All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E21.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

I’d like us to agree

that we must talk about the manner
in which you will exit therapy.

It’s not for right away, but...

There’s no need.

It’s customary to establish a timetable
for the last...

- I’m not coming again.
- Sorry?

This is my last session.

IN THERAPY

ARIANE – MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2015, 9 A.M.

That saddens me.

You don’t look like it.
You look relieved.

Go ahead, take a deep breath.

Don’t worry, you’ll cope.

Cope?

I’m sorry.

It’s just that I’ve had...

a particularly trying weekend.

I suppose you voted yesterday.

To keep the far right out.

- And you?
- No.

The far right don’t need me
to give them a kicking.

Luckily there are people like you
to keep them out.

Seriously, France is in a crisis.

You don’t feel in step
with your fellow citizens?

Whether it’s the right or the left,
it’s always the same.

Not enough doctors or equipment,
but always as many patients.

You think
that if politicians did their job

you’d have had a less trying weekend?

A young girl nearly died on my watch.

Her name was Virginie.

Fifteen. Survived the Bataclan.

A bullet in her leg.

I operated on her that night.

So I removed the pin from her femur
on Saturday.

An everyday procedure.

I talked to the mother,
who told me the girl remembered me.

And you?

Did you remember her?

No, in surgery
we’re emotionally detached.

She said that her daughter told her
how I’d taken care of her.

I doubt that.
She was under heavy sedation.

She must have made it all up.

She even said
she wanted to be a doctor.

She wants to be like you.
That’s gratifying, isn’t it?

She wouldn’t want to be like me
if she really knew me!

I went to see her in the recovery room.

She was intubated and still asleep.

Then all of a sudden
her vital signs dropped.

Hemorrhagic shock?

Yes, her lips went blue

and she stopped breathing.

I did CPR

to keep her alive
while we got her back into operating room.

But I felt that...

it was a matter of life or death.

It was, in fact.

I don’t mean for her.

For me.

Did she pull through?

Yes, she’s under observation.

You said it was a matter
of life or death for you?

How did you feel
after you’d kept her alive?

Like a piece of shit.

That’s how I felt.

Why? Isn’t that something
that happens a lot?

Only to bad doctors.

What are your criteria your separating
good doctors from bad?

She nearly died.

She’d trusted me.

You think the recovery room
is your responsibility?

No, you know it’s the anesthetist’s.

Yet you went to the recovery room.

I felt responsible for her.

You said you usually remain
emotionally detached.

Yes, but I’d seen her, she was young...

There was something vulnerable
and defenseless about her.

You seem to have established
a bond with this girl.

Virginie, right?

What are you trying to tell me?

That Virginie is me?

- Why, did she look like you?
- No, not at all.

Big breasts, long polished nails...
I wasn’t like that at that age.

I was a real tomboy,
I didn’t have any breasts, and...

I bit my nails.

- You bit your nails?
- Yes.

My mom dying...
That’s a good reason to bite your nails.

Did someone take care of you
at that time?

I’m not Virginie,

I’m not a survivor of the Bataclan,

and I don’t have cancer,
like my mom did.

I have no right to whine
because no one took care of me.

You have no right to whine?

Says who?

After your mother died, I understood
that you lived with your father

in a harmful atmosphere.

You even described your 14th summer,

which immediately followed that period,

as a return to life.

Yeah. Yeah, maybe.

It’s not the job of children
to take care of their parents.

Yeah, but the world is unfair.

Maybe I should go and complain.

Who to? God?

Who else?

You.

Seriously, I don’t think this analysis
is helping me any more.

It’s interesting, you dig and dig...

you find out stuff about yourself,
even reaching some painful places...

but does it make you happier?

I’m not a cynic,
but I can’t see what good it’s doing me.

You’re right, but maybe the goal
of analysis isn’t just to “do good”.

That’s a shame.

Because that was my goal.

We don’t have to see out
the whole session, do we?

Ariane, I have the feeling
you haven’t told me everything.

You think I’m bluffing?

Okay...

you don’t like bringing up the past
and bemoaning your lot.

No, I hate bemoaning my lot.

What else do you hate?

It’s a long list.

Go on, at random.

- Eggs.
- Eggs, why eggs?

There are eggs in French toast,
which you talked about.

Yeah.

But they’re about all I could cook
for my dad

after my mom died.

I did the lot:
omelets, scrambled, fried...

I can see myself now, at the stove,
cracking eggs...

into the pan.

He’d be reading the paper
in his armchair.

Listless.

Staring into space.

Everything was quiet, we didn’t talk.

All you could hear was...

me beating the eggs with a fork.

I did everything: the shopping,
the cooking, the cleaning...

He didn’t even notice me.

Did you feel transparent?

It’s hard to look after someone with
depression, especially at that age.

Seeing him like that made me ill.

Seeing him at all made me ill.

My mom had just died,
and I was having horrible thoughts...

At times I wanted him to disappear.

I’d come home from school one day
and he wouldn’t be there.

That’s not a horrible thought.

The situation was horrible.

I didn’t want him to die,

I just didn’t want that life.

Everything was...

so stifling.

Hence the breath of fresh air
that you enjoyed away from him, with...

What were their names?

Serge.

And Karine, right?

Going back to your father
must have been hard.

Not that bad.

And I saw Serge again.

A year later.

It was the summer of ’98.

He came to Paris during the World Cup.

What did he come to Paris for?

A training course of some sort.

He worked for the railways.

He’s an engineer,
that’s how he met my dad.

- But they’re not the same age?
- No.

No, Serge is...

a lot younger.

But it was my dad who was training him.

So, when he had to come up to Paris
for this course,

my dad suggested he stay with us.

After all, I’d spent
the previous summer with them.

- How did it feel to see him again?
- A lot can change in a year.

Children change faster than adults.

But he’d changed too.

When I saw him going to catch his train
in the morning,

in his suit and tie
and nice shiny shoes...

he was no longer the sexy, cool,
tanned George Clooney type,

wearing a tight polo shirt
on the shore of the Mediterranean.

He was no longer the rebel
smoking a spliff and going,

“Stuff the railways! I’m free,
I’m going to start my own company.”

He was less a teenager
than the previous summer?

I don’t know
but I no longer fantasized about him.

Serge was no longer the same.

Even physically he wasn’t the same.

In the morning, in his bathrobe
after he’d had his shower,

you saw his fat belly.

Not that a bit of a fat belly
has ever been a problem for me.

Did his presence
change anything at home?

Yes, totally.

He could cook, which considerably
reduced our egg consumption.

It must have felt strange
to go out for a drink

with a depressed father
and a chubby George Clooney.

At least I no longer had to
look after my dad.

And I could play at being all grown-up.

I was even allowed to drink shandy!

You seem to have...

nice memories of that time..

Do you remember
the evening of the final?

There was a frenzied atmosphere.

Serge had painted my face
red, white and blue.

We got all pally
with a table next to us.

They were English.

They had a teenager
the same age as me.

He had dark hair and very pale skin,

like a Romantic poet.

And he never stopped looking at me.

It’s crazy
that all it takes is a Bataclan

or the World Cup

for people to stop hating each other
for five minutes.

Has the boy’s gaze
taken you back to the Bataclan?

No, the crowds.

Joyful, sobbing...

Maybe it’s also the intensity
of those moments,

which keeps the memories so sharp.

- We all remember that final, don’t we?
- Yeah.

It was my first time.

With the young Englishman?

With Serge?

There were these giant screens.

You know, those big screens.

Everyone was already drunk.

My dad and Serge
were hammered, anyway.

And all of a sudden there was the goal,
the header from Zidane.

Everyone got up, screaming with joy.

And I jumped..

I jumped into Serge’s arms
and pressed my body against him.

With my just budding breasts
and my skinny thighs.

And my mouth and nose
were in the collar of his shirt.

He smelled of cologne and sweat.

I don’t know
if the people around us realized

that we stayed like that
a bit longer than we should have.

A powerful scene.

Yes. And as I said, I initiated it.

That was the Lolita in me.

Meaning?

The brazen young nymphet

coming on
to the inhibited forty-something.

What’s so funny?

That’s an interesting interpretation.

Why?

In Nabokov’s novel it’s the opposite.
He seduces her.

And abuses her.
Well, it’s less clear-cut than that.

That’s the writer’s skill,
showing us this 40-year-old

denying abuse while that’s exactly
what he’s describing.

The rape of a 12-year-old.

But she’s asking for it.

She drives him mad,

wearing her flimsy little dresses,

and twirling around in front of him.

Is that how you were dressed that night,

in a flimsy dress, like Lolita?

And in a towel every morning,
after my shower.

How old were you when you read Lolita?

I haven’t read it.

Don’t go all schoolteachery!
I’m not the only one.

And when you call someone a Lolita,
everyone knows what you mean.

A young girl who’s become aware
of the power she has over men.

And everyone remembers the film poster,

with her sunglasses, her come-on look,
and the lollipop in her mouth.

Everybody knows what it’s about.

You’re probably right.

In society’s imagination, the roles
in the novel have been reversed,

with Lolita becoming the seductress,
and Humbert, the victim.

Why?

“Why”?

Because young women do feel desire.

“They’re asking for it.”

The abuser’s argument.

We feel desire at every age.

But our responsibility is different
at age 30 and age 15.

Well, as far as I’m concerned,
I think you’re wrong.

Don’t you think that when he accepted
your father’s offer

Serge had an ulterior motive?

You think that when he came to Paris

he was thinking
about sleeping with me?

What do you think? You?

After France had won...

Well, everyone was drunk.

My dad went and collapsed in his room.

Serge and I went over to the swings.

It was the first time that it was...

just the two of us.

Alone.

We started talking about our lives.

I told him that boys my age
weren’t interested in me.

And he said that with his wife,
with Karine,

things weren’t great.

Then we remembered everything we’d done

the previous summer in the south.

Then we ended up

on the ground, under a blanket.

Lying side by side.

He pointed out the stars
as we stared at the sky.

He explained about the Summer Triangle.

Altair, Deneb, and...

- Vega in Lyra.
- That’s right, Vega in Lyra.

That was when I kissed him.

And it all just followed on from that.

That was my first time.

And then...

it was every...

every day of the following month.

Every morning.

He’d go out for a coffee
and wait for my dad to go to work.

And I’d wait for him in my pajamas.

He thought I was sexier in my pajamas.

And...

we did it again.

He didn’t even go to work on Mondays
until the afternoon.

Sometimes he’d take me into Paris.

Did you realize that people
probably assumed you were his daughter?

Yes, maybe.

But I felt like a woman.

With him.

And I loved it.

Do you believe me?

Of course.

Why have you waited until today
to tell me that?

Because it’s our final session.

I owed you the truth.

Sorry.

To whom are you saying sorry?

To you because I lied to you.

Do you still feel responsible
for what happened?

I kissed him.

And undressed him.

Yes, I understand that.

It was your first time.

How was it?

Fine.

In any case, he didn’t hurt me.

If that’s what you want to know?

He was very gentle.

And then?

After, we...

we went to sleep in our own rooms,
being careful not to make any noise.

Why?

Because my dad was asleep,
nice and peacefully, in his room.

- Peacefully?
- Yes, sir!

Isn’t there an irony there?

I don’t know.

Anyway, he was asleep.

It’s odd, when you think about it.

That he was sleeping
rather than looking after you?

He was in no fit state.

He was the one who needed looking after.

Yet it’s said a father’s job
is to protect his child.

He couldn’t protect me in that case,
he didn’t know.

I understand you want to find excuses
for him, but it’s not so simple.

It’s less complicated than picking
a fight with him for no reason.

What do you mean, “less complicated”?

You mean it might not do you good?

Maybe, yes.

“Anything you say
may be used against you.”

I’m not trying to expose you,

I’m trying to share with you
what I heard.

What seems simpler and less painful now

can sometimes become
more deeply painful.

Over time you can find yourself trapped,

and it can even prevent you living.

Do you see your father often?

Why?

I don’t know.

He’s my dad,
we like each other well enough,

but I don’t have much to say to him.

You’ve never tried
to talk to him about this?

No.

Never.

You should.

Yeah.

Did you talk to your dad?

Did you settle your scores with him?

Sometimes I wish I could.

Because you never talked to your dad
you want me to talk to mine?

I think it’s important that you do so
while you still can.

It’s not my dad
who’s preventing me living, it’s you.

It’s this relationship
that’s destroying me.

Did you watch me last week?

Is he waiting for you?

No, I’ve dumped Adel.

I think I have to stop this therapy.

If I want to move forward,

if I want to save what’s left of me,
I have to go.

You can stay a little longer.

I have to leave
before you offer me a bit extra?

I’ve canceled the next session.

Farewell, Philippe.