All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E17.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

Sorry, I’m early.

But as I’m here
I thought maybe we could start.

Yes, we can.

IN THERAPY

ADEL – TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2015, 10 A.M.

I’ll pay for the extra time.

No.

Yes, I insist, it’s only right.

Ten minutes early, at 60 per hour,
that’s, what, another 10 euros?

That’s not necessary, Mr. Chibane.

Just because I don’t get paid overtime
is no excuse.

And I have this for you, from Ariane.

I think it’s a check.

I’ve been thinking, though,
this is quite a goldmine.

Mind you, you studied for years,
so fair enough.

Do some pay more than me?

Some do, yes.

So what’s the average?
70 per hour? More?

My rates aren’t fixed.

Okay, let’s say 80.

How many patients a day, on average?
8? 10?

That’s 800 euros, times 5.

I don’t suppose you work weekends.
So 4,000 a week.

16,000 a month.

You count better than I.

Hang on, hang on...

You have
professional overheads and tax,

which must take, what, half?

The government
feeds off our backs, huh?

Still, that leaves you
8 grand a month, minimum. Not bad.

Cushy.

It’s a pricey neighborhood.

The neighborhood has been gentrified.

When we bought the flat 20 years ago,
it was different.

You own the place too?

You can’t fail
with bricks and mortar.

And Paris will never lose its value.

We bought our place too,
when we had the kids.

She’s kept it.

I didn’t want to sell it,
we’re still paying it off.

I’ll get myself a smaller place,
not too far away.

So 8 grand, minimum,
and no rent to pay. Nice.

I get 2,700 a month, plus bonuses,
for 70 hours a week.

For sleepless nights
and risking my life.

No offense, of course.

You don’t think you are fairly paid

for your level of commitment?

- Don’t feel I’m having a go at you.
- No, I don’t feel that.

You have a right to be angry,
and a right to express that here.

We can examine society’s workings
and find them unfair.

No, I’m not angry, I’m not angry.

Just a bit tired.

I’m tired.

Are you still having trouble sleeping?

How has your week been?

Bad.

To put it more exactly,
nothing good has happened this week.

I’m listening.

I don’t even know what to say.

I haven’t seen my kids for 10 days.

Staying at Vince’s place
I have a permanent hangover.

And remember that thing
a fortnight ago?

- The imam?
- Yeah, him.

The other night, I was
at a leaving drink in another squad.

I talked to an anti-terrorist guy.

He told me that everyone arrested
in that morning’s raids

had been let go.

- You had nothing against them?
- We did!

That’s why we nabbed them.

Most people aren’t let go
because they’re innocent,

it’s because the procedure
is so complicated

and there are so many laws protecting
the criminals that we’re powerless.

We work like dogs and no one
gets locked up. It drives me mad!

That’s not all.

On Friday we had a day’s training
with the RAID unit.

The bosses think
there’ll be more terrorist attacks.

So we’re training together.

In principle I agree with that.

So, Paris outer suburb...

a huge piece of ground,
an entire building...

We’re there, with 50 dummies.

Dummies?

Theater students playing hostages.
They’re briefed apart.

All the information we’re given

is that a group of terrorists
has taken 50 people hostage.

We plan,

we circle the building, we go in,
there’s smoke...

We hear running upstairs, we reach
the stairs, and there I see them...

- Who?
- The hostages.

Six or seven of them,
lying on the stairs, covered in blood.

Piled on top of each other,

this red stuff all over their clothes,
on their faces...

They have these cards
describing their wounds.

And they’re screaming, for fuck’s sake,
hamming it up, groaning,

some calling for their mothers...

It was surreal.

That’s the least you can say.

What do you mean?

Who could have had such an idea?

Only a few weeks after that horror,

making you confront such images
in an absurd form.

How did it affect you?

It was weird.

The wounds seemed real,
the noises too.

I wasn’t expecting it.

Usually, in those exercises,
it’s other cops being the dummies.

They don’t roll around like that,
we get it.

We got the wounded out,
some were overdoing the wailing.

I was itching to give them a slap.

The bosses judged
the exercise a success.

- Was it an ordeal for you?
- No, that’s not the problem!

Who cares if it was an ordeal for me?

While we’re playing war with dickheads,
there’s a real war going on!

The attacks aren’t over.

As we’re talking,
terrorists are crossing borders.

Some are training in Pakistan,
others are making bombs in kitchens,

here in France!

And I’m telling you, we’re not ready.

And picking up groaning students
won’t make us ready.

While judges are defending
these bastards’ rights,

there are people fighting,
in Iraq and Syria.

We’re fucking powerless here.

There’ll be more attacks,
I’m warning you.

It’s not over.

After the exercise
I said all that to the number 2,

who was groveling to the brass,

all happy and wagging his tail.

- He didn’t appreciate it.
- Really?

What happened?

It got a bit physical.

It was okay, the others pulled us apart.

You fought with your superior?

Just a bit of shoving.

He’s got no balls, he doesn’t get it.
No one gets it.

Even she doesn’t.

She?

Yeah, your Ariane.

The worst evening of my life.

I saw her Thursday, I was hoping
it would save this shitty week.

I was going to go and pick her up,

but she wanted us to meet in this bar.

The barman seemed to know her well.

It must be where she always meets guys.

Did that bother you?

I’m not used to being the prey.

I felt stupid.

And the barman was a total dickhead,

covered in tattoos, a Viking hairdo...

I hate those fucking hipsters,
they spend hours in front of a mirror,

but they’re the first to scarper
if there’s any trouble.

You felt out of your element?

Yes, exactly.

She insisted on ordering
30-euro cocktails.

I insisted on paying for them.

Shitty music!

But she was beautiful.

Then we went to a restaurant nearby,
Vince helped me choose it.

I wanted somewhere classy.

Wasn’t it?

Yes, but too much so.

There was nothing to eat.

It was tapas.

Apparently you shouldn’t call it that.
It’s “small sharing plates”.

A ball of mozzarella,
20 euros for two people.

She seemed to like it, though.

So she did the ordering.

We started talking.

The small talk
before the serious stuff.

Testing the ground,
seeing how things will work out.

I told her about my job
but she wasn’t very curious.

So I asked her about her job.

Did you know
she tended to the victims?

That was battlefield medicine.
Kalashnikovs make a mess.

Plus the bastards
used subsonic ammo.

Meaning the bullet tumbles
as it goes through a body.

Quite a romantic conversation!

At one point I felt
like I was talking to a colleague.

Only sexier.

Did you feel uneasy,
not being the one in control?

No, it wasn’t that.

The problem was that...

I had a hallucination.

I went fucking mental.

A hallucination?

I don’t know how to explain it.

We were there, eating,

the small sharing plates
were piling up,

we had nothing to drink,
the waiter was ignoring us,

it was really noisy...

And all of a sudden it hit me.

What hit you?

The smell.

The smell of blood rose up.

Like a wave,
so strong, so unmistakeable.

The exercise didn’t have that.

They faked the wounds and the groans,
but there wasn’t the smell.

There it was!

All of a sudden.

Ariane was talking.

But I didn’t hear her
because all around me I knew that...

they were dead.

I didn’t need to turn my head.

All those people were dead.

Piled up on the floor.

I’ve gone mad.

That’s it, I’ve gone mad.

You’re not insane, Mr. Chibane.

You knew the other diners weren’t dead.

You didn’t believe your hallucination.

What was going on?

A panic attack, and not the first.

It’s a warning.

You’re under a lot of pressure.

That training...

Exactly,
it was just a training exercise.

Not “just”.

It reactivated a scene
that you really experienced.

Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid.
I can take it.

I just need you to fix it.

Doesn’t your job oblige you
to give results?

If I take my car to the garage,
they’ll know what to fix.

Why don’t you?

A human brain
isn’t as simple as a car engine.

You’re not insane
and you’re not broken.

But you were subjected
to intense stress.

I was afraid she’d spot I was losing it,
I was afraid I’d pass out.

A terrible fear,

like when you’re a kid...

after a nightmare.

There I was...

staring at her.

She must have thought I was captivated,
but I didn’t hear a thing.

I stared at her face, her mouth,
until I calmed down.

Until the people around me
started moving.

Until I could hear her voice again

and the smell disappeared.

It’s not the first time
you’ve had an intense panic attack.

Can you think what triggered it?

What came just before it?
A certain word? A thought?

No, nothing.

There we were,

I was trying to talk
about something less “shop”.

She was in control, and I was trying
to turn on the charm, like an idiot.

She said,

“Other people don’t know, but we do.”

“Other people don’t know, but we do”?

She was talking
about what went on inside.

The massacre.

Your attack began when she said
you were linked by that massacre?

I don’t know if that set it off.

Anyway, I don’t want to be linked to her
by a massacre.

All I wanted was to spend a nice evening
with a beautiful woman.

Is she a bit of a nympho?

Is she a nympho?
Is that why she sees you?

If she is,
you have to tell me.

Okay, you can’t tell me if she’s mental,
but a nympho?

Anyway, I’m feeling better
but I can’t eat any more.

Some meat covered in sauce
on the table makes me feel sick.

I do these exercises which help me relax

before a boxing match or a raid.

I massage the palm of my hand.

You should try it.

Carry on.

I don’t even know
what she’s talking about.

She almost got married.

You knew that, right?

I’m thinking maybe that’s why...
That’s the thing which...

Which?

Girls, after a break-up...

go a bit crazy.

Like prisoners
getting their freedom back.

Is that trite?

In any case, your Ariane...

She’s up for it!

Really up for it!

We leave the restaurant,

I offer to see her home,

but she takes advantage of some people
leaving a building to drag me inside.

She’s giggling like a kid, all excited.

I went with her.

Who wouldn’t have?

She’s taking control again
and you’re feeling robbed.

Look...

she was so turned on,

but I know it wasn’t because of me.

That’s what you think
but you don’t know what she felt.

I’m telling you.

This was all her trip.

I think, “I didn’t go
through all that for nothing!”

I start to kiss her,
trying to regain a bit of control,

wondering how to get to her place,
as it’s awkward at Vince’s.

Then she pushes me in the lift!

We’re jammed in, like in a cage.
I can feel her heart beating.

She starts undoing my jeans,
there in the lift!

She gets down on her knees,

takes out my...

Sorry. She takes me in her mouth.

Like a dream, huh?

Vince says I don’t know how lucky I was.

But I wasn’t exactly in Olympic form,
if you know what I mean.

Because of the lift, I think.

Anyway, so that she wouldn’t realize,

I lifted her, turned her,
pulled down her panties,

and took her from behind.

I didn’t want to see her face.

You didn’t want to see her,

but maybe you also didn’t want her
to see you.

What is it,

for you, seeing and being seen?

Don’t confuse me with that.
I’m just telling you what happened.

I tried to take back control,

but I didn’t at all.

She put her hands between her legs
and rubbed herself.

Which shows what use I was!

And she had this huge orgasm.

I...

I put my hand on her mouth to stop her
waking the whole building.

Once again, I wasn’t involved.

She has someone under her skin.

We got dressed without a word.

Her hair wasn’t even messed up.
She was calm, indifferent.

She said bye
and went down to the metro.

I was left standing there
like a bell-end.

All right?

You look like you’re miles away.

Has she already told you all that?

How I screwed her?

Who do you think
she was thinking about?

I don’t think
that’s the important thing.

We experience moments differently.
It’s strange but that’s how it is.

You can’t affect others’ fantasies.

What should be important to you
is how you experienced that moment.

You felt used
in some scheme that wasn’t your own,

by someone who’d constructed
her own image of you.

You didn’t appreciate
being used like an object.

A sex toy.

And it’s not just with Ariane.

You feel you’re a toy
in the hands of your bosses,

being sent to arrest people
who are then freed

or being forced
into absurd role-playing games.

It made you so angry
you came to blows with your superior.

We can dig deeper
into this clear refusal to be an object,

to be used in another’s fantasy.

You rebel against the roles
that others impose on you.

That olfactory hallucination
in the restaurant was a warning.

I’m wondering if you may be caught up
in a series of hasty actions.

By that I mean impulsive decisions,

such as leaving your wife,
fighting with your superior...

Something which could put
your career at risk.

Sex is no longer a refuge,
as it may have been in the past.

Did my story shock you?

- Am I not free to say anything here?
- You are.

But these impulsive actions are saying
something we must listen to.

What?

I don’t know.

But this massacre theme
keeps cropping up.

Terrifying you like a child,
as you said yourself.

That analogy with a nightmare.

I’d like to tell you

a story from The Iliad,

by Homer.

Yes, I know what The Iliad is.

Homer describes the goatherds
in the hills around Troy,

in the fog.

It’s a very poetic passage.

The fog makes it impossible to see
any further than a stone’s throw.

Then fires are lit on the plain.

“The immense ether of the sky
tore apart,

“all the stars appeared,

“and the goatherds’ hearts
lifted in joy.”

You mean that the fires on the plain
are what you do here?

What you do.

Or what we do together.

The fires
are the work of psychoanalysis.

The ether is the psyche,

your mind.

The fires will let you
shed light on that,

with the stars appearing.

Seafarers have always used
the stars for guidance.

It’s an ancient form
of human knowledge.

Stars are your thing, huh?

Mr. Chibane,

you are the warrior,

and you are also lighting fires.

You’ve made me think of something.

We call it the tunnel effect.

An optical phenomenon
caused by stress.

When you’re on an operation,

the adrenaline can provoke
this problem.

You’re so concentrated on the target
that the surroundings blur,

like all your attention
is fixated on this point,

reducing the visual field.

A sort of focus.

But it can lead to mistakes.

You can miss something
happening to the side.

We always try to use the tunnel effect
without being its victim.

A very interesting association.

It’s not exactly the same thing,

but it shows there are things
we don’t fully see,

things we miss
because we’re focusing on the target.

I think that here too
we can talk about a tunnel effect.

The target is Ariane.

Okay, and so?

While you’re focusing on her,

you’re not paying attention
to everything else.

Your visual field is narrowed.

So what’s happening on the edges?

No idea.

My life’s falling apart?

The world’s falling apart?

The world has always
been falling apart.

The subconscious doesn’t get it wrong.

It’s neither random nor a mistake.

I don’t understand.

Ariane, your target,

is in fact a decoy,
a distraction from what matters.

What happened last week

to make you place her
at the center of your visual field?

I don’t know.

You got the day wrong because
you were eager to tell me something.

In fact, that’s how you met Ariane.

I think the target...

Give the target stuff a rest!
I know what a target is.

It’s an objective.

It’s someone we tail,
get to know, stake out,

and end up collaring
with a gun to his head.

A target is also a silhouette
on a shooting range, I believe.

An image standing in
for something else.

That’s what I meant.

You targeted Ariane
to avoid a more painful objective.

Early on, you mentioned a relationship

in which you’d suffered
from being reified.

“Reified”?

Turned into an object.

It’s a relationship
you’ve experienced before.

My father, you mean?

The target isn’t my father,
it’s the photo.

Exactly.

The photo of you and your father.

You started talking about Ariane
after evoking that photo.

When Ariane suggested
a link between you,

a very special link,

you reacted
with a violent panic attack.

- The Bataclan?
- No, you said “a massacre”.

The link she suggested between you two

was that of a massacre.

You’re a pain. I can’t talk to my dad,
if that’s what you mean.

He’s too old now, I can’t.

You don’t know him,
it wouldn’t work.

Who are you trying to protect?
Him or you?

I can’t talk to him
about his family’s massacre.

Your family’s massacre.

I was a kid.

You were seven.

I didn’t know them.

But you did go to Algeria.

There’s a secret.

And, like all secrets,

it’s well guarded
while being open to everyone’s eyes.

The photo...

has always been there,
right under my eyes.

Him and me,

happy and smiling...

So different from what I later knew.

There’s a concept in psychoanalysis
called the screen memory.

It’s like a sign to somewhere,

indicating the presence
of something important,

sometimes that’s hidden
because it’s too hard to bear.

A clue is left
so as not to forget it.

It stays there, at your disposal.

Do you see what I’m getting at?

Carry on.

I’m saying this because of what you
have said many times about that photo.

That it’s always been there,

that you knew that,

but it was as if you’d forgotten it.

I’m wondering
if it’s like a screen memory.

It’s there as a sign
that there’s some other image,

Like a reminder.

A reminder of what?

Tell me about the photo again.
What else is on it?

Nothing, just us two.

But what is there, out of shot?

Nothing, it’s just the desert.

I mean out of shot of your memories.

What did you want to forget
by forgetting Algeria?

You tell me.

I can’t.

Only you can do that.

Time’s up, isn’t it?

But you were right about Ariane.
I wasn’t myself.

I’ll call her
and fuck her properly this time!