
Op. 142 -

This way, sir!

Quickly!

Whoa there, my lad!

- Paul?
- Hmm?

- Paul Nivoix! I never!
- Pagnol!

- My word!
- What are you doing here?

- I live in Paris.
- Around here?

No, it's that little lad
brought me here.

He kept telling me he'd lost his way.

Hey, what did you do with your accent?

Left it back home in Marseille.

I was afraid
it would get rusty in the rain.

Paul will introduce us, Simone,
to intellectuals, the theater crowd.

The theater crowd?

A right bunch of hussies and alcoholics!

And those filthy pigeons!
I can't stand them anymore!

What do you want?

Turn down that racket,
or I'll be sending for the coppers!

Oh, Pagnol!

Now the party can start.

Marcel Pagnol,
you'll be hearing that name, old fart.

This is where it happens.

Allow me to introduce Orane Demazis,
an immense actress.

But not in size!

What's that? Do I look like the pope?

Marcel is from my home town, darling.

And what does he do for a living,
this home-grown Marcel?

- He is a teacher of Lat...
- I am a writer.

I love how he said that.

Such a good little boy.

Here now, this will grow you some more,
home-grown Marcel.

My dear Marcel,

no one gives a hoot about
your ancient Greece-inspired tragedies.

And you're quite right.

Catullus be damned,
and Ulysses, and Nausicaa!

Paul, you and I
will co-write a vaudeville.

Now you've decided to upset your father.

Here's to Marcel Pagnol,

the picture-perfect little boy who finally
tells his daddy to get stuffed.

Get stuffed, Daddy!

You no longer like it?

"Jojo," the title itself is ludicrous.

What were we even thinking?
It's a sheer vulgarity.

So you fear your father's reaction?

Not at all. I just want nothing
to do with this drivel.

You can claim sole authorship.

Too late.

It's registered at the Writers' Guild.

Your name is now Castro.

Why Castro?

Uh, I just chose him a pseudonym.

- It's short and, well, it's dignified.
- You find it dignified?

Corneille, "El Cid," Guillén de Castro.

I'll confess, it's just what came to mind.

Some mind!

The pigeons.

Jojo played
20 straight nights in Marseille.

Daddy Pagnol
didn't even know who wrote it.

Goes without saying.

And our dear Mr. Castro here
was duly flabbergasted.

And no less overjoyed, I might add.

Mr. Castro received
700 francs in royalties,

which would buy about 150 meals
in a restaurant like this.

- Will you be writing another?
- We even have a theme.

- And it's highly explosive.
- The war!

Well, there's a laugh!

Cream of Paris is here.

We said "no politicians."
They came by the bucketload!

- Members of Parliament!
- So what?

So it's the end of us.

You know, my son was a humble sort.

What do you expect
from reading his letters?

That he speak like a hero.

I have just the thing for you.

"My friend Thibon, a sergeant like me,

"was killed yesterday,
a bullet through the head.

"He died honorably, as a hero,
for the motherland."

Oh! Bravo! Bravo!

"What a joke!

"That's the way they trick us.
He died, and that's it.

"As for myself, I'm so appalled
by this senseless bloodshed

"that I come to envy him.
Yes, I would like to be in his shoes."

Started well enough,
but the ending stank!

And to think that it was less
successful than Jojo.

I'm crushed. The reviews were good,
but the audience stayed away.

I am convinced that you will make it.

Thank you, madame.

- Do you know that boy?
- Which boy?

A little boy who looked like you.
With a prettier nose, though.

Hmm.

Goodbye, Castro.

Not "Pagnol"? "Until we meet again"?

Pagnol? I don't know him anymore.

Simone, please don't go.

I've secured unpaid leave
from the Education Authority.

If writing doesn't work out,
then, I can teach again.

And be miserable with your blackboard
for the rest of your life?

I won't live
with an embittered country boy,

locked up in his big-city mousehole.

When will you resume
teaching at secondary school?

That can wait. I'm writing again.

On my own now.

A literary play. I think you'll like it.

- Let me guess. "Gigi"?
- "Gigi"?

Of course. After Jojo,
the next logical step should be "Gigi."

"Phaethon"!

The title is "Phaethon."

The Greek mythological figure.

- The son of Helios and Clymene?
- Precisely.

- Do you like it?
- Well, that is progress.

At least it has a classical flavor.

Classical.

Classical.

So you want classical?

All bets are off.

You are a strange man.

Your play is being performed,

and yet here you are, losing your money.

These chips were given to me
by the director of the theater.

He couldn't stand me
biting my nails backstage.

Fifteen, black...

odd and low bet.

You're the anxious type,
aren't you?

I know plenty of ways to relax a man.

Mr. Pagnol, you must come back,
it's almost over.

Place your bets.

All on red.

Oh, my dear friends,

please forgive me.

You are the heart of our bygone heroes,

the highest nobility
our world has conceived,

the eternal beauty of life.

For there is only thought.

Pagnol, it's your lucky day!

Mr. Pagnol, the red! You won!

Call it a lucky streak.

- Bravo!
- Bravo!

You invited your father.
Did he enjoy it?

Go on, then.

"The writing is quite good,

"there's no doubt about that,

"but I do have a nagging little question."

Oh, please.

"How do you manage to make a living?"

He's only acting that way
because he loves you.

And I am quite fond of him myself.

- Marcel.
- Hmm?

Don't you ever miss Marseille?

You have no idea how much.

So why don't you put your mind
to writing a play

that's set back in your home town, then?

Be serious, Orane.

Marseille without the accent
wouldn't be Marseille.

But that's the point, you silly old coot!
You need to write it like a local.

No one would understand a word.

The Belgians got away with it.
If the Belgians can do it, why can't you?

The Belgians? What about the Belgians?

He was really kicking at my nose.

Fool me once, you won't fool me again!

What did he answer?

He was tongue-tied.

Finally he says, "Is your lancet uniform
not a bit tight about the collar, sir?"

- What?
- "You seem quite red in the face."

How much for the typewriter?

Oh! Not worth a penny.

The bell has a mind of its own.

I'll take it.

Now, my dear, I will teach you

how to chime in the lingo
of my beloved Marseille.

As the curtain rises,

Escartefigue peers down at his cards

and scratches his head...

- I'm currently writing two stage plays.
- Oh? Is that all?

Mr. Pagnol has quite an appetite, I see.

Two very different plays.
One is set in Paris...

Wait, wait, wait, wait!

Not so fast.

- The title, huh?
- Um,

- "Beauty and the Beast."
- Not exactly ground-breaking,

but please, do continue.

The other is set in the South of France.

- It doesn't yet have a title.
- Ah!

The South of France! Magnificent!

- You've been to Marseille?
- I've heard about it.

I saw a revue at the Alcazar,
in Marseille, featuring local actors.

And what was your impression?

Here's your coffee, sir.

Very peculiar.

Many thanks.

- Peculiar?
- Peculiar, yes.

These people are undeniably talented,
but their speech is incomprehensible.

- Like the Belgians?
- Worse than the Belgians.

Far worse than the Belgians!

It's a silly idea.

It'll never work.

Sorry, my love.

And so long, Marseille.

Spare a thought
for your teaching colleagues,

covered in chalk dust from head to toe,
slaving at the blackboard.

And you, you're on your way
to the beach house

of one of the prettiest women in Paris.

Prettier than her dog, that's for sure.

What breed is it, anyhow?

He's as big as a donkey,
with a head like a cow.

She invited us.
I couldn't refuse to bring her dog along.

Talking of beauties and beasts,
you were on act two.

Oh! No, that's revolting!

He likes your play. Carry on.

Act two.

- Marcel.
- Yes?

The schoolmaster in your play,
stiff and incorruptible.

That's your father, yes?

Easy in the bends,
the dog's a bit out of sorts.

That is rather unsafe.

- Go by train?
- Go by train.

After all that,
I forget where I was in act two.

Towards the end,
when Topaze comes to visit his friend.

Topaze? Who's Topaze?

The old teacher
who stayed at the boarding school.

- Oh, you mean Tamise?
- Yes, of course, Tamise.

What did I say?

From 10:30 this morning, you are
no longer part of our teaching staff.

Come on, now, you fool. Come on, I say!

Headmaster...

Muche.

Headmaster Muche!

An actor fluffs his lines,
the sets are unfinished,

and the bookings haven't yet started.

Bit of a bad omen, isn't it?

- Do you see this man?
- What about him?

He has 40 years of theater in his head,

and let me tell you,
he's not often been wrong.

For our purposes, he'll be a fresh eye.

Sir?

Sir?

Wake up now, act one is finished.

Who's there? Oh, hi.

I believe I'll take myself home now.

I'm not... not feeling very well,
I'm afraid.

- That's encouraging!
- The fool is obviously drunk as a lord.

We all believe in Topaze.

And one slobbering boozer
certainly won't make us change our minds.

Do not lose hope quite yet, my friend.

In the theater,
nothing is ever guaranteed.

Not even a flop.

- Aren't you coming to bed?
- In a minute.

I'm looking at you, my handsome,

admired by everyone,

surrounded by beauties.

Never forget why you loved me, Marcel.

Never forget my accent.

That accent
is the melody of your childhood.

Your first poems are steeped in it.

Your poems
that made my heart beat faster.

Marcel? Are you all right, darling?

Oh, I'm better than all right.

You may well be in love

with the French navy,

but the French navy
is telling you to piss off!

Pagnol,
I have some good news for you.

Yes?

- The Fresh Eye is dead.
- You call that good news?

Not so fresh after all!

Quite worrisome, you're right.

In other words, we've had

one single spectator...

who saw only half of the first act,
but it cost him his life.

When I write...

When I write, I wish to write right.

To wuh-rite.

Ri-guh-tuh.

Come, child, put some effort into it.

You see, when I wuh-rite,

I wish to wuh-rite ri-guh-tuh!

Poor dear Pagnol.

It's a total flop.

You must come on stage
and apologize to the audience.

- That bad, is it?
- I'm afraid so.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the true culprit has been identified.

Mr. Marcel Pagnol!

Bravo!

This way, Mr. Pagnol.

May I present the original Topaze!

Truly honored.

You cruel bastards,

you scared the life out of me!

Marcel, someone's here to see you.

Father.

Well done, my boy.

What in the world? You delusional child.

Are you completely out of your mind?

You can't imagine for one second
that I'll premiere this play here?

Then why did you summon me?

Because this Marius of yours...

...is a masterpiece!

- But you won't put it on?
- Oh, of course I'll put it on!

I will indeed,

but only after 300 shows in Paris.

Did I say 300?

Nay, rather 500!

Have Raimu read it. Panisse is the role
that he was born to play.

He's with Léon Volterra's troupe.
You know, the owner of the Paris Théâtre.

They're at each other's throats
all the time,

but nothing happens on the Paris scene
without their say-so.

Raimu is actually playing here tonight.

But be forewarned,
this stuff shakes no spears.

Ooh!

My goodness me, darling!
It's you!

Adelaide, what a joy it is
to see you again.

Yes. Our time at the convent
seems so far away now!

So whatever happened

to your two little lovelies?

Oh, the two little lovelies
have grown into two swinging heavies!

Well, can you believe it or not,

but mine have remained so perky and sharp

that I need to rub them
with sandpaper each morning,

lest they poke holes in my brassiere.

What bothers me is
that a few years ago,

one of our local companies went to Paris

and they put on a play
in the spirit of Marseille.

- What of it?
- "What of it?"

Critics dragged them through the mud
and the audience booed them offstage.

Well, perhaps the writing wasn't any good.

Hey, it's still a very bad precedent.

Volterra may have forgotten that.

We can always try,
if your play's half decent.

But will you tell me one thing?

This Marius lad, is he handsome?

I'm listening.

I need Raimu.

For the title role.

You know how he is, don't you?
He's impossible.

He loves the play.

I don't think
he's capable of carrying a comedy.

I trust him completely.

Very well.
You want him, you'll have him.

But if you come crying to me later,
I shall laugh in your face.

You're leaving?

I'm off to Luna-Park to settle some strife
between the giant and the bearded lady.

Consummate ball-breakers both,

but believe you me, they're angels
compared to your friend Raimu.

- I saw Charpin in a play.
- And?

He's very good.
He'd be ideal to play Panisse.

- You spoke to him?
- No.

But then how do you know
he wants to play Panisse?

- Because I'll play César.
- Come now, Jules, César's a tiny role.

- You'll write me more lines.
- Please, Jules, you can't be serious.

I want to be the owner of the bar.

I want the play to be set on my turf.

Raimu doesn't go to Charpin,
Charpin must come to Raimu!

- What is this?
- I'll think about it.

But please, could you keep
your voice down?

What is this?

What's taking Fresnay so long?

I told you! Hiring an Alsatian
to play a Marseillais is heresy.

Our Lady of Marseille
likely just broke his legs.

Or his train was simply delayed.

He spent a fortnight in Marseille,
in a small tavern on the harbor,

wiping tables and rinsing glasses,
so he can chat to the locals.

Then your Alsatian
might've become an alcoholic,

but he certainly didn't
become a Marseillais.

You are right, as always.

Let's go. I'll read his lines.

Let's take it from
"It's not about the coffee."

It's not about the coffee,
it's just wrong.

- What's just wrong?
- Draining away my stock while I'm asleep.

If you wanted to insult me, you have.

Insult you? How so?

If at my age, I can't offer a coffee
on the house, then what am I?

You're a child,
and a child obeys his father.

- At his age?
- Yes, m'dear!

I was 32 when me own father kicked me
in the pants for the very last time!

That's what family was in my day.
There was respect and tenderness.

Especially in the pants.

See that, Pagnol? I told you an Alsatian
could play a Marseillais.

All he needed was the right scarf.

By the way,
I saw you cut the card game.

The play is too long
and the card game feels like a skit.

You find it vulgar, don't you?

Let's say it's unworthy
of this kind of venue.

You shake the spears.
I defer to you.

End of act two, 15-minute intermission.

- I really need a fresh eye.
- I'm all ears.

Does this play catch your interest?

Well, I believe I would like it
if I understood the actors.

- Are they speaking too softly?
- It's not that.

Some phrases are very incorrect,

and that hideous accent
corrupting the vowels, it's...

it's just incomprehensible.

Oh! Do not listen
to this man's ravings!

He's notoriously stupid!

- Stupid? Me?
- You, sir! Indeed!

- I will not take that!
- Jules, this is not helpful.

Who allowed this imbecile in here
to spy on us?

Draw the curtain
until this blind fool removes himself.

Hmm. Blind fool?

I've not come here to be insulted.
We shall see about that. Yes, we shall.

Oh?

Are you going to spend
the interval back here?

It's not getting any laughs.
Might as well be a tragedy.

They feel like laughing,
but... they don't want to.

Don't worry.
We'll bring 'em around in act three.

Well, then? It's your turn.

I'm aware, but I'm hesitating.

D'you plan to hesitate into the wee hours?

Please, Captain, we're waiting.

Well,
it's not a trifling matter.

They're at 32,
but how much do we have? Thirty.

They have reinstated the card game!

Raimu held secret rehearsals.

He dared to do this to me?

That two-faced toe-rag!

Look at where they took it,
though, instead of griping.

Oh?

So you're a part
of this little conspiracy?

Shut up, Pagnol! Listen.

I'm showing him nothing,
I gave nothing away,

I'm as tight as a bank vault!

At any rate,
table talk is strictly forbidden.

"Parisians have just discovered
the picturesque lingo of the Marseillais,

"the sincerity of Orane Demazis,
the mastery of Fresnay,

"and the spiritedness of Raimu,
who is sure to be one of the greats."

Each night's sold out. It's a dream.
Admit you're flabbergasted, Jules.

I'll tell you
what I'm flabbergasted by, Léon.

This little piece of wallpaper
that I ripped off my dressing room.

How dare you?

It reads as follows,
"Mr. Raimu is a genius."

And it is signed Marcel Pagnol.
Thank you, my friend.

Some friends you are,
right pair of vandals!

Who told you to deface my theater?

By Jove, Volterra!

Don't get your knickers in a twist
over a tiny scrap of paper!

Tiny or not,
that wallpaper was chosen by me.

Comes as no surprise.
It's as unsightly as the ties you wear.

This success doesn't seem
to make you happy, Marcel.

- What's left for me to do now?
- Write more plays, you silly man!

But I'll never be able to do better,
now that he's kept his promise.

- Who's kept his promise?
- A sweet little boy.

What little boy?

It is a long story.

I knew you no longer wanted to write

because theater had become too easy.

Too easy?

No, it's not that.

It's just that I felt cramped.

Enter the silver screen.

Ain't it awful the way they cut out
these big stars.

I'll get to you in a minute.

Listen here, Mr. Danfield,
you can't cut us out like that.

For we got equity contract!

The house is packed,
for the 350th performance, no less.

- Yes, but we're still doomed.
- And why is that?

Mr. Pagnol was just in London.
He saw a talking picture, three times!

Good grief!

He believes that theaters will close down.

I say, "Fine! In that case, let's just
cancel these performances of Marius.

"They're stupidly theatrical."

You exaggerate, Léon. I never said that.

I'll just pack it in, buy a magic lantern
and a phonograph. Oh...

Nonsense! Let me tell you something.

This talking-film business,
this thingamabob,

it's a circus attraction.

Get one for your Luna-Park,
it'll last you one season.

No, no. Pagnol is right.

Besides, I'm not uninterested.

Because if you perform only once,
and I pay you only once,

I still get one or two thousand
free showings

from your mug talking on my screen.

Pagnol!

Will you let this crook pillage my work?

What's your talking picture got
that I don't?

- I'm listening.
- Here we go again.

Jules, thanks to this marvelous invention,

I'll no longer be limited
by the dimensions of the stage.

I can film a face 10 inches away,

and see a tear roll down a cheek.

You want me to cry?

I will be able to produce
a whispered scene

and I guarantee
the audience will hear it perfectly.

You want me to whisper?

Excellent idea, Pagnol!

Jules, thanks to the camera,
I can soar up above

and capture a scene from afar,

like a bird might, or a guardian angel.

Or God.

I suggest you cover your bald spot, Jules.

I can picture it from here!

I'll be free to jump
over the stage lights,

circle around the scene,
and burst open the walls of the theater.

And pull apart the setting!

Or the actor.

Good heavens!
Think what your colleagues will say.

You would forsake the theater?
You can't be serious!

Wouldn't that be a desertion?

Such cowardice is unfathomable!

Would you not be forever disgraced?

After everything
the theater has done for you?

Don't go into cinema
unless you want to end up ruined.

The facade alone requires
that we replace 500 bulbs per week.

That seems an awful lot.

Would you happen
to also be an expert on lightbulbs?

Look at this, if you don't believe me.

- Ah! Bob, my friend!
- Ah.

With the latest from Hollywood.

Bob, let me introduce Marcel Pagnol.

Hey there. How ya doin', pal?

I'm fine. And dandy.

What fun!

A Frenchie who speaks just like I do!

I'm ravenous, Marcel.
Shall we find a restaurant?

So, tell me.
Do you make the bulbs yourself?

What bulbs?

The ones that you supply to Paramount.

They're absolutely amazing.

If you think I'm a lightbulb salesman,
why have you invited me here?

Because you seemed to me
like a good guy.

And I surround myself with good guys.

But seriously now,
what's it you do for a living?

Bob practically gave me
the keys to his studio.

Paramount Studios

Let me explain how all this works.

At the very top, there's Hollywood,

the mecca of cinema.

Just below that comes Paramount.

Everyone bows down before their totem.

Then you have the executives,
big-studio management.

Then, there's the studio doorman,
a powerful wizard

who opens the gates for hundreds of people

and slams them on thousands more.

The head of advertising,

who can make
three telephone calls at once.

- Impressive!
- Confirmed. Please go away.

And Western Electric, who owns
the machine that transcribes sound.

The head of processing,

of editing,

of music.

The head of costumes.

Then there's the director,
who's all the more respected

when he comes from abroad, like liars do.

Cut!

How was I?

Amazing!

The director is often a liar himself.

After that comes the review committee.

People who have never written
a novel or play in their life,

who carve up and rehash
the works of others.

Next in line comes the movie star.

The salary of movie stars
should be enormous,

so they end up believing
their success and fortune

are due to their talent alone.

Such creatures
are generally naïve to a fault.

And finally,

on the very last rung
of the ladder, is the writer.

He gets paid, he gets a reception,

he gets to drink to the success
of the studio, the film,

the future of cinema.

He smiles, rubs shoulders, he's happy.

Study him carefully,

because you'll never see him
in such spirits again.

Very well!

I'm buying the rights to Marius.
We're gonna make a great film.

- You mean that?
- Nah. I don't understand the Frenchies.

They boo the beautiful movies
I make for 'em.

That's because sound
is no longer a novelty.

Speaking is no longer enough,
you have to have something to say.

So... we got a deal?

We certainly do,
but with my troupe from Marseille?

No, no, no. No one knows those guys.

You can't fake the true accent
of Marseille.

And what exactly
is your goddamn accent of Marseille?

Oh, dear, how can I explain it?

Imagine that your jaw bones flap
as if mounted on a coil.

- On a coil?
- Or... springs.

Okay.

Now, can you repeat this after me?

"Don't look at me like that,
you break my soul with your anxiety."

Don't break my soul with...
with your anxiety.

Anxiety.

Anxiety.

Anxiety!

Are you okay, sir?

Yeah, yeah.

That's the accent.
It has to be loud, it has to resonate.

I can feel that coil.

That's precisely why we need experts.

Okay, okay, sold!

I'll hire the most famous director
in the world for this picture,

fly him in from the States.

Alexander Korda.

- He has a passport?
- Yeah. He's got about six.

You think I find that reassuring?

Marcel! He's Hungarian.

Uh, a Hungarian to direct
a film about Marseille?

I can hear Raimu's reaction from here.

Say that again. Raymoo?

A Tartar from Hollyvoid
to capture us on film?

What? Were there no more Alsatians,
so you looked in the Carpathians?

If you think I'm going to lend my face
to Attila the Hun,

you'll have to find yourself
another César!

It's a big wide world out there!

And while you're at it,

why not a bloke from Timbuktu?

- Thank you, Alexander.
- For what, Marcel?

For letting me direct the actors.
It was reassuring for Raimu.

I've never directed actors who speak,
and you've never used a camera.

Helping each other is key.

- Uh, Mr. Korda!
- What is it now?

Raimu's voice isn't photogenic.
We cannot record him.

Quite the conundrum for you,
because we cannot replace Jules.

You, we might.

What's this I hear about replacing Jules?

Good morning, sir.

- Ah! You're the sound recordist.
- Mm-hmm.

The one who can't hear my voice?

- Would you like it louder?
- Uh-uh.

Mr. Brun,

don't tell anyone
that Escartefigue is a cuckold.

Please, that hurts!

I repeat, Escartefigue is a cuckold!

He's splitting my cochlea.

May I say, your American apparatus
doesn't yet master our palates.

So, come have a pastis at 11:00 sharp.

To wrap your ears around my trombone,
I'll fill them full of fables.

Would you call this a fable,
Jules?

Who would have believed
those poor fools of Parisians

would turn up in droves to hear

stories about Marseillais?

You're breaking my heart.

You're breaking my heart.

Oy!

- What?
- We playing or what?

What are we doing here?

He broke my heart, what about you?
What about you, eh?

- Oh. Very well! Here!
- My friend, this film will make you

the king of Hollyvoid.

Paramount Studios

Your Americans
aren't easy to understand.

You earn them a fortune,
and then they sack you.

They're like children.

Pagnol the plaything
is no longer entertaining.

Are you giving up cinema?

On the contrary.
With the returns from Marius,

I'll build my own studios in Marseille.

I'll be free to make the films I want
with whomever I want.

But I must get the rights
to Fanny back at all costs.

Paramount doesn't intend
to use them?

Absolutely correct.

You must be joking.

Absolutely not.

- Despite the success of Marius?
- Yes.

And why is that?

Because Fanny is a sequel to Marius.

And never before has a sequel
been profitable.

- Ever?
- Never.

Never make a sequel.

It's a law engraved in gold
on the pediment of Hollywood.

Put that away, I'll pay.

Sorry, Bob, but paper is paper.

Sign here, please.

I'll truly never understand
how the French mind works.

Rolling.

And action!

He's fine. He's doing fine. Here.

Read me his letter again.

Go ahead, darlin'.

- "My dear father."
- Yes?

"Forgive me, dear Father,
for the pain I may have caused you.

"I know how sad you must be
since I sailed off.

"I think of you every night."

You think of me every night?
And I think of you all day, imbecile.

- Keep reading, dear.
- "How do I tell you?

"How do I explain why I had this urge?
I wouldn't know where to begin.

"But you can ask Fanny,

- "she knew of my folly."
- "Folly"!

He said that right!
Glad to hear he's aware of it.

Mum, I don't think we should disturb 'em.

They're doing things I don't understand.
Things adults do.

Is he with Orane?

Tonight he is.

See, Mum, I told you I'd be a millionaire.

I worry about him.

I'm afraid success will go to his head.

That won't happen. I watch over him.

What're you drawing?

A cicada.
The emblem of my studios.

- Your new toy.
- And the whole family can play.

Germaine and René will have jobs there.

Even Paul.

He will never leave the hills.
He doesn't care for money.

Mum, thanks to this money,
Paul can afford the operation on his nose.

Breathing won't be difficult anymore.

May the Lord hear you, Marcel.

May the Lord hear you.

It was on his bedside table.

Marcel.

Paul!

This is yours.

Of the two of us,
you've stayed true to our childhood.

I betrayed you by leaving for Paris.

Because I stayed in our hills
to raise goats?

I did what I loved to do, just like you.

And besides, films don't grow
in these dry hills.

Not yet.

Wanna hold it?

It's waking up.

It tickles!

Take good care of Papa,
and our sister and little René. Will you?

Little René is now
half a head taller than me.

We'll meet again someday, I promise.

Mr. Pagnol!

Mr. Pagnol, whose productions
for the theater

were undeniably superior,

has provided us magnificent proof

of his ignorance of cinema!

Thank you, René. Is that all?

I saved the best till last.

"Mr. Pagnol, a sly schemer,

"all boneless nose, protruding eyes,

- "and baleful set of the mouth..."
- Good grief!

"...brings to mind
an anemic anteater.

"An anemic anteater, itself sucked dry

"by a horde of ravenous red ants."

This one's a poet.

You all right, René?

Mr. Pagnol! Mr. Pagnol!

Which one?

Mr. Marcel, something terrible
has happened!

- Bad review?
- Worse than that!

Do you remember that little lamb
we used in the pastorale?

What of it?

I told you
it was only a two-week lease.

Getting attached is not a good idea.

When you look at it,
you see a sweet cuddly toy,

but what I see are some cutlets.

I'll buy it back
at the price of the cutlets.

How about the shanks?

The shanks too.
We'd prefer him to stay in one piece.

I'd heard that all of you film folk
were a funny lot.

Now, look, you.
It'll likely cost you a pretty penny.

If you ever want to make a picture
about a bullock.

Bullock

is the name
the film-processing girls gave him.

Bullock
devours films, literally.

He was caught grazing
the film stock he sleeps on.

He is said to have gobbled 90 feet,

the equivalent
of an entire title sequence.

Fearing he might poison himself,

we moved him to the carpentry workshop
on a bed of wood shavings,

which instantly became his breakfast.

At teatime, Bullock the lamb
visits the editing rooms,

where he snacks on pages
and pages of scripts.

He nibbles the straw off chairs,
chews on pencils

and discarded cigarette butts.

So, this is soundstage three.

This is where the night scenes are shot.

How bizarre. Hmm.

And what's that contraption exactly?

That's the Topazette,

one of my brother's inventions.

The people's motor car. Three wheels,

three seats,

three gears.

300 per gallon.

Test drive ended with three rolls!

Who could ever resist?

Save me one of these, will you? Hmm?

Light is on its way.

Keep going.

That's it.

Keep it steady, now.

Come on!

What on earth is he doing here?

He's never seen
a blade of grass in his life.

Here, he's bound to have
his fill and more.

He has grass up to his knees,

but he prefers munching
on tree bark instead.

Which goes to show that education
can change the very nature of a being.

Broquier.

Broquier.

Yes, Marcel?

I've never been so happy on a film shoot.

Back in the dry hills
with my childhood friends.

Like when we were 10 years old.

Admit it, building this village
for the film

was just a way of coming back home again.

Here, I can almost forget
the troubles that await me in Marseille.

Enjoy it, Marcel.

Beautiful things are not meant to last.

Ah! Bullock!

You crazy beast! You're gonna snuff it!

What's going on?

Oh. He's swallowed a pint of plaster.
He's plastered up his stomach.

I don't know! Bring a knife.
We have to operate!

You're not kind.
No, you're not kind.

I slave all day at my desk
like a scrounging scrounger.

All day long, I calculate,

trying to finance my next film.

Lawyers, poets that they are,
wish me to go to jail,

while you are the real movie makers.

You play hilarious tricks

and you never invite me.

Why?

We daren't, Mr. Meyerboom, because...

I mean, because, uh...

Aye, because I'm old.

Do you know when a man becomes old?

When the youth leave him out.

When he can call anyone
by their first name,

but no one calls him by his.

Aren't you happy with Heartbeat?

I am. It's a good picture.

- Good day, gentlemen.
- Good day.

Who is that charming damsel?

No idea.

Good day.

So many people here.

I miss the small warehouse
where everything started.

These studios were intended
to give me freedom,

now they suffocate me.

Well, if you're suffocating,
you need to get some air.

A glass of anisette in one hand,

and a steel pétanque ball in the other.

- I win the point.
- Not so fast.

Pagnol, you can go measure it.

I'll play your cuckold baker,
on second thought.

So why did you change your mind?

Because your business needs
to be profitable, and I'm your friend.

I think you just don't want
to let Fernandel have the role.

Foolishness!

On top of being a cuckold,
your baker would have a horse's face.

Yes! He might well have a horse's face,

but that's still better than the mug
of a tramp from the dry hills.

You're suffocating me, Marcel.

I can't take any more of your jealousy.
You know what?

I'm leaving!

No, Josette!

My friend, reassure me.

Tell me that the cuckold baker isn't you.

Jules, I'm passionately in love.

Oh, that's a recipe
for suffering, all right.

So, at my age,
I'm not entitled to true love?

Of course you are.

But keep spreading yourself thin
and you'll end up alone.

Instead of your passionate love affairs,

you'd best bank on modest love
that consumes itself slowly.

Believe me. Solitude at our age

is the worst thing
that can happen to a man.

That's right. So right.

Come on! Are we shooting this film or not?
What are you waiting for?

For your fake tree to melt
under the spotlights?

Look who's here.

Look at her! You see her slinking back in?

Pomponette. Eh?

You whore.

Trollop.

Dirty wench.

Finally wandered home, eh?

What about poor old Tomcat?

He worried himself sick yesterday.

So I can't leave for just
three days without you making a scene!

- I was at a girlfriend's.
- Of course.

I can't breathe, Marcel!
Hitler's invaded Poland...

Leave Hitler out of it!

We're at war!
And instead of comforting me,

all you can think about
is locking me up in Marseille.

I'm so bored here.

I'm an actress, I live for my work,
and your studios are shut.

My staff have all been enlisted.

I'm losing my mind!

Calm down.

I've thought of a role for you,
for when Fernandel is back on leave.

A role? What role?

And cut! That's a wrap.

Well done.

The front on River Somme has yielded...

The army's been routed.

Before long, we'll be seeing the Krauts
marching through Marseille.

Should we continue shooting the film?

Keep your head on, Marcel,
don't get carried away.

Imagine the worst were to happen.

Doesn't moral duty dictate
we continue fearlessly doing our job?

Our ancestors, the Gauls... Our ancestors.

Oh, my!

Oh, my!

But why is Mussolini
killing our children?

They are the flesh and blood of Italy,

just like him!

Monster!

Monster!

It is
with a heavy heart that I tell you today

that we must cease combat.

I spoke last night to our adversary,

asking him if he is prepared
to seek with me,

soldier-to-soldier,
the battlefield honorably appeased,

a means of putting an end to hostilities.

I ask that all Frenchmen...

...unite around the government
over which I preside

during these trying times,
and allay their fears,

heeding only their faith
in the future of our nation.

This is intolerable!

The instructions you were given
were to include sentiments

in keeping with our National Revolution.

Marshal Pétain is not the bogeyman,
for God's sake.

He's not hell-bent
on making the French cry!

It seems to me
he would've painted her head even larger.

What is this?

They're no longer selling
The Well-Digger's Daughter,

they're selling
"Snow White and the Two Dwarves"!

Careful now, Pagnol.

It's said that love is blind.
In your case, it's already shortsighted.

The film is doing well
in the Free Zone.

But in Paris,
the Germans simply banned it.

Mr. Pagnol, a German is asking for you.

- Nothing good can come of this.
- He does like dogs, though.

Hitler loves dogs too.

This way, gentlemen.

Pagnol!

- You are a true love of mine.
- Is that so?

I speak of my literary and poetic love.

I certainly hope as much.

Come now, do you not recognize me?

Alfred, Alfred Greven.

We were in Berlin in '31
for the 200th performance of Marius.

You do remember?

To what do I owe your visit?

I am director of German cinema
for Europe at large.

French cinema is no longer
controlled by the Jews.

They have all departed.

You and me are going to reinvent
the cinema of France.

And for that to happen,
you will leave your studios

and come to Paris to manage our studios.

I'm sorry,
I can't leave Marseille.

I can't abandon my staff.

What a pity that is.

Once you have changed your mind,
come and see me in Paris.

The Jerries
are sure to lose the war!

I give a year before they're all kaput.

Hey, do you hear that?

She may be an expert on fish,
but that's about it.

The Reich claims victory after victory.

If you don't want to work for Greven,
you best go into hiding.

I'd rather die!

And cut!

What's the problem now?

Film perforations are off.

It's the only stock I could find.
You'll have to make do!

And the lights and the sound rigs
hardly work at all.

Well, then you'll have to fix them
as best you can.

Tell me when I'm on.

Yes, dear, it shouldn't be long.

If everything has to be fiddled with,
we'll be in such deep shit.

The shit, René, gets deeper
if we stop shooting.

- Mr. Pagnol.
- What now?

Mr. Greven.

I would love
to give you my pictures,

but you won't be able to screen them,

the film is damaged.

I would like to see a reel
of "Prayer to the Stars,"

if you will permit me.

Very well. I can show you 20 reels,
if that's what you want.

Bring me
the worst of the lot. All right?

Well, we can lead her
to believe we are engaged.

She'll give us a detailed account
of our past,

wish us much happiness and many children.

Yes, yes. Thank you.

We can't carry on like this.

Why don't you
leave Pagnol alone?

- Who are you?
- I am Marcel!

Marcel Pagnol!

What is happening?

Mr. Greven?

At times you hate me, Florence.

And I cannot fathom why.

How can one love somebody
who doesn't love back?

How can one be loved
by somebody you don't love?

It's the cruelest of mysteries.

Mr. Bailiff, sir, write up your report.

"Prayer to the Stars."

"Prayer to the Stars"
will never be German!

Do you know about Josette?

What, Josette again?

She left me.

She couldn't bear the fact
that I destroyed her film.

Her film.

You need to call Gaumont. We're selling.

Are you sure?

I'm sure.

Something wrong, Mr. Pagnol?

That's when
I stopped following you.

And that's when I lost myself.

In the midst of a war
that was dragging on,

I would have needed a miracle.

But I'd given up hope.

And time went by,
spinning the wheel of life

like water spins the mill.

Is it fixed? Well done, Pagnol boys!

And that's not all.

The mill is finally
going to have electricity.

- Are you serious?
- You don't believe me?

Come.

This way.

Jacqueline, you do the honors.

As of now, you can read
without straining your eyes.

- Does it work?
- Mm-hmm.

...since dawn this morning,

the Allied troops have freed
the city of Bayeux

and are now headed for Caen.

Normandy is currently the theater
of a colossal landing,

which will determine France's future.

That sound makes my blood run cold.

It's the sound of freedom, Jacqueline.

What will we do when all this is over?

You'll get on
with your young, budding life,

and become a great actress.

And you?

I'll get on with my old,
waning life.

You say you're old, Marcel, but the gleam
in your eyes betrays your youth.

So we'll both get on
with our young lives together.

I'd stopped believing.

That the war would end?

That I'd find you.

Very well, gentlemen.
You want some heads to roll.

But to judge and sentence your neighbor,
you must be faultless yourselves.

Would those amongst you who rescued Jews
please raise your hands?

Hmm. I rest my case.

This Liberation is off to a pitiful start.

France has signed a trade agreement
with the Americans.

Where's the harm in that?

The French government
are trying to obtain corn and petrol.

It's quite commendable.

But in exchange,

they are now letting Hollywood productions
invade our cinemas.

And so?

So that seals the fate
of our film industry.

Fancy words
for a simple trade agreement!

Minister, the Americans wish
to Americanize France.

If we're to be flooded
with American films,

10 years from now, our people

will idolize Hollywood actors.

Those picture-perfect gumchewers,

slapping and slugging
left, right and center,

will soon be role models for our children.

And then, they'll think like Americans...

...they'll love like Americans,

they'll dress like Americans.

Hey! All right!

They'll eat like Americans...

...they'll speak like Americans...

And once they've lost
their own language...

Tell me, then, what should we do?

We shall tax American films
to finance ours.

French cinema has bought itself some time.

Will you start shooting again?

Give me one good reason why I should.

You love me.

An excellent reason.

And you'll soon have one reason more.

No!

My dear little Frédéric.

We wish you
the warmest of welcomes, my boy.

Farewell, my friend.

Don't mope, you silly sod.

You still have my films.

I'll keep my place on the silver screen,
making crowds laugh and cry.

I'll just carry on bravely doing my job.

And you'll do just the same.

You can be grateful, Marcel.

Grateful to this magic lantern,

lighting lost geniuses anew,

bringing deceased dancers
back to the dance,

and returning to our affections

the smiles of long-lost friends.

Darling,
a registered letter for you.

Well, well, what's this now?

Likely the Roux brothers again,
selling their new color process.

There is mention of green.

Green-breasted jacket!

Green?

Oh, Marcel!

Good thing Raimu isn't around
to see this.

- Really, why?
- He really would've taken the piss.

"Mr. Know-it-all!

"All you were missing
was the green outfit.

"Congratulations,
you overblown pompous arse!

"You're now officially an old geezer."

Your father dreamt of this.

Remember how he strove to obtain
the Academic Palms.

Think how proud he is.

You are now
what we call an "immortal."

Oh. Well, it's all relative.
More Academy members

are pushing up daisies
than gracing these halls.

Given the choice, I'd much rather
be immortal whilst I'm alive.

After the war, you didn't plan
on coming back to film work.

And yet I did.

First of all, there was Naïs,
released in 1945.

If Frédéric can leave here

without being hurt...

Mummy!

And if you want me, I'll be yours.

Naïs, if I want you how?

- As a wife?
- Well, as whatever you like.

You then directed La Belle Meunière,

a film that struggled
to find its audience.

I wanted to make a film in color,

using a French process, the Rouxcolor,

to avoid paying a fortune to Technicolor,
who held the monopoly.

It was such a momentous failure
that it's best left unmentioned.

Then please tell me
about your latest success,

Manon des Sources.

Oh, Manon...

I wrote it for my wife.

She'd just given me the greatest gift
a man can receive from a woman.

A godsend by the name of Estelle.

They're as like as two peas in a pod.

I've studied the soil composition.

If we dig right here,
then I assure you we will find uranium.

Uranium, you say?

Or crude oil, if we dig even deeper.

It's water you're digging for.

I'm not letting you dig up
our patch of paradise for anything else.

Marcel, I'm warning you!

Strong-minded woman
you got yourself there.

You'd be well-advised
to find her that wellspring.

Very good, Frédéric.

Oh, Estelle.

Don't be afraid, Manon.
I won't come near you again.

I love you. It's the truth, I love you.

That makes me sick!

I don't believe you.
You're just being stubborn!

You're as headstrong as one of your goats!

But I mean what I say, I love you!

I'm the one who howls
into the vale every night!

Please stop, it frightens me.

Have you ever considered writing novels?

I would be at a loss.

I tell all my stories
through the filter of dialogue.

Papa, Papa!

Estelle, my precious little elf.

Are you cutting the olive tree?

What in the world? It's 2,000 years old.

Jesus could have tasted its olives.

Who's Jesus?

Jesus is the neighbor's cat.

Oh, yes, cats really like olives.

You two! I'd be well inspired
to hire you as dialogue writers.

What about children's books?

Oh, I doubt very much that my stories
about cuckolds and unwed mothers

would be of great interest
to little boys and girls.

My daughter, however,
she loves when I write her poems.

Tell me about the film
you're currently making.

- Ah! "Les Lettres de mon moulin."
- Mm-hmm.

I'm going back to the South
this evening.

And cut!

I can't wait to join my crew.

See here...

Mr. Pagnol, a telegram for you.

Oh.

Is something wrong, Marcel?

My daughter is in hospital.

I must go home to Monaco.

Doctor.

She has suffered a severe ketosis attack.

But she's going to get better?

No!

No!

It occurred to me
that the stars above

had never heard the song of the cicadas.

If I'd been able to catch you one,
I would have brought it to your room.

Leaning out of your window,
into the dead of night,

I would have tickled its belly,

and the sky itself
would have started to dance.

Put the desk here.

Now I have to give
this piece of furniture a purpose.

Life can be a monstrosity.

But you do have to keep on living.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the author of Fabien,

Mr. Marcel Pagnol!

It's stopped.

Not to worry.

Because this up here has started again.

Here we go, Marcel.

I'm listening.

- I was born...
- I was born in the town of Aubagne,

under the goat-scattered Garlaban,

in the days of the last great herds.

Garlaban is an enormous tower
of blue rock,

crowned by the Eagle's Plateau.

My father was the fifth child
of a stonemason

from Valréas, near Orange.

As soon as he had a day off,
that is five or six times a year,

he took the family to picnic on the grass.

My Father's Glory

My Mother's Castle

The Time of Love

The Time of Secrets

Massed on the side of the road,

the people of Marseille
have come to pay a final tribute

to the tremendous author.

Marcel Pagnol shall
rest in the small cemetery of La Treille,

alongside his parents, his brother Paul,
and his daughter Estelle.

On his tombstone,
he had the Latin engraved,

"Fontes, amicos uxorem delixit."

He loved springs,
his friends and his wife.

Ah! There you are!
Everyone's waiting, Marcel.

They found it, your perpetual motion.

You see, a man who writes
is a man who consoles himself.

"What of?" you might ask.

Not having someone to talk to.

So, I talk to my quill pen.

I can't help it.

And as soon as I start talking
to my quill pen, well,

I'm suddenly in good company.

I speak to my loved ones,
the living and the dead,

to all those I've loved.

They're there, by my side, in the flesh,

down to the faintest smile,
the slightest intonation.

Pencil case

Often I laugh with them,

at times I even weep.

And don't you say
I'll soon be 80 years of age.

No. I am a boy of 12.

I've been in secondary school for a year,

with my whole life ahead of me.